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What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> The Girls From Fieu Dayol By ROBERT F. YOUNG They were lovely and quick to learn—and their only faults were little ones! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's History of English Literature , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries. On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section. He had just taken down Xenophon's Anabasis when he saw the girl walkin the door. Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job. After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the Anabasis and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's History of English Literature . He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser. Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone. He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time? He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing. By whom—her boy friend? Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's History under observation for a while. <doc-sep>Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine, The Zeitgeist , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's History reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf. After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words wotnid , FieuDayol and snoll doper —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword— Yoolna —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the Klio whose name had appended thefirst message. He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and The Zeitgeist . Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her. She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside. He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap— I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off. <doc-sep>It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing. I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me. You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent. If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her— Herbert Quidley: Profiliste Her forehead crinkled. Profiliste? I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course. How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting. Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss— Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting my profile,Mr. Quidley? Would he! When can I call? She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate. Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou? She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you? Perfectly. Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley. He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, SelfProfile , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread. It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed. <doc-sep>In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up The Zeitgeist once again. He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman. And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's.... The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough: fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Judging from the repeated use of the words, snoll dopers were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay. He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata snoll doper was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's History of English Literature as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner? Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again. He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby; Harper's , The Atlantic and The SaturdayReview showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two— <doc-sep>The chimes sounded again. He opened the door. She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets. Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired. He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay. They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30. <doc-sep>The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The snoll-doper mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place. He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... Cutto interior. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of— ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.... Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform: a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications! You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though. Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the snoll-doper enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a snoll doper ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb. He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo ? He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar. He remembered the material of her dress. He remembered how she had come to his room. I didn't know you had a taste for Taine. <doc-sep>Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely. She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on. Where are we going? I'm going to deliver a snoll doper to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks. The relieved sigh he heard was his own. They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked. Since the night before I met you. Was that the reason you spilled the sugar? Part of the reason, he said. What's a snoll doper ? She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet. He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a snoll doper , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so? Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback. He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth— Her folks ! Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her. <doc-sep>A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said. Probably Jilka. Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said. She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later. At your folks'? At the ship. The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said. The one we're going to Fieu Dayol on. Fieu Dayol? Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I? In other words, you're kidnapping me. She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both. But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Whydon't you marry one of them? For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are not plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on Fieu Dayol so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for wotnids —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own. But why were all the messages addressed to you? They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl. <doc-sep>April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid. Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees. Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him. Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship. Next, Kay said. Quidley shook his head. You're not taking me to another planet! She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a snoll doper was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair. This is a snoll doper . She prodded his ribs. March, she said. He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back. It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Herbert Quidley finds a yellow paper with unintelligible words folded in the book called History of English Literature by Hippolyte Adolphe Taine. After he continues to work, he sees a girl come in, browse randomly, and take Taine’s book. The girl quickly riffles through the book, puts it back on the shelf, and leaves the library. After the girl leaves, Quidley checks the book, noticing the disappearance of the yellow paper. He learns the girl’s name, Kay Smith, from the librarian and goes home. On his way home, he guesses that the paper is a kind of message transmitted through an esoteric book. He guesses the identity of the person who might do this message job with Kay, none of which pleases him as he has a liking for the girl, so he decides to observe this messaging action for a while.The following day, when Quidley waits at the library, a girl different from Kay comes to the library, puts another paper in Taine’s book, and leaves. Quidley sees the paper and finds another batch of unintelligible words, from which he finds two common words, Fieu Dayol and snoll doper. He puts back the letter and goes back to his seat. When the library is about to close, Kay comes to take the paper and leaves. Quidley follows behind her into a coffee bar. He intentionally spills the sugar on her, which allows him to start talking to her. Throughout the conversation, Quidley reveals his identity as a profiliste and accepts Kay’s request to make her a profile. They set up a time to meet next time. After they separate, Quidley goes home and writes a letter to his father for the allowance.Two days later, Quidley goes to the library again and sits at his reading-table post with his favorite magazine. He sees the third woman come in and do the same thing as the previous girls. He reads the new message and returns to his apartment waiting for Kay. He thinks about the meaning of snoll doper. When Kay comes, they do something sexually. The following day, puzzled by the secret of the snoll doper, Quidley decides to read the message before the exchange happens. Kay finds out that Quidley is reading the message. She tells him to come with her to deliver the snoll doper to Jilka and meet her folks. When Quidley waits in the car, he realizes the possible true identity of Kay and what may happen next. Quidley learns from the conversation with Kay that they are heading to the ship to Fieu Dayol. He also learns that Kay is the ship’s stock girl, and all the messages are actually requisitions for the snoll dopers. He realizes that he is kidnapped to another planet, Fieu Dayol, where women outnumber men. He sees a man with Jilka ascend the ship and disappear. Kay forces Quidley to go into the ship by pointing him with a shotgun, which is called snoll doper in Kay’s language.

Who is Kay Smith, and what are her characteristics? [SEP] <s> The Girls From Fieu Dayol By ROBERT F. YOUNG They were lovely and quick to learn—and their only faults were little ones! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's History of English Literature , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries. On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section. He had just taken down Xenophon's Anabasis when he saw the girl walkin the door. Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job. After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the Anabasis and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's History of English Literature . He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser. Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone. He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time? He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing. By whom—her boy friend? Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's History under observation for a while. <doc-sep>Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine, The Zeitgeist , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's History reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf. After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words wotnid , FieuDayol and snoll doper —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword— Yoolna —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the Klio whose name had appended thefirst message. He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and The Zeitgeist . Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her. She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside. He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap— I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off. <doc-sep>It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing. I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me. You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent. If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her— Herbert Quidley: Profiliste Her forehead crinkled. Profiliste? I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course. How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting. Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss— Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting my profile,Mr. Quidley? Would he! When can I call? She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate. Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou? She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you? Perfectly. Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley. He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, SelfProfile , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread. It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed. <doc-sep>In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up The Zeitgeist once again. He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman. And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's.... The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough: fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Judging from the repeated use of the words, snoll dopers were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay. He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata snoll doper was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's History of English Literature as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner? Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again. He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby; Harper's , The Atlantic and The SaturdayReview showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two— <doc-sep>The chimes sounded again. He opened the door. She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets. Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired. He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay. They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30. <doc-sep>The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The snoll-doper mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place. He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... Cutto interior. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of— ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.... Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform: a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications! You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though. Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the snoll-doper enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a snoll doper ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb. He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo ? He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar. He remembered the material of her dress. He remembered how she had come to his room. I didn't know you had a taste for Taine. <doc-sep>Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely. She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on. Where are we going? I'm going to deliver a snoll doper to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks. The relieved sigh he heard was his own. They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked. Since the night before I met you. Was that the reason you spilled the sugar? Part of the reason, he said. What's a snoll doper ? She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet. He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a snoll doper , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so? Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback. He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth— Her folks ! Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her. <doc-sep>A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said. Probably Jilka. Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said. She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later. At your folks'? At the ship. The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said. The one we're going to Fieu Dayol on. Fieu Dayol? Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I? In other words, you're kidnapping me. She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both. But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Whydon't you marry one of them? For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are not plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on Fieu Dayol so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for wotnids —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own. But why were all the messages addressed to you? They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl. <doc-sep>April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid. Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees. Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him. Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship. Next, Kay said. Quidley shook his head. You're not taking me to another planet! She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a snoll doper was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair. This is a snoll doper . She prodded his ribs. March, she said. He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back. It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Kay Smith, and what are her characteristics?

She is tall with hyacinth long hair and blue eyes. Her skin is glowingly white. Her body shape is Grecian symmetric. She fascinates Herbert Quidley, a man who finds out the secret letter in Taine’s book, when she walks in the library. She is the receiver of secret messages in the book, and she goes to the library almost every day to pick up the letter in the book. She wears a pleated skirt when Herbert Quidley spills the sugar on her thighs. She speaks with a slight accent that she pronounces “interesting” with “anteresting.” She walks demurely. She wears a dress that exposes a lot of her skin when she goes to Quidley’s apartment, which indicates her intention to have sexual behaviors with him. She owns a convertible, and her purse hides a gun. She is the stock girl on the ship to Fieu Dayol, and her job is to deliver guns to her members, which is why she goes to the library to pick up the secret letters, the requisitions for the guns. It is revealed at the end that she comes to the Earth to bring men to her planet.

Who is Herbert Quidley, and what are his characteristics? [SEP] <s> The Girls From Fieu Dayol By ROBERT F. YOUNG They were lovely and quick to learn—and their only faults were little ones! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's History of English Literature , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries. On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section. He had just taken down Xenophon's Anabasis when he saw the girl walkin the door. Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job. After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the Anabasis and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's History of English Literature . He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser. Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone. He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time? He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing. By whom—her boy friend? Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's History under observation for a while. <doc-sep>Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine, The Zeitgeist , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's History reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf. After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words wotnid , FieuDayol and snoll doper —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword— Yoolna —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the Klio whose name had appended thefirst message. He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and The Zeitgeist . Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her. She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside. He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap— I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off. <doc-sep>It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing. I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me. You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent. If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her— Herbert Quidley: Profiliste Her forehead crinkled. Profiliste? I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course. How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting. Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss— Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting my profile,Mr. Quidley? Would he! When can I call? She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate. Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou? She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you? Perfectly. Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley. He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, SelfProfile , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread. It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed. <doc-sep>In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up The Zeitgeist once again. He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman. And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's.... The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough: fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Judging from the repeated use of the words, snoll dopers were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay. He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata snoll doper was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's History of English Literature as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner? Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again. He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby; Harper's , The Atlantic and The SaturdayReview showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two— <doc-sep>The chimes sounded again. He opened the door. She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets. Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired. He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay. They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30. <doc-sep>The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The snoll-doper mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place. He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... Cutto interior. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of— ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.... Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform: a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications! You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though. Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the snoll-doper enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a snoll doper ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb. He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo ? He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar. He remembered the material of her dress. He remembered how she had come to his room. I didn't know you had a taste for Taine. <doc-sep>Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely. She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on. Where are we going? I'm going to deliver a snoll doper to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks. The relieved sigh he heard was his own. They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked. Since the night before I met you. Was that the reason you spilled the sugar? Part of the reason, he said. What's a snoll doper ? She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet. He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a snoll doper , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so? Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback. He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth— Her folks ! Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her. <doc-sep>A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said. Probably Jilka. Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said. She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later. At your folks'? At the ship. The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said. The one we're going to Fieu Dayol on. Fieu Dayol? Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I? In other words, you're kidnapping me. She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both. But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Whydon't you marry one of them? For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are not plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on Fieu Dayol so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for wotnids —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own. But why were all the messages addressed to you? They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl. <doc-sep>April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid. Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees. Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him. Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship. Next, Kay said. Quidley shook his head. You're not taking me to another planet! She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a snoll doper was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair. This is a snoll doper . She prodded his ribs. March, she said. He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back. It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Herbert Quidley, and what are his characteristics?

Herbert Quidley is a profiliste who often stays in the library. He has a variety of pseudonyms for his career, each of which has its own card in his wallet. He owns a hardtop. He lives at 61 Park Place. He often wears Cuban heels. His favorite little magazine is The Zeitgeist. He likes everything old, such as old books, old wines, old woods, and old paintings. But most of all, he likes young girls, which is why he starts his observations on Kay’s behavior, a girl who exchanges letters through the book in the library. Quidley is a very thoughtful and careful person because whenever he reads the mysterious letters in the book, he always puts the letters back in the book and replaces the book on the shelf. He always sits at the reading table to observe the girls. He knows very well about romantic stuff and how to have sexual relationships with girls as he has his own skill called Operation Spill-the-sugar to start a conversation with a stranger woman. However, Quidley has little moral on sexual relationships because whether the targeted girl has a boyfriend would not deter his intention to conquer her.

What role does the snoll doper play in the story? [SEP] <s> The Girls From Fieu Dayol By ROBERT F. YOUNG They were lovely and quick to learn—and their only faults were little ones! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's History of English Literature , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries. On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section. He had just taken down Xenophon's Anabasis when he saw the girl walkin the door. Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job. After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the Anabasis and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's History of English Literature . He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser. Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone. He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time? He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing. By whom—her boy friend? Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's History under observation for a while. <doc-sep>Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine, The Zeitgeist , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's History reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf. After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words wotnid , FieuDayol and snoll doper —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword— Yoolna —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the Klio whose name had appended thefirst message. He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and The Zeitgeist . Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her. She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside. He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap— I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off. <doc-sep>It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing. I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me. You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent. If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her— Herbert Quidley: Profiliste Her forehead crinkled. Profiliste? I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course. How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting. Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss— Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting my profile,Mr. Quidley? Would he! When can I call? She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate. Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou? She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you? Perfectly. Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley. He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, SelfProfile , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread. It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed. <doc-sep>In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up The Zeitgeist once again. He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman. And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's.... The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough: fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Judging from the repeated use of the words, snoll dopers were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay. He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata snoll doper was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's History of English Literature as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner? Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again. He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby; Harper's , The Atlantic and The SaturdayReview showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two— <doc-sep>The chimes sounded again. He opened the door. She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets. Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired. He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay. They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30. <doc-sep>The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The snoll-doper mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place. He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... Cutto interior. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of— ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.... Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform: a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications! You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though. Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the snoll-doper enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a snoll doper ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb. He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo ? He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar. He remembered the material of her dress. He remembered how she had come to his room. I didn't know you had a taste for Taine. <doc-sep>Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely. She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on. Where are we going? I'm going to deliver a snoll doper to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks. The relieved sigh he heard was his own. They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked. Since the night before I met you. Was that the reason you spilled the sugar? Part of the reason, he said. What's a snoll doper ? She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet. He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a snoll doper , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so? Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback. He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth— Her folks ! Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her. <doc-sep>A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said. Probably Jilka. Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said. She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later. At your folks'? At the ship. The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said. The one we're going to Fieu Dayol on. Fieu Dayol? Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I? In other words, you're kidnapping me. She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both. But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Whydon't you marry one of them? For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are not plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on Fieu Dayol so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for wotnids —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own. But why were all the messages addressed to you? They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl. <doc-sep>April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid. Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees. Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him. Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship. Next, Kay said. Quidley shook his head. You're not taking me to another planet! She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a snoll doper was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair. This is a snoll doper . She prodded his ribs. March, she said. He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back. It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What role does the snoll doper play in the story?

Snoll doper appears in every letter that is hidden in History of English Literature by Hippolyte Adolphe Taine, a book favored by Hebert Quidley, from which he finds these letters and starts his observation. Quidley finds these words several times when he secretly reads the letters in the book whenever a girl comes to put a new letter in the book. He is fascinated by the first girl called Kay Smith who takes the first letter after he notices it. From then on, he has been guessing the meaning of snoll doper. At first, Quidley thinks that snoll doper means a person who has close relationships with Kay, like a boyfriend or a husband. He is annoyed by this possibility after having sexual behaviors with Kay, which causes him to secretly read the fourth letter before Kay comes to pick it up. When Kay finds out that Quidley has been reading her letter, she tells him to come with her to deliver the snoll doper to Jilka, where Quidley is relieved because he realizes that snoll doper is the name of an object, not an identity. On their way to Jilka’s place, Quidley keeps asking Kay what the meaning of snoll doper is, but Kay doesn’t tell him. At the end of the story, snoll doper turns out to be the name of a shotgun, which is what the letters are for, a requisition for the shotgun. Those letters are sent toward Kay because she is the ship’s stock girl who delivers the guns. In conclusion, snoll doper is a word that puzzles Quidley throughout the whole story and causes him to be caught by Kay, the purpose of those secret letters transmitted between Kay and other girls through the book, and an object that forces Quidley to go into the ship.

What is the setting of the story? [SEP] <s> The Girls From Fieu Dayol By ROBERT F. YOUNG They were lovely and quick to learn—and their only faults were little ones! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's History of English Literature , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries. On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section. He had just taken down Xenophon's Anabasis when he saw the girl walkin the door. Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job. After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the Anabasis and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's History of English Literature . He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser. Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone. He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time? He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing. By whom—her boy friend? Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's History under observation for a while. <doc-sep>Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine, The Zeitgeist , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's History reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf. After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first: asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words wotnid , FieuDayol and snoll doper —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword— Yoolna —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the Klio whose name had appended thefirst message. He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and The Zeitgeist . Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her. She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside. He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap— I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off. <doc-sep>It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing. I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me. You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent. If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her— Herbert Quidley: Profiliste Her forehead crinkled. Profiliste? I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course. How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting. Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss— Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting my profile,Mr. Quidley? Would he! When can I call? She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate. Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou? She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you? Perfectly. Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley. He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, SelfProfile , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread. It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed. <doc-sep>In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up The Zeitgeist once again. He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman. And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's.... The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough: fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Judging from the repeated use of the words, snoll dopers were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay. He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata snoll doper was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's History of English Literature as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner? Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again. He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby; Harper's , The Atlantic and The SaturdayReview showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two— <doc-sep>The chimes sounded again. He opened the door. She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets. Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired. He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay. They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30. <doc-sep>The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The snoll-doper mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place. He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... Cutto interior. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of— ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.... Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform: a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications! You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though. Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the snoll-doper enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a snoll doper ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb. He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo ? He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar. He remembered the material of her dress. He remembered how she had come to his room. I didn't know you had a taste for Taine. <doc-sep>Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely. She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on. Where are we going? I'm going to deliver a snoll doper to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks. The relieved sigh he heard was his own. They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked. Since the night before I met you. Was that the reason you spilled the sugar? Part of the reason, he said. What's a snoll doper ? She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet. He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a snoll doper , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so? Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback. He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth— Her folks ! Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her. <doc-sep>A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said. Probably Jilka. Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said. She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later. At your folks'? At the ship. The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said. The one we're going to Fieu Dayol on. Fieu Dayol? Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I? In other words, you're kidnapping me. She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both. But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Whydon't you marry one of them? For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are not plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on Fieu Dayol so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for wotnids —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own. But why were all the messages addressed to you? They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl. <doc-sep>April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid. Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees. Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him. Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship. Next, Kay said. Quidley shook his head. You're not taking me to another planet! She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a snoll doper was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair. This is a snoll doper . She prodded his ribs. March, she said. He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back. It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting of the story?

The first scene is in the library. Hippolyte Adolphe Taine’s History of English Literature is in the literature section. The books are categorized in alphabetical order. Taine’s book is in the T-section. The secret letters are always hidden in Taine’s book in the T section, where the girls from Fieu Dayol always stop and take the book. A librarian sits at the front desk to handle administrative stuff. There are reading tables. The second scene is in an all-night coffee bar where Herbert Quidley conducts his Spill-the-sugar operation to start the conversation with the girl next to him. There is a sugar dispenser on the counter. The third scene is in Quidley’s apartment. There is a custom-built chrome-trimmed desk, a typewriter inserted with a blank sheet of paper, and the reference books stacked nearby. The magazine rack has Better Magazines, Harper’s, The Atlantic, and The Saturday Review. There is also a small table and a sideboard with a bottle of bourbon and two snifter glasses on top. The fourth scene is on the highway where Quidley is stuck in the car. The rutted road with trees points towards a ship. A ship with its lock open is hiding in the trees. It is dark.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> CAPTAIN MIDAS By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure.... These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot.... I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen. I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure.... You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror. <doc-sep>If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for. It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then. My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward. I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System. I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme. I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that. In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem. So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict. <doc-sep>I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct. There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk! All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures. Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou? Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart. Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered. The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control. You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage. Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage. Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli. That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices.... There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the stars , Captain? Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice. Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money. Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain? They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me. Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly! <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep>A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face. Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters! Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words. I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous. Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply. Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail. I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship. Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship. We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear? Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that. Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli. Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust. For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid. I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross. I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold. I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict. <doc-sep>Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic. Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski. When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold. Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now— The gun-pointer remained as it was. As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators. Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold. My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space.... Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion. They're faking! Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong.... Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what! I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold! Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, andshe's mine! I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli. Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate. A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side. Get this down, Spinelli! The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir. The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing. CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word. What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly. Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered. He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control. Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight. Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye. Spinelli! My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel. Get to your quarters! I cracked. He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice. You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said. <doc-sep>He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still. I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops. Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy. I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look. I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene. I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had! I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole. I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls.... As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal. The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment. And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old! I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ... us ! My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold! I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure.... I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil.... <doc-sep>On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it. But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it? It's ... Captain Midas. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

This story follows the Martian Maid’s journey and features its crew members: a captain nicknamed ‘Captain Midas’, Mister Spinelli the Third Officer, and various other shipmates. It is revealed that many of the crew members have a lust for making money, and an apt opportunity to do so is discovered when Mister Spinelli spots a derelict ship amongst the asteroids that could be claimed by them. After a first exploration, Midas ends up with a mystery metal collected from the starship. In his further investigation, he finds that this mystery metal transforms into a heavier metal with a yellow tinge - gold. At the same time, he finds that holding the metal evokes fatigue in him, particularly in his arms. This initial investigation was interrupted by Spinelli barging into Midas’ quarters and spotting the gold. Fearful of the other shipmates knowing and hence collecting it for themselves, Midas threatens Spinelli’s silence. Midas continues the acquisition of this derelict ship by sending a crew, led by Cohn, to further investigate and take control of the ship. With Midas and Spinelli left behind, they watch their shipmates enter the alien ship. While waiting to hear back from the crew, Midas notices that Spinelli has arranged the Maid’s gun to point at the derelict ship and their crew mates. Initially enraged, Midas soon calms down as he begins to suspect that the rest of the crew knows about the gold and may be hatching an alternate plan. Two days past the check-in time, the pair receives a garbled message from the crew. Midas orders them to disembark and depart, but the starship begins to divert its course. In arguing between something being wrong and Spinelli telling the crew about the gold, Spinelli begins to inch towards the firing panel for the gun and a tussle emerges between the two with Midas killing him. After re-catching the derelict ship, Midas boards the ship to look for the rest of his crew mates. He finds the walls to turn into yellow metal and the decks to have a yellowish cast as well. Inside the ship, he sees skeletal and rusty versions of his crew, and comes to the horrifying realization that the transformation of the metal into gold comes at the expense of him and his crew member’s youth and strength. Running from the ship, Midas reboards the Maid and quickly throws the alien ship back into space. Back on Callisto, the Foundation relieves him of his command as the illness spreads to the rest of his body.

Who is Captain Midas and what are some of his characteristics? [SEP] <s> CAPTAIN MIDAS By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure.... These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot.... I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen. I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure.... You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror. <doc-sep>If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for. It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then. My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward. I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System. I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme. I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that. In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem. So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict. <doc-sep>I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct. There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk! All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures. Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou? Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart. Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered. The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control. You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage. Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage. Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli. That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices.... There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the stars , Captain? Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice. Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money. Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain? They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me. Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly! <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep>A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face. Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters! Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words. I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous. Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply. Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail. I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship. Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship. We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear? Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that. Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli. Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust. For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid. I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross. I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold. I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict. <doc-sep>Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic. Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski. When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold. Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now— The gun-pointer remained as it was. As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators. Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold. My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space.... Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion. They're faking! Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong.... Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what! I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold! Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, andshe's mine! I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli. Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate. A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side. Get this down, Spinelli! The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir. The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing. CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word. What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly. Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered. He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control. Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight. Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye. Spinelli! My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel. Get to your quarters! I cracked. He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice. You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said. <doc-sep>He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still. I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops. Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy. I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look. I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene. I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had! I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole. I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls.... As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal. The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment. And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old! I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ... us ! My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold! I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure.... I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil.... <doc-sep>On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it. But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it? It's ... Captain Midas. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Captain Midas and what are some of his characteristics?

Captain Midas is the captain of the spaceship Martian Maid, who unknowingly takes the spaceship on its last flight in this story. He is described to be relatively young at 32 years old, but after interacting with the metal and at the end of the story, has the physical appearance of an eighty year old man with wrinkles and veiny hands. He is a greedy man. In the beginning of the story, he honestly admits that he would do quite a few things for a few solar dollars, which we see throughout the story. In addition to his greed, he is a selfish man, as in discovering the gold he threatens Spinelli to secrecy in order to keep the highest gains for himself. It is also this greed that allows Spinelli to get away with initially aiming the gun at the derelict ship and their fellow shipmates on board in case those shipmates try to escape with the gold. There are brief moments where he is shown to be an honorable man. For one, he fights Spinelli over blasting their fellow shipmates, and ends up killing Spinelli instead by accident. At the end of the story, he becomes terrified of the derelict ship and its devil metal, and yet still chooses to go aboard it to seek out his shipmates.

Describe the setting of this story. [SEP] <s> CAPTAIN MIDAS By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure.... These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot.... I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen. I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure.... You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror. <doc-sep>If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for. It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then. My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward. I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System. I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme. I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that. In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem. So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict. <doc-sep>I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct. There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk! All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures. Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou? Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart. Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered. The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control. You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage. Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage. Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli. That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices.... There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the stars , Captain? Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice. Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money. Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain? They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me. Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly! <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep>A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face. Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters! Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words. I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous. Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply. Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail. I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship. Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship. We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear? Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that. Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli. Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust. For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid. I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross. I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold. I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict. <doc-sep>Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic. Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski. When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold. Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now— The gun-pointer remained as it was. As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators. Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold. My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space.... Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion. They're faking! Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong.... Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what! I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold! Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, andshe's mine! I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli. Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate. A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side. Get this down, Spinelli! The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir. The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing. CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word. What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly. Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered. He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control. Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight. Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye. Spinelli! My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel. Get to your quarters! I cracked. He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice. You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said. <doc-sep>He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still. I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops. Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy. I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look. I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene. I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had! I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole. I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls.... As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal. The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment. And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old! I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ... us ! My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold! I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure.... I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil.... <doc-sep>On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it. But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it? It's ... Captain Midas. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of this story.

This story takes place in the Holcomb Foundation aboard Martian Maid. The Martian Maid is a grand ship that took off from Solis Lacus on its last flight; the ship spanned 200 feet in its length and despite its sleek exterior, was an armed ship as well. The Maid was on an orbit in a region strewn with asteroids between the outer systems and the EMV triangle. Aboard the spaceship, interactions between the characters in the story largely took place in the Control room. It also takes place in Captain Midas’ quarters, where he investigates the mystery metal. The setting also changes to include the derelict ship the crewmates had found, which presented itself as a shell of a vessel with torn interiors and yellow-tinged walls.

Describe the relationship between Captain Midas and Mister Spinelli. [SEP] <s> CAPTAIN MIDAS By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure.... These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot.... I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen. I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure.... You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror. <doc-sep>If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for. It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then. My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward. I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System. I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme. I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that. In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem. So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict. <doc-sep>I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct. There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk! All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures. Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou? Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart. Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered. The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control. You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage. Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage. Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli. That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices.... There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the stars , Captain? Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice. Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money. Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain? They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me. Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly! <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep>A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face. Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters! Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words. I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous. Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply. Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail. I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship. Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship. We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear? Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that. Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli. Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust. For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid. I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross. I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold. I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict. <doc-sep>Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic. Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski. When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold. Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now— The gun-pointer remained as it was. As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators. Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold. My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space.... Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion. They're faking! Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong.... Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what! I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold! Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, andshe's mine! I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli. Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate. A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side. Get this down, Spinelli! The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir. The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing. CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word. What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly. Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered. He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control. Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight. Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye. Spinelli! My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel. Get to your quarters! I cracked. He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice. You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said. <doc-sep>He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still. I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops. Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy. I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look. I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene. I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had! I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole. I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls.... As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal. The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment. And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old! I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ... us ! My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold! I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure.... I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil.... <doc-sep>On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it. But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it? It's ... Captain Midas. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the relationship between Captain Midas and Mister Spinelli.

Mister Spinelli is Third Officer under the command of Captain Midas and was the first to report the derelict ship and observe its potential to be claimed by the Maid. Spinelli is the first and only crew member to identify the metal from the abandoned ship as gold when he saw Captain Midas with it. The tension between Midas and Spinelli escalates and their relationship becomes antagonistic as both of them desire to benefit the most from this valuable gold and with Midas constantly pulling his authority over Spinelli. After Midas barrs him from being a part of the investigative crew, suspicion arises between the two as Spinelli suspects Midas wishes to keep the pot of gold for himself and Midas thinks that Spinelli may be telling others. This tension further escalates as Midas sees Spinelli nearly hit the trigger of the gun and in rage, the two end up fighting each other before Midas aimed a kick at his temple and killed him.

What is the significance of the mystery metal from the starship? [SEP] <s> CAPTAIN MIDAS By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure.... These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot.... I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen. I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure.... You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror. <doc-sep>If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for. It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then. My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward. I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System. I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme. I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that. In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem. So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict. <doc-sep>I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct. There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk! All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures. Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou? Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart. Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered. The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control. You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage. Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage. Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli. That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices.... There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the stars , Captain? Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice. Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money. Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain? They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me. Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly! <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep>A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face. Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters! Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words. I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous. Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply. Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail. I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship. Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship. We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear? Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that. Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli. Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust. For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid. I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross. I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold. I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict. <doc-sep>Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic. Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski. When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold. Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now— The gun-pointer remained as it was. As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators. Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold. My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space.... Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion. They're faking! Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong.... Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what! I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold! Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, andshe's mine! I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli. Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate. A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side. Get this down, Spinelli! The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir. The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing. CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word. What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly. Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered. He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control. Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight. Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye. Spinelli! My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel. Get to your quarters! I cracked. He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice. You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said. <doc-sep>He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still. I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops. Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy. I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look. I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene. I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had! I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole. I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls.... As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal. The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment. And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old! I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ... us ! My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold! I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure.... I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil.... <doc-sep>On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it. But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it? It's ... Captain Midas. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the mystery metal from the starship?

The mystery metal is significant because it initially attracted the crew’s interest due to their greed - they had hoped to tear about the derelict starship and sell its pieces for millions. When the Captain tested out the mysterious metal and saw that it turned out to be gold, his greed increased so much that he became suspicious of his crew members that were sent out to investigate the ship. Although the Captain and his crew thought they could take advantage of this metal and benefit from it, it turns out that the opposite is true. Instead, it is this mystery metal that gains its yellow-tint and subsequent gold composition through drawing its energy from them and draining the crew of their youth and strength. The latter named ‘devil-metal’ demonstrates the hastiness of the greed of man, and how it led them to be so enraptured in greed that it blinded them of the wariness of strange objects in space, and hence led to their ultimate demise.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Jinx Ship To The Rescue By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. Stand by for T.R.S. Aphrodite , butt of the Space Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of theTellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in theviscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with ajaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusportfor two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now amiasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling acrossthe mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility wasdropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to findthe way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus. Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealthof feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and togetherthey sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor. The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship Aphrodite loomedunhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached theventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of thefat spaceship. It looks, he commented bitterly, like a pregnant carp. Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley—Cob to his friends—nodded inagreement. That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The shipwith the poison personality. Cob was the Aphrodite's Executive,and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execson the Aphrodite . She generally sent them Earthside with nervousbreakdowns in half that time. Tell me, Captain, continued Cob curiously, how does it happenthat you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? Ithought.... You know Gorman? queried Strykalski. Cob nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman? The same. Well, Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, I know Gorman'sa prize stinker ... but you were in command of the Ganymede . And,after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How comethis? He indicated the monitor expressively. Strike sighed. Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing withme and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that youwouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharpoperators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy withtradition. The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polishimmigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and CongressionalMedal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in theabortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a UnitedNations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...me. From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But somethinghappened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest ofthem. Call it luck or temperament or what have you. In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying thewrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take toomuch on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the Ganymede because I left my station where I was supposed to be runningsection-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were indanger.... The Procyon A people? asked Cob. So you've heard about it. Strike shook his head sadly. My tacticalastrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left myroutine post and loaded up on colonists. He shrugged. Wrong guess. Nonova. I made an ass of myself and lost the Ganymede . Gorman gave itto his former aide. I got this. Cob coughed slightly. I heard something about Ley City, too. Me again. The Ganymede's whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.We celebrated a bit too freely. Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. That was the nightafter the Ganymede broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about.... Canalopolis? Whitley nodded. That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a TellurianEmbassy Ball. I begin to see what you mean, Captain. Strike's the name, Cob. Whitley's smile was expansive. Strike, I think you're going to likeour old tin pot here. He patted the Aphrodite's nether bellyaffectionately. She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely tomeet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either. Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek Ganymede . She'llcarry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her. Cob shrugged philosophically. Better than tanking that stinking rocketfuel, anyway. Deep space? Strike shook his head. Venus-Mars. Cob scratched his chin speculatively. Perihelion run. Hot work. Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.A surge-circuit monitor, so help me. Cob nodded agreement. The last of her class. <doc-sep>And she was not an inspiring sight. The fantastically misnamed Aphrodite was a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built some tenyears back in the period immediately preceding the Ionian SubjugationIncident. She had been designed primarily for atomics, with asurge-circuit set-up for interstellar flight. At least that was theplanner's view. In those days, interstellar astrogation was in itsformative stage, and at the time of the Aphrodite's launching thesurge-circuit was hailed as the very latest in space drives. Her designer, Harlan Hendricks, had been awarded a Legion of Meritfor her, and every silver-braided admiral in the Fleet had dreamedof hoisting his flag on one of her class. There had been three. The Artemis , the Andromeda , and the prototype ... old Aphrodisiac. Thethree vessels had gone into action off Callisto after the Phobos Raidhad set off hostilities between the Ionians and the Solarian Combine. All three were miserable failures. The eager officers commanding the three monitors had found the circuittoo appealing to their hot little hands. They used it ... in some way,wrongly. The Artemis exploded. The Andromeda vanished in the generaldirection of Coma Berenices glowing white hot from the heat of aruptured fission chamber and spewing gamma rays in all directions.And the Aphrodite's starboard tubes blew, causing her to spend herstore of vicious energy spinning like a Fourth of July pinwheel under20 gravities until all her interior fittings ... including crew were atangled, pulpy mess within her pressure hull. The Aphrodite was refitted for space. And because it was an integralpart of her design, the circuit was rebuilt ... and sealed. She becamea workhorse, growing more cantankerous with each passing year. Shecarried personnel.... She trucked ores. She ferried skeeterboats andtanked rocket fuel. Now, she would carry the mail. She would lift fromVenusport and jet to Canalopolis, Mars, without delay or variation.Regulations, tradition and Admiral Gorman of the Inner Planet Fleetrequired it. And it was now up to David Farragut Strykalski III to seeto it that she did.... The Officer of the Deck, a trim blonde girl in spotless greys salutedsmartly as Strike and Cob stepped through the valve. Strike felt vaguely uncomfortable. He knew, of course, that at least athird of the personnel on board non-combat vessels of the Inner PlanetFleet was female, but he had never actually had women on board a shipof his own, and he felt quite certain that he preferred them elsewhere. Cob sensed his discomfort. That was Celia Graham, Strike. Ensign.Radar Officer. She's good, too. Strike shook his head. Don't like women in space. They make meuncomfortable. Cob shrugged. Celia's the only officer. But about a quarter of ourratings are women. He grinned maliciously. Equal rights, you know. No doubt, commented the other sourly. Is that why they namedthis ... ship 'Aphrodite'? Whitley saw fit to consider the question rhetorical and remained silent. Strike lowered his head to clear the arch of the flying-bridgebulkhead. Cob followed. He trailed his Captain through a jungleof chrome piping to the main control panels. Strike sank into anacceleration chair in front of the red DANGER seal on the surge-circuitrheostat. Looks like a drug-store fountain, doesn't it? commented Cob. Strykalski nodded sadly, thinking of the padded smoothness of the Ganymede's flying-bridge. But she's home to us, anyway. The thick Venusian fog had closed in around the top levels of the ship,hugging the ports and cutting off all view of the field outside. Strikereached for the squawk-box control. Now hear this. All officer personnel will assemble in the flyingbridge at 600 hours for Captain's briefing. Officer of the Deck willrecall any enlisted personnel now on liberty.... Whitley was on his feet, all the slackness gone from his manner.Orders, Captain? We can't do anything until the new Engineering Officer gets here.They're sending someone down from the Antigone , and I expect him by600 hours. In the meantime you'll take over his part of the work. Seeto it that we are fueled and ready to lift ship by 602. Base will startloading the mail at 599:30. That's about all. Yes, sir. Whitley saluted and turned to go. At the bulkhead, hepaused. Captain, he asked, Who is the new E/O to be? Strike stretched his long legs out on the steel deck. A LieutenantHendricks, I. V. Hendricks, is what the orders say. Cob thought hard for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. I. V.Hendricks. He shook his head. Don't know him. <doc-sep>The other officers of the T.R.S. Aphrodite were in conference withthe Captain when Cob and the girl at his side reached the flyingbridge. She was tall and dark-haired with regular features and paleblue eyes. She wore a service jumper with two silver stripes on theshoulder-straps, and even the shapeless garment could not hide theobvious trimness of her figure. Strike's back was toward the bulkhead, and he was addressing the others. ... and that's about the story. We are to jet within 28,000,000 milesof Sol. Orbit is trans-Mercurian hyperbolic. With Mars in opposition,we have to make a perihelion run and it won't be pleasant. But I'mcertain this old boiler can take it. I understand the old boy whodesigned her wasn't as incompetent as they say. But Space Regs arespecific about mail runs. This is important to you, Evans. Yourastrogation has to be accurate to within twenty-five miles plus orminus the shortest route. And there'll be no breaking orbit. Now becertain that the refrigeration units are checked, Mister Wilkins,especially in the hydroponic cells. Pure air is going to be important. That's about all there is to tell you. As soon as our ratherleisurely E/O gets here, we can jet with Aunt Nelly's postcard. Henodded. That's the story. Lift ship in.... He glanced at his wristchronograph, ... in an hour and five. The officers filed out and Cob Whitley stuck his head into the room.Captain? Come in, Cob. Strike's dark brows knit at the sight of the uniformedgirl in the doorway. Cob's face was sober, but hidden amusement was kindling behind hiseyes. Captain, may I present Lieutenant Hendricks? Lieutenant I-vy Hendricks? Strike looked blankly at the girl. Our new E/O, Captain, prompted Whitley. Uh ... welcome aboard, Miss Hendricks, was all the Captain could findto say. The girl's eyes were cold and unfriendly. Thank you, Captain. Hervoice was like cracked ice tinkling in a glass. If I may have yourpermission to inspect the drives, Captain, I may be able toconvince you that the designer of this vessel was not ... as you seemto think ... a senile incompetent. Strike was perplexed, and he showed it. Why, certainly ... uh ...Miss ... but why should you be so.... The girl's voice was even colder than before as she said, HarlanHendricks, Captain, is my father. <doc-sep>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous Aphrodite had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall. The Aphrodite rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury.... For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman. And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy. At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the Aphrodite's refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing. Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the Lachesis and the Atropos . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the Atropos carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan. Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so. And she agreed. <doc-sep>Old Aphrodisiac had reached perihelion when it happened. Thethermometer stood at 135° and tempers were snapping. Cob and CeliaGraham had tangled about some minor point concerning Lover-Girl'sweight and balance. Ivy went about her work on the bridge withoutspeaking, and Strike made no attempt to brighten her sudden depression.Lieutenant Evans had punched Bayne, the Tactical Astrophysicist,in the eye for some disparaging remark about Southern Californiawomanhood. The ratings were grumbling about the food.... And then it happened. Cob was in the radio room when Sparks pulled the flimsy from thescrambler. It was a distress signal from the Lachesis . The Atropos had burst a fission chamber and was falling into the sun.Radiation made a transfer of personnel impossible, and the Atropos skeeterboats didn't have the power to pull away from the looming star.The Lachesis had a line on the sister dreadnaught and was valiantlytrying to pull the heavy vessel to safety, but even the thunderingpower of the Lachesis' mighty drive wasn't enough to break Sol'sdeathgrip on the battleship. A fleet of souped-up space-tugs was on its way from Luna and Venusport,but they could not possibly arrive on time. And it was doubtful thateven the tugs had the necessary power to drag the crippled Atropos away from a fiery end. Cob snatched the flimsy from Sparks' hands and galloped for theflying-bridge. He burst in and waved the message excitedly in front ofStrykalski's face. Have a look at this! Ye gods and little catfish! Read it! Well, dammit, hold it still so I can! snapped Strike. He read themessage and passed it to Ivy Hendricks with a shake of his head. She read it through and looked up exultantly. This is it ! This isthe chance I've been praying for, Strike! He returned her gaze sourly. For Gorman to fall into the sun? I recallI said something of the sort myself, but there are other men on thoseships. And, if I know Captain Varni on the Lachesis , he won't let gothat line even if he fries himself. Ivy's eyes snapped angrily. That's not what I meant, and you know it!I mean this! She touched the red-sealed surge-circuit rheostat. That's very nice, Lieutenant, commented Cob drily. And I know thatyou've been very busy adjusting that gismo. But I seem to recall thatthe last time that circuit was uncorked everyone aboard became part ofthe woodwork ... very messily, too. Let me understand you, Ivy, said Strike in a flat voice. What youare suggesting is that I risk my ship and the lives of all of us tryingto pull old Gorman's fat out of the fire with a drive that's blownskyhigh three times out of three. Very neat. There were tears bright in Ivy Hendricks' eyes and she soundeddesperate. But we can save those ships! We can, I know we can! Myfather designed this ship! I know every rivet of her! Those idiots offCallisto didn't know what they were doing. These ships needed speciallytrained men. Father told them that! And I'm trained! I can take her inand save those ships! Her expression turned to one of disgust. Or areyou afraid? Frankly, Ivy, I haven't enough sense to be afraid. But are you socertain that we can pull this off? If I make a mistake this time ...it'll be the last. For all of us. We can do it, said Ivy Hendricks simply. Strike turned to Cob. What do you say, Cob? Shall we make it hotter inhere? Whitley shrugged. If you say so, Strike. It's good enough for me. Celia Graham left the bridge shaking her head. We'll all be dead soon.And me so young and pretty. Strike turned to the squawk-box. Evans! Evans here, came the reply. Have Sparks get a DF fix on the Atropos and hold it. We'll home ontheir carrier wave. They're in trouble and we're going after them. Plotthe course. Yes, Captain. Strike turned to Cob. Have the gun-crews stand by to relieve theblack-gang in the tube rooms. It's going to get hotter than the hingesof hell down there and we'll have to shorten shifts. Yes, sir! Cob saluted and was gone. Strike returned to the squawk-box. Radar! Graham here, replied Celia from her station. Get a radar fix on the Lachesis and hold it. Send your dope up toEvans and tell him to send us a range estimate. Yes, Captain, the girl replied crisply. Gun deck! Gun deck here, sir, came a feminine voice. Have number two starboard torpedo tube loaded with a fish and a spoolof cable. Be ready to let fly on short notice ... any range. Yes, sir! The girl switched off. And now you, Miss Hendricks. Yes, Captain? Her voice was low. Take over Control ... and Ivy.... Yes? Don't kill us off. He smiled down at her. She nodded silently and took her place at the control panel. Smoothlyshe turned old Aphrodisiac's nose sunward.... <doc-sep>Lashed together with a length of unbreakable beryllium steel cable,the Lachesis and the Atropos fell helplessly toward the sun. Thefrantic flame that lashed out from the Lachesis' tube was fading, herfission chambers fusing under the terrific heat of splitting atoms.Still she tried. She could not desert her sister ship, nor could shesave her. Already the two ships had fallen to within 18,000,000 milesof the sun's terrifying atmosphere of glowing gases. The prominencesthat spouted spaceward seemed like great fiery tentacles reaching forthe trapped men on board the warships. The atmospheric guiding fins,the gun-turrets and other protuberances on both ships were beginningto melt under the fierce radiance. Only the huge refrigeration plantson the vessels made life within them possible. And, even so, men weredying. Swiftly, the fat, ungainly shape of old Aphrodisiac drew near. In herflying-bridge, Strike and Ivy Hendricks watched the stricken ships inthe darkened viewport. The temperature stood at 140° and the air was bitter with the smellof hot metal. Ivy's blouse clung to her body, soaked through withperspiration. Sweat ran from her hair into her eyes and she gaspedfor breath in the oven hot compartment. Strike watched her withapprehension. Carefully, Ivy circled the two warships. From the starboard tube onthe gun-deck, a homing rocket leapt toward the Atropos . It plungedstraight and true, spilling cable as it flew. It slammed up againstthe hull, and stuck there, fast to the battleship's flank. Quickly,a robocrane drew it within the ship and the cable was made secure.Like cosmic replicas of the ancient South American bolas, the threespacecraft whirled in space ... and all three began that sunward plungetogether. They were diving into the sun. The heat in the Aphrodite's bridge was unbearable. The thermometershowed 145° and it seemed to Strike that Hell must be cool bycomparison. Ivy fought her reeling senses and the bucking ship as the slack cameout of the cable. Blackness was flickering at the edges of her fieldof vision. She could scarcely lift her hand to the red-sealed circuitrheostat. Shudderingly, she made the effort ... and failed. Conscious,but too spent to move, she collapsed over the blistering hot instrumentpanel. Ivy! Strike was beside her, cradling her head in his arm. I ... I ... can't make it ... Strike. You'll ... have to run ... theshow ... after ... all. Strike laid her gently in an acceleration chair and turned toward thecontrol panel. His head was throbbing painfully as he broke the seal onthe surge-circuit. Slowly he turned the rheostat. Relays chattered. From deep withinold Lover-Girl's vitals came a low whine. He fed more power into thecircuit. Cadmium rods slipped into lead sheaths decks below in thetube-rooms. The whining rose in pitch. The spinning of the ships inspace slowed. Stopped. With painful deliberation, they swung into line. More power. The whine changed to a shriek. A banshee wail. Cob's voice came through the squawk-box, soberly. Strike, Celia'sfainted down here. We can't take much more of this heat. We're trying, Cob! shouted Strike over the whine of the circuit. Thegauges showed the accumulators full. Now! He spun the rheostat tothe stops, and black space burst over his brain.... The last thing he remembered was a voice. It sounded like Bayne's. Andit was shouting. We're moving 'em! We're pulling away! We're.... Andthat was all. The space-tug Scylla found them. The three ships ... Atropos , Lachesis , and old Aphrodisiac ...lashed together and drifting in space. Every man and woman aboard outcold from the acceleration, and Aphrodite's tanks bone dry. But theywere a safe 80,000,000 miles from Sol.... <doc-sep>The orchestra was subdued, the officer's club softly lighted. Cobleaned his elbow on the bar and bent to inspect the blue ribbon of theSpatial Cross on Strike's chest. Then he inspected his own and noddedwith tipsy satisfaction. He stared out at the Martian night beyond thebroad windows and back again at Strike. His frown was puzzled. All right, said Strike, setting down his glass. What's on your mind,Cob? Something's eating you. Whitley nodded very slowly. He took a long pull at his highball. Iunderstand that you goofballed your chances of getting the Ganymede back when Gorman spoke his piece to you.... All I said to him.... I know. I know what you said ... and it won't bear repeating. Butyou're not fooling me. You've fallen for old Lover-Girl and you don'twant to leave her. Ver-ry commendable. Loyal! Stout fellah! But whatabout Ivy? Ivy? Cob looked away. I thought that you and she ... well, I thought thatwhen we got back ... well.... Strike shook his head. She's gone to the Bureau of Ships with adesigning job. Cob waved an expressive arm in the air. But dammit, man, I thought.... The answer is no . Ivy's a nice girl ... but.... He paused andsighed. Since she was promoted to her father's old rank ... well....He shrugged. Who wants a wife that ranks you? Never thought of that, mused Cob. For a long while he was silent;then he pulled out an address book and leafed through until he came tothe pages marked Canalopolis, Mars. And he was gratified to see that Lieutenant Commander David FarragutStrykalski III was doing the same. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Stryakalski III, AKA Strike, is charged with commanding a run-down and faulty vessel, the Aphrodite. Aphrodite was the brain-child of Harlan Hendricks, an engineer who ushered in new technology ten years back. All three of his creations failed spectacularly, resulting in death and a failed career. The Aphrodite was the only ship to survive, and she is now used for hauling mail back and forth between Venus and Mars.Strike and Cob, the Aphrodite’s only executive to last more than six months, recount Strike’s great failures and how he ended up here. He used to fly the Ganymede, but was removed after he left his position to rescue colonists who didn’t need rescuing. Strike was no longer trustworthy in Admiral Gorman’s eyes, so he banished him to the Aphrodite. The circuit that caused the initial demise of Aphrodite was sealed off. After meeting some members of his crew, Strike orders a conference for all personnel and calls in an Engineering Officer, one I.V. Hendricks. After Lieutenant Ivy Hendricks arrives--not I.V.--Strike immediately insults her by degrading the ship’s designer, Harlan Hendricks. As it turns out, Hendricks is his daughter, and she vows to prove him wrong and all those who doubted her father. Despite their initial conflict, Strike and Hendricks’ relationship soon evolves from resentment to respect. During this time, Strike’s confidence in the Aphrodite plummets as she suffers from mechanical issues. The Aphrodite starts to heat up as they get closer to the sun. The refrigeration units could not handle the heat, causing discomfort among the crew. As they get closer, a radar contact reveals that two dreadnaughts, the Lachesis and the Atropos, are doing routine patrolling. Nothing to worry about, except the Atropos had Admiral Gorman on board, hated by Strike and Hendricks.Strike and Hendricks make a joke about Gorman falling into the sun. As the temperature steadily climbs, the crew members overheat and begin fighting, resulting in a black eye. A distress signal came through from the Lachesis: the Atropos, with Gorman on board, was tumbling into the sun. The Lachesis was attempting to rescue them with an unbreakable cord, but they too were being pulled in. Hendricks had fixed the surge-circuit rheostat, the one her father designed, and claimed it could help them rescue the ships. After some tension, Strike agrees and they race down to the sun to pick up the drifting dreadnaughts. Strike puts Hendricks in charge, but soon the heat overtakes her, and she is unable to continue. Strike takes over, attaches the Aphrodite to the Lachesis with a cord, and turns on the surge-circuit. They blast themselves out of there, rescuing the two ships and Admiral Gorman at the same time. Cob and Strike are awarded Spatial Cross awards, while Hendricks is promoted to an engineering position at the Bureau of Ships. The story ends with Cob and Strike flipping through the pages of an address book until they land on Canalopolis, Mars.

Who is Ivy Hendricks and what happens to her throughout the story? [SEP] <s> Jinx Ship To The Rescue By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. Stand by for T.R.S. Aphrodite , butt of the Space Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of theTellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in theviscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with ajaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusportfor two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now amiasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling acrossthe mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility wasdropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to findthe way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus. Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealthof feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and togetherthey sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor. The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship Aphrodite loomedunhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached theventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of thefat spaceship. It looks, he commented bitterly, like a pregnant carp. Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley—Cob to his friends—nodded inagreement. That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The shipwith the poison personality. Cob was the Aphrodite's Executive,and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execson the Aphrodite . She generally sent them Earthside with nervousbreakdowns in half that time. Tell me, Captain, continued Cob curiously, how does it happenthat you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? Ithought.... You know Gorman? queried Strykalski. Cob nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman? The same. Well, Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, I know Gorman'sa prize stinker ... but you were in command of the Ganymede . And,after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How comethis? He indicated the monitor expressively. Strike sighed. Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing withme and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that youwouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharpoperators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy withtradition. The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polishimmigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and CongressionalMedal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in theabortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a UnitedNations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...me. From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But somethinghappened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest ofthem. Call it luck or temperament or what have you. In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying thewrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take toomuch on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the Ganymede because I left my station where I was supposed to be runningsection-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were indanger.... The Procyon A people? asked Cob. So you've heard about it. Strike shook his head sadly. My tacticalastrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left myroutine post and loaded up on colonists. He shrugged. Wrong guess. Nonova. I made an ass of myself and lost the Ganymede . Gorman gave itto his former aide. I got this. Cob coughed slightly. I heard something about Ley City, too. Me again. The Ganymede's whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.We celebrated a bit too freely. Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. That was the nightafter the Ganymede broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about.... Canalopolis? Whitley nodded. That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a TellurianEmbassy Ball. I begin to see what you mean, Captain. Strike's the name, Cob. Whitley's smile was expansive. Strike, I think you're going to likeour old tin pot here. He patted the Aphrodite's nether bellyaffectionately. She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely tomeet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either. Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek Ganymede . She'llcarry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her. Cob shrugged philosophically. Better than tanking that stinking rocketfuel, anyway. Deep space? Strike shook his head. Venus-Mars. Cob scratched his chin speculatively. Perihelion run. Hot work. Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.A surge-circuit monitor, so help me. Cob nodded agreement. The last of her class. <doc-sep>And she was not an inspiring sight. The fantastically misnamed Aphrodite was a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built some tenyears back in the period immediately preceding the Ionian SubjugationIncident. She had been designed primarily for atomics, with asurge-circuit set-up for interstellar flight. At least that was theplanner's view. In those days, interstellar astrogation was in itsformative stage, and at the time of the Aphrodite's launching thesurge-circuit was hailed as the very latest in space drives. Her designer, Harlan Hendricks, had been awarded a Legion of Meritfor her, and every silver-braided admiral in the Fleet had dreamedof hoisting his flag on one of her class. There had been three. The Artemis , the Andromeda , and the prototype ... old Aphrodisiac. Thethree vessels had gone into action off Callisto after the Phobos Raidhad set off hostilities between the Ionians and the Solarian Combine. All three were miserable failures. The eager officers commanding the three monitors had found the circuittoo appealing to their hot little hands. They used it ... in some way,wrongly. The Artemis exploded. The Andromeda vanished in the generaldirection of Coma Berenices glowing white hot from the heat of aruptured fission chamber and spewing gamma rays in all directions.And the Aphrodite's starboard tubes blew, causing her to spend herstore of vicious energy spinning like a Fourth of July pinwheel under20 gravities until all her interior fittings ... including crew were atangled, pulpy mess within her pressure hull. The Aphrodite was refitted for space. And because it was an integralpart of her design, the circuit was rebuilt ... and sealed. She becamea workhorse, growing more cantankerous with each passing year. Shecarried personnel.... She trucked ores. She ferried skeeterboats andtanked rocket fuel. Now, she would carry the mail. She would lift fromVenusport and jet to Canalopolis, Mars, without delay or variation.Regulations, tradition and Admiral Gorman of the Inner Planet Fleetrequired it. And it was now up to David Farragut Strykalski III to seeto it that she did.... The Officer of the Deck, a trim blonde girl in spotless greys salutedsmartly as Strike and Cob stepped through the valve. Strike felt vaguely uncomfortable. He knew, of course, that at least athird of the personnel on board non-combat vessels of the Inner PlanetFleet was female, but he had never actually had women on board a shipof his own, and he felt quite certain that he preferred them elsewhere. Cob sensed his discomfort. That was Celia Graham, Strike. Ensign.Radar Officer. She's good, too. Strike shook his head. Don't like women in space. They make meuncomfortable. Cob shrugged. Celia's the only officer. But about a quarter of ourratings are women. He grinned maliciously. Equal rights, you know. No doubt, commented the other sourly. Is that why they namedthis ... ship 'Aphrodite'? Whitley saw fit to consider the question rhetorical and remained silent. Strike lowered his head to clear the arch of the flying-bridgebulkhead. Cob followed. He trailed his Captain through a jungleof chrome piping to the main control panels. Strike sank into anacceleration chair in front of the red DANGER seal on the surge-circuitrheostat. Looks like a drug-store fountain, doesn't it? commented Cob. Strykalski nodded sadly, thinking of the padded smoothness of the Ganymede's flying-bridge. But she's home to us, anyway. The thick Venusian fog had closed in around the top levels of the ship,hugging the ports and cutting off all view of the field outside. Strikereached for the squawk-box control. Now hear this. All officer personnel will assemble in the flyingbridge at 600 hours for Captain's briefing. Officer of the Deck willrecall any enlisted personnel now on liberty.... Whitley was on his feet, all the slackness gone from his manner.Orders, Captain? We can't do anything until the new Engineering Officer gets here.They're sending someone down from the Antigone , and I expect him by600 hours. In the meantime you'll take over his part of the work. Seeto it that we are fueled and ready to lift ship by 602. Base will startloading the mail at 599:30. That's about all. Yes, sir. Whitley saluted and turned to go. At the bulkhead, hepaused. Captain, he asked, Who is the new E/O to be? Strike stretched his long legs out on the steel deck. A LieutenantHendricks, I. V. Hendricks, is what the orders say. Cob thought hard for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. I. V.Hendricks. He shook his head. Don't know him. <doc-sep>The other officers of the T.R.S. Aphrodite were in conference withthe Captain when Cob and the girl at his side reached the flyingbridge. She was tall and dark-haired with regular features and paleblue eyes. She wore a service jumper with two silver stripes on theshoulder-straps, and even the shapeless garment could not hide theobvious trimness of her figure. Strike's back was toward the bulkhead, and he was addressing the others. ... and that's about the story. We are to jet within 28,000,000 milesof Sol. Orbit is trans-Mercurian hyperbolic. With Mars in opposition,we have to make a perihelion run and it won't be pleasant. But I'mcertain this old boiler can take it. I understand the old boy whodesigned her wasn't as incompetent as they say. But Space Regs arespecific about mail runs. This is important to you, Evans. Yourastrogation has to be accurate to within twenty-five miles plus orminus the shortest route. And there'll be no breaking orbit. Now becertain that the refrigeration units are checked, Mister Wilkins,especially in the hydroponic cells. Pure air is going to be important. That's about all there is to tell you. As soon as our ratherleisurely E/O gets here, we can jet with Aunt Nelly's postcard. Henodded. That's the story. Lift ship in.... He glanced at his wristchronograph, ... in an hour and five. The officers filed out and Cob Whitley stuck his head into the room.Captain? Come in, Cob. Strike's dark brows knit at the sight of the uniformedgirl in the doorway. Cob's face was sober, but hidden amusement was kindling behind hiseyes. Captain, may I present Lieutenant Hendricks? Lieutenant I-vy Hendricks? Strike looked blankly at the girl. Our new E/O, Captain, prompted Whitley. Uh ... welcome aboard, Miss Hendricks, was all the Captain could findto say. The girl's eyes were cold and unfriendly. Thank you, Captain. Hervoice was like cracked ice tinkling in a glass. If I may have yourpermission to inspect the drives, Captain, I may be able toconvince you that the designer of this vessel was not ... as you seemto think ... a senile incompetent. Strike was perplexed, and he showed it. Why, certainly ... uh ...Miss ... but why should you be so.... The girl's voice was even colder than before as she said, HarlanHendricks, Captain, is my father. <doc-sep>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous Aphrodite had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall. The Aphrodite rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury.... For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman. And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy. At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the Aphrodite's refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing. Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the Lachesis and the Atropos . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the Atropos carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan. Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so. And she agreed. <doc-sep>Old Aphrodisiac had reached perihelion when it happened. Thethermometer stood at 135° and tempers were snapping. Cob and CeliaGraham had tangled about some minor point concerning Lover-Girl'sweight and balance. Ivy went about her work on the bridge withoutspeaking, and Strike made no attempt to brighten her sudden depression.Lieutenant Evans had punched Bayne, the Tactical Astrophysicist,in the eye for some disparaging remark about Southern Californiawomanhood. The ratings were grumbling about the food.... And then it happened. Cob was in the radio room when Sparks pulled the flimsy from thescrambler. It was a distress signal from the Lachesis . The Atropos had burst a fission chamber and was falling into the sun.Radiation made a transfer of personnel impossible, and the Atropos skeeterboats didn't have the power to pull away from the looming star.The Lachesis had a line on the sister dreadnaught and was valiantlytrying to pull the heavy vessel to safety, but even the thunderingpower of the Lachesis' mighty drive wasn't enough to break Sol'sdeathgrip on the battleship. A fleet of souped-up space-tugs was on its way from Luna and Venusport,but they could not possibly arrive on time. And it was doubtful thateven the tugs had the necessary power to drag the crippled Atropos away from a fiery end. Cob snatched the flimsy from Sparks' hands and galloped for theflying-bridge. He burst in and waved the message excitedly in front ofStrykalski's face. Have a look at this! Ye gods and little catfish! Read it! Well, dammit, hold it still so I can! snapped Strike. He read themessage and passed it to Ivy Hendricks with a shake of his head. She read it through and looked up exultantly. This is it ! This isthe chance I've been praying for, Strike! He returned her gaze sourly. For Gorman to fall into the sun? I recallI said something of the sort myself, but there are other men on thoseships. And, if I know Captain Varni on the Lachesis , he won't let gothat line even if he fries himself. Ivy's eyes snapped angrily. That's not what I meant, and you know it!I mean this! She touched the red-sealed surge-circuit rheostat. That's very nice, Lieutenant, commented Cob drily. And I know thatyou've been very busy adjusting that gismo. But I seem to recall thatthe last time that circuit was uncorked everyone aboard became part ofthe woodwork ... very messily, too. Let me understand you, Ivy, said Strike in a flat voice. What youare suggesting is that I risk my ship and the lives of all of us tryingto pull old Gorman's fat out of the fire with a drive that's blownskyhigh three times out of three. Very neat. There were tears bright in Ivy Hendricks' eyes and she soundeddesperate. But we can save those ships! We can, I know we can! Myfather designed this ship! I know every rivet of her! Those idiots offCallisto didn't know what they were doing. These ships needed speciallytrained men. Father told them that! And I'm trained! I can take her inand save those ships! Her expression turned to one of disgust. Or areyou afraid? Frankly, Ivy, I haven't enough sense to be afraid. But are you socertain that we can pull this off? If I make a mistake this time ...it'll be the last. For all of us. We can do it, said Ivy Hendricks simply. Strike turned to Cob. What do you say, Cob? Shall we make it hotter inhere? Whitley shrugged. If you say so, Strike. It's good enough for me. Celia Graham left the bridge shaking her head. We'll all be dead soon.And me so young and pretty. Strike turned to the squawk-box. Evans! Evans here, came the reply. Have Sparks get a DF fix on the Atropos and hold it. We'll home ontheir carrier wave. They're in trouble and we're going after them. Plotthe course. Yes, Captain. Strike turned to Cob. Have the gun-crews stand by to relieve theblack-gang in the tube rooms. It's going to get hotter than the hingesof hell down there and we'll have to shorten shifts. Yes, sir! Cob saluted and was gone. Strike returned to the squawk-box. Radar! Graham here, replied Celia from her station. Get a radar fix on the Lachesis and hold it. Send your dope up toEvans and tell him to send us a range estimate. Yes, Captain, the girl replied crisply. Gun deck! Gun deck here, sir, came a feminine voice. Have number two starboard torpedo tube loaded with a fish and a spoolof cable. Be ready to let fly on short notice ... any range. Yes, sir! The girl switched off. And now you, Miss Hendricks. Yes, Captain? Her voice was low. Take over Control ... and Ivy.... Yes? Don't kill us off. He smiled down at her. She nodded silently and took her place at the control panel. Smoothlyshe turned old Aphrodisiac's nose sunward.... <doc-sep>Lashed together with a length of unbreakable beryllium steel cable,the Lachesis and the Atropos fell helplessly toward the sun. Thefrantic flame that lashed out from the Lachesis' tube was fading, herfission chambers fusing under the terrific heat of splitting atoms.Still she tried. She could not desert her sister ship, nor could shesave her. Already the two ships had fallen to within 18,000,000 milesof the sun's terrifying atmosphere of glowing gases. The prominencesthat spouted spaceward seemed like great fiery tentacles reaching forthe trapped men on board the warships. The atmospheric guiding fins,the gun-turrets and other protuberances on both ships were beginningto melt under the fierce radiance. Only the huge refrigeration plantson the vessels made life within them possible. And, even so, men weredying. Swiftly, the fat, ungainly shape of old Aphrodisiac drew near. In herflying-bridge, Strike and Ivy Hendricks watched the stricken ships inthe darkened viewport. The temperature stood at 140° and the air was bitter with the smellof hot metal. Ivy's blouse clung to her body, soaked through withperspiration. Sweat ran from her hair into her eyes and she gaspedfor breath in the oven hot compartment. Strike watched her withapprehension. Carefully, Ivy circled the two warships. From the starboard tube onthe gun-deck, a homing rocket leapt toward the Atropos . It plungedstraight and true, spilling cable as it flew. It slammed up againstthe hull, and stuck there, fast to the battleship's flank. Quickly,a robocrane drew it within the ship and the cable was made secure.Like cosmic replicas of the ancient South American bolas, the threespacecraft whirled in space ... and all three began that sunward plungetogether. They were diving into the sun. The heat in the Aphrodite's bridge was unbearable. The thermometershowed 145° and it seemed to Strike that Hell must be cool bycomparison. Ivy fought her reeling senses and the bucking ship as the slack cameout of the cable. Blackness was flickering at the edges of her fieldof vision. She could scarcely lift her hand to the red-sealed circuitrheostat. Shudderingly, she made the effort ... and failed. Conscious,but too spent to move, she collapsed over the blistering hot instrumentpanel. Ivy! Strike was beside her, cradling her head in his arm. I ... I ... can't make it ... Strike. You'll ... have to run ... theshow ... after ... all. Strike laid her gently in an acceleration chair and turned toward thecontrol panel. His head was throbbing painfully as he broke the seal onthe surge-circuit. Slowly he turned the rheostat. Relays chattered. From deep withinold Lover-Girl's vitals came a low whine. He fed more power into thecircuit. Cadmium rods slipped into lead sheaths decks below in thetube-rooms. The whining rose in pitch. The spinning of the ships inspace slowed. Stopped. With painful deliberation, they swung into line. More power. The whine changed to a shriek. A banshee wail. Cob's voice came through the squawk-box, soberly. Strike, Celia'sfainted down here. We can't take much more of this heat. We're trying, Cob! shouted Strike over the whine of the circuit. Thegauges showed the accumulators full. Now! He spun the rheostat tothe stops, and black space burst over his brain.... The last thing he remembered was a voice. It sounded like Bayne's. Andit was shouting. We're moving 'em! We're pulling away! We're.... Andthat was all. The space-tug Scylla found them. The three ships ... Atropos , Lachesis , and old Aphrodisiac ...lashed together and drifting in space. Every man and woman aboard outcold from the acceleration, and Aphrodite's tanks bone dry. But theywere a safe 80,000,000 miles from Sol.... <doc-sep>The orchestra was subdued, the officer's club softly lighted. Cobleaned his elbow on the bar and bent to inspect the blue ribbon of theSpatial Cross on Strike's chest. Then he inspected his own and noddedwith tipsy satisfaction. He stared out at the Martian night beyond thebroad windows and back again at Strike. His frown was puzzled. All right, said Strike, setting down his glass. What's on your mind,Cob? Something's eating you. Whitley nodded very slowly. He took a long pull at his highball. Iunderstand that you goofballed your chances of getting the Ganymede back when Gorman spoke his piece to you.... All I said to him.... I know. I know what you said ... and it won't bear repeating. Butyou're not fooling me. You've fallen for old Lover-Girl and you don'twant to leave her. Ver-ry commendable. Loyal! Stout fellah! But whatabout Ivy? Ivy? Cob looked away. I thought that you and she ... well, I thought thatwhen we got back ... well.... Strike shook his head. She's gone to the Bureau of Ships with adesigning job. Cob waved an expressive arm in the air. But dammit, man, I thought.... The answer is no . Ivy's a nice girl ... but.... He paused andsighed. Since she was promoted to her father's old rank ... well....He shrugged. Who wants a wife that ranks you? Never thought of that, mused Cob. For a long while he was silent;then he pulled out an address book and leafed through until he came tothe pages marked Canalopolis, Mars. And he was gratified to see that Lieutenant Commander David FarragutStrykalski III was doing the same. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Ivy Hendricks and what happens to her throughout the story?

Lieutenant Ivy Hendricks is the daughter of Harlan Hendricks, a formerly respected engineer. He created the surge-circuit, an innovation in interstellar astrogation, and he was awarded a Legion of Merit. He designed three famous ships: the Artemis, the Andromeda, and the Aphrodite, the prototype. Despite being hailed as the latest and greatest in technology, all three ships either exploded or failed. According to Lieutenant Ivy Hendricks, their failures were due to the lack of education on board. She claimed that her father asked for the crew members to be trained in surge-circuit technology, so they could use it properly and correctly. That wish was not granted and after all three ships failed, his reputation and career were doomed. Admiral Gorman pulled the plug on his career and therefore became the target of all Lieutenant Hendricks’ hate. With a bone to pick, Lieutenant Hendricks, a knowledgeable engineer herself, comes aboard the Aphrodite to serve as her engineer and occasional pilot. She wants to prove to the world that her father’s creation was genius and deserving of praise. Although they started off on the wrong foot, Lieutenant Hendricks and Strike, her commander, develop a friendship and appreciation for each other. They bond over their deep hatred of Admiral Gorman and the joy of piloting a ship. She soon proves herself to Strike, and he begins to trust her. Their relationship walks the fine line between friendship and romance. As the Aphrodite is attempting to rescue the fallen dreadnaughts, Lieutenant Hendricks comes up with the solution. Due to her constant tinkering on the ship, she had fixed the surge-circuit rheostat and made it ready to use. Initially, no one trusts her, seeing as the last time it was used people died. But Strike’s trust in her is strong and true, so he approves the use of the surge-circuit. Hendricks pilots the ship, but soon becomes too overheated and comes close to fainting. Strike takes over piloting and eventually activates the surge-circuit. It works and they are able to rescue the two ships, one of which had Admiral Gorman, her sworn enemy, onboard. Lieutenant Hendricks receives a major promotion; she is now an engineer at the Bureau of Ships. She proved them wrong, and restored her father’s legacy and good name. The story ends with their romance left in the air, but Hendricks has much to be proud of.

What is the relationship between Strike and Aphrodite? [SEP] <s> Jinx Ship To The Rescue By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. Stand by for T.R.S. Aphrodite , butt of the Space Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of theTellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in theviscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with ajaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusportfor two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now amiasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling acrossthe mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility wasdropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to findthe way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus. Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealthof feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and togetherthey sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor. The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship Aphrodite loomedunhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached theventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of thefat spaceship. It looks, he commented bitterly, like a pregnant carp. Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley—Cob to his friends—nodded inagreement. That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The shipwith the poison personality. Cob was the Aphrodite's Executive,and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execson the Aphrodite . She generally sent them Earthside with nervousbreakdowns in half that time. Tell me, Captain, continued Cob curiously, how does it happenthat you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? Ithought.... You know Gorman? queried Strykalski. Cob nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman? The same. Well, Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, I know Gorman'sa prize stinker ... but you were in command of the Ganymede . And,after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How comethis? He indicated the monitor expressively. Strike sighed. Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing withme and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that youwouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharpoperators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy withtradition. The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polishimmigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and CongressionalMedal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in theabortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a UnitedNations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...me. From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But somethinghappened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest ofthem. Call it luck or temperament or what have you. In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying thewrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take toomuch on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the Ganymede because I left my station where I was supposed to be runningsection-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were indanger.... The Procyon A people? asked Cob. So you've heard about it. Strike shook his head sadly. My tacticalastrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left myroutine post and loaded up on colonists. He shrugged. Wrong guess. Nonova. I made an ass of myself and lost the Ganymede . Gorman gave itto his former aide. I got this. Cob coughed slightly. I heard something about Ley City, too. Me again. The Ganymede's whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.We celebrated a bit too freely. Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. That was the nightafter the Ganymede broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about.... Canalopolis? Whitley nodded. That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a TellurianEmbassy Ball. I begin to see what you mean, Captain. Strike's the name, Cob. Whitley's smile was expansive. Strike, I think you're going to likeour old tin pot here. He patted the Aphrodite's nether bellyaffectionately. She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely tomeet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either. Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek Ganymede . She'llcarry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her. Cob shrugged philosophically. Better than tanking that stinking rocketfuel, anyway. Deep space? Strike shook his head. Venus-Mars. Cob scratched his chin speculatively. Perihelion run. Hot work. Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.A surge-circuit monitor, so help me. Cob nodded agreement. The last of her class. <doc-sep>And she was not an inspiring sight. The fantastically misnamed Aphrodite was a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built some tenyears back in the period immediately preceding the Ionian SubjugationIncident. She had been designed primarily for atomics, with asurge-circuit set-up for interstellar flight. At least that was theplanner's view. In those days, interstellar astrogation was in itsformative stage, and at the time of the Aphrodite's launching thesurge-circuit was hailed as the very latest in space drives. Her designer, Harlan Hendricks, had been awarded a Legion of Meritfor her, and every silver-braided admiral in the Fleet had dreamedof hoisting his flag on one of her class. There had been three. The Artemis , the Andromeda , and the prototype ... old Aphrodisiac. Thethree vessels had gone into action off Callisto after the Phobos Raidhad set off hostilities between the Ionians and the Solarian Combine. All three were miserable failures. The eager officers commanding the three monitors had found the circuittoo appealing to their hot little hands. They used it ... in some way,wrongly. The Artemis exploded. The Andromeda vanished in the generaldirection of Coma Berenices glowing white hot from the heat of aruptured fission chamber and spewing gamma rays in all directions.And the Aphrodite's starboard tubes blew, causing her to spend herstore of vicious energy spinning like a Fourth of July pinwheel under20 gravities until all her interior fittings ... including crew were atangled, pulpy mess within her pressure hull. The Aphrodite was refitted for space. And because it was an integralpart of her design, the circuit was rebuilt ... and sealed. She becamea workhorse, growing more cantankerous with each passing year. Shecarried personnel.... She trucked ores. She ferried skeeterboats andtanked rocket fuel. Now, she would carry the mail. She would lift fromVenusport and jet to Canalopolis, Mars, without delay or variation.Regulations, tradition and Admiral Gorman of the Inner Planet Fleetrequired it. And it was now up to David Farragut Strykalski III to seeto it that she did.... The Officer of the Deck, a trim blonde girl in spotless greys salutedsmartly as Strike and Cob stepped through the valve. Strike felt vaguely uncomfortable. He knew, of course, that at least athird of the personnel on board non-combat vessels of the Inner PlanetFleet was female, but he had never actually had women on board a shipof his own, and he felt quite certain that he preferred them elsewhere. Cob sensed his discomfort. That was Celia Graham, Strike. Ensign.Radar Officer. She's good, too. Strike shook his head. Don't like women in space. They make meuncomfortable. Cob shrugged. Celia's the only officer. But about a quarter of ourratings are women. He grinned maliciously. Equal rights, you know. No doubt, commented the other sourly. Is that why they namedthis ... ship 'Aphrodite'? Whitley saw fit to consider the question rhetorical and remained silent. Strike lowered his head to clear the arch of the flying-bridgebulkhead. Cob followed. He trailed his Captain through a jungleof chrome piping to the main control panels. Strike sank into anacceleration chair in front of the red DANGER seal on the surge-circuitrheostat. Looks like a drug-store fountain, doesn't it? commented Cob. Strykalski nodded sadly, thinking of the padded smoothness of the Ganymede's flying-bridge. But she's home to us, anyway. The thick Venusian fog had closed in around the top levels of the ship,hugging the ports and cutting off all view of the field outside. Strikereached for the squawk-box control. Now hear this. All officer personnel will assemble in the flyingbridge at 600 hours for Captain's briefing. Officer of the Deck willrecall any enlisted personnel now on liberty.... Whitley was on his feet, all the slackness gone from his manner.Orders, Captain? We can't do anything until the new Engineering Officer gets here.They're sending someone down from the Antigone , and I expect him by600 hours. In the meantime you'll take over his part of the work. Seeto it that we are fueled and ready to lift ship by 602. Base will startloading the mail at 599:30. That's about all. Yes, sir. Whitley saluted and turned to go. At the bulkhead, hepaused. Captain, he asked, Who is the new E/O to be? Strike stretched his long legs out on the steel deck. A LieutenantHendricks, I. V. Hendricks, is what the orders say. Cob thought hard for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. I. V.Hendricks. He shook his head. Don't know him. <doc-sep>The other officers of the T.R.S. Aphrodite were in conference withthe Captain when Cob and the girl at his side reached the flyingbridge. She was tall and dark-haired with regular features and paleblue eyes. She wore a service jumper with two silver stripes on theshoulder-straps, and even the shapeless garment could not hide theobvious trimness of her figure. Strike's back was toward the bulkhead, and he was addressing the others. ... and that's about the story. We are to jet within 28,000,000 milesof Sol. Orbit is trans-Mercurian hyperbolic. With Mars in opposition,we have to make a perihelion run and it won't be pleasant. But I'mcertain this old boiler can take it. I understand the old boy whodesigned her wasn't as incompetent as they say. But Space Regs arespecific about mail runs. This is important to you, Evans. Yourastrogation has to be accurate to within twenty-five miles plus orminus the shortest route. And there'll be no breaking orbit. Now becertain that the refrigeration units are checked, Mister Wilkins,especially in the hydroponic cells. Pure air is going to be important. That's about all there is to tell you. As soon as our ratherleisurely E/O gets here, we can jet with Aunt Nelly's postcard. Henodded. That's the story. Lift ship in.... He glanced at his wristchronograph, ... in an hour and five. The officers filed out and Cob Whitley stuck his head into the room.Captain? Come in, Cob. Strike's dark brows knit at the sight of the uniformedgirl in the doorway. Cob's face was sober, but hidden amusement was kindling behind hiseyes. Captain, may I present Lieutenant Hendricks? Lieutenant I-vy Hendricks? Strike looked blankly at the girl. Our new E/O, Captain, prompted Whitley. Uh ... welcome aboard, Miss Hendricks, was all the Captain could findto say. The girl's eyes were cold and unfriendly. Thank you, Captain. Hervoice was like cracked ice tinkling in a glass. If I may have yourpermission to inspect the drives, Captain, I may be able toconvince you that the designer of this vessel was not ... as you seemto think ... a senile incompetent. Strike was perplexed, and he showed it. Why, certainly ... uh ...Miss ... but why should you be so.... The girl's voice was even colder than before as she said, HarlanHendricks, Captain, is my father. <doc-sep>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous Aphrodite had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall. The Aphrodite rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury.... For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman. And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy. At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the Aphrodite's refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing. Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the Lachesis and the Atropos . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the Atropos carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan. Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so. And she agreed. <doc-sep>Old Aphrodisiac had reached perihelion when it happened. Thethermometer stood at 135° and tempers were snapping. Cob and CeliaGraham had tangled about some minor point concerning Lover-Girl'sweight and balance. Ivy went about her work on the bridge withoutspeaking, and Strike made no attempt to brighten her sudden depression.Lieutenant Evans had punched Bayne, the Tactical Astrophysicist,in the eye for some disparaging remark about Southern Californiawomanhood. The ratings were grumbling about the food.... And then it happened. Cob was in the radio room when Sparks pulled the flimsy from thescrambler. It was a distress signal from the Lachesis . The Atropos had burst a fission chamber and was falling into the sun.Radiation made a transfer of personnel impossible, and the Atropos skeeterboats didn't have the power to pull away from the looming star.The Lachesis had a line on the sister dreadnaught and was valiantlytrying to pull the heavy vessel to safety, but even the thunderingpower of the Lachesis' mighty drive wasn't enough to break Sol'sdeathgrip on the battleship. A fleet of souped-up space-tugs was on its way from Luna and Venusport,but they could not possibly arrive on time. And it was doubtful thateven the tugs had the necessary power to drag the crippled Atropos away from a fiery end. Cob snatched the flimsy from Sparks' hands and galloped for theflying-bridge. He burst in and waved the message excitedly in front ofStrykalski's face. Have a look at this! Ye gods and little catfish! Read it! Well, dammit, hold it still so I can! snapped Strike. He read themessage and passed it to Ivy Hendricks with a shake of his head. She read it through and looked up exultantly. This is it ! This isthe chance I've been praying for, Strike! He returned her gaze sourly. For Gorman to fall into the sun? I recallI said something of the sort myself, but there are other men on thoseships. And, if I know Captain Varni on the Lachesis , he won't let gothat line even if he fries himself. Ivy's eyes snapped angrily. That's not what I meant, and you know it!I mean this! She touched the red-sealed surge-circuit rheostat. That's very nice, Lieutenant, commented Cob drily. And I know thatyou've been very busy adjusting that gismo. But I seem to recall thatthe last time that circuit was uncorked everyone aboard became part ofthe woodwork ... very messily, too. Let me understand you, Ivy, said Strike in a flat voice. What youare suggesting is that I risk my ship and the lives of all of us tryingto pull old Gorman's fat out of the fire with a drive that's blownskyhigh three times out of three. Very neat. There were tears bright in Ivy Hendricks' eyes and she soundeddesperate. But we can save those ships! We can, I know we can! Myfather designed this ship! I know every rivet of her! Those idiots offCallisto didn't know what they were doing. These ships needed speciallytrained men. Father told them that! And I'm trained! I can take her inand save those ships! Her expression turned to one of disgust. Or areyou afraid? Frankly, Ivy, I haven't enough sense to be afraid. But are you socertain that we can pull this off? If I make a mistake this time ...it'll be the last. For all of us. We can do it, said Ivy Hendricks simply. Strike turned to Cob. What do you say, Cob? Shall we make it hotter inhere? Whitley shrugged. If you say so, Strike. It's good enough for me. Celia Graham left the bridge shaking her head. We'll all be dead soon.And me so young and pretty. Strike turned to the squawk-box. Evans! Evans here, came the reply. Have Sparks get a DF fix on the Atropos and hold it. We'll home ontheir carrier wave. They're in trouble and we're going after them. Plotthe course. Yes, Captain. Strike turned to Cob. Have the gun-crews stand by to relieve theblack-gang in the tube rooms. It's going to get hotter than the hingesof hell down there and we'll have to shorten shifts. Yes, sir! Cob saluted and was gone. Strike returned to the squawk-box. Radar! Graham here, replied Celia from her station. Get a radar fix on the Lachesis and hold it. Send your dope up toEvans and tell him to send us a range estimate. Yes, Captain, the girl replied crisply. Gun deck! Gun deck here, sir, came a feminine voice. Have number two starboard torpedo tube loaded with a fish and a spoolof cable. Be ready to let fly on short notice ... any range. Yes, sir! The girl switched off. And now you, Miss Hendricks. Yes, Captain? Her voice was low. Take over Control ... and Ivy.... Yes? Don't kill us off. He smiled down at her. She nodded silently and took her place at the control panel. Smoothlyshe turned old Aphrodisiac's nose sunward.... <doc-sep>Lashed together with a length of unbreakable beryllium steel cable,the Lachesis and the Atropos fell helplessly toward the sun. Thefrantic flame that lashed out from the Lachesis' tube was fading, herfission chambers fusing under the terrific heat of splitting atoms.Still she tried. She could not desert her sister ship, nor could shesave her. Already the two ships had fallen to within 18,000,000 milesof the sun's terrifying atmosphere of glowing gases. The prominencesthat spouted spaceward seemed like great fiery tentacles reaching forthe trapped men on board the warships. The atmospheric guiding fins,the gun-turrets and other protuberances on both ships were beginningto melt under the fierce radiance. Only the huge refrigeration plantson the vessels made life within them possible. And, even so, men weredying. Swiftly, the fat, ungainly shape of old Aphrodisiac drew near. In herflying-bridge, Strike and Ivy Hendricks watched the stricken ships inthe darkened viewport. The temperature stood at 140° and the air was bitter with the smellof hot metal. Ivy's blouse clung to her body, soaked through withperspiration. Sweat ran from her hair into her eyes and she gaspedfor breath in the oven hot compartment. Strike watched her withapprehension. Carefully, Ivy circled the two warships. From the starboard tube onthe gun-deck, a homing rocket leapt toward the Atropos . It plungedstraight and true, spilling cable as it flew. It slammed up againstthe hull, and stuck there, fast to the battleship's flank. Quickly,a robocrane drew it within the ship and the cable was made secure.Like cosmic replicas of the ancient South American bolas, the threespacecraft whirled in space ... and all three began that sunward plungetogether. They were diving into the sun. The heat in the Aphrodite's bridge was unbearable. The thermometershowed 145° and it seemed to Strike that Hell must be cool bycomparison. Ivy fought her reeling senses and the bucking ship as the slack cameout of the cable. Blackness was flickering at the edges of her fieldof vision. She could scarcely lift her hand to the red-sealed circuitrheostat. Shudderingly, she made the effort ... and failed. Conscious,but too spent to move, she collapsed over the blistering hot instrumentpanel. Ivy! Strike was beside her, cradling her head in his arm. I ... I ... can't make it ... Strike. You'll ... have to run ... theshow ... after ... all. Strike laid her gently in an acceleration chair and turned toward thecontrol panel. His head was throbbing painfully as he broke the seal onthe surge-circuit. Slowly he turned the rheostat. Relays chattered. From deep withinold Lover-Girl's vitals came a low whine. He fed more power into thecircuit. Cadmium rods slipped into lead sheaths decks below in thetube-rooms. The whining rose in pitch. The spinning of the ships inspace slowed. Stopped. With painful deliberation, they swung into line. More power. The whine changed to a shriek. A banshee wail. Cob's voice came through the squawk-box, soberly. Strike, Celia'sfainted down here. We can't take much more of this heat. We're trying, Cob! shouted Strike over the whine of the circuit. Thegauges showed the accumulators full. Now! He spun the rheostat tothe stops, and black space burst over his brain.... The last thing he remembered was a voice. It sounded like Bayne's. Andit was shouting. We're moving 'em! We're pulling away! We're.... Andthat was all. The space-tug Scylla found them. The three ships ... Atropos , Lachesis , and old Aphrodisiac ...lashed together and drifting in space. Every man and woman aboard outcold from the acceleration, and Aphrodite's tanks bone dry. But theywere a safe 80,000,000 miles from Sol.... <doc-sep>The orchestra was subdued, the officer's club softly lighted. Cobleaned his elbow on the bar and bent to inspect the blue ribbon of theSpatial Cross on Strike's chest. Then he inspected his own and noddedwith tipsy satisfaction. He stared out at the Martian night beyond thebroad windows and back again at Strike. His frown was puzzled. All right, said Strike, setting down his glass. What's on your mind,Cob? Something's eating you. Whitley nodded very slowly. He took a long pull at his highball. Iunderstand that you goofballed your chances of getting the Ganymede back when Gorman spoke his piece to you.... All I said to him.... I know. I know what you said ... and it won't bear repeating. Butyou're not fooling me. You've fallen for old Lover-Girl and you don'twant to leave her. Ver-ry commendable. Loyal! Stout fellah! But whatabout Ivy? Ivy? Cob looked away. I thought that you and she ... well, I thought thatwhen we got back ... well.... Strike shook his head. She's gone to the Bureau of Ships with adesigning job. Cob waved an expressive arm in the air. But dammit, man, I thought.... The answer is no . Ivy's a nice girl ... but.... He paused andsighed. Since she was promoted to her father's old rank ... well....He shrugged. Who wants a wife that ranks you? Never thought of that, mused Cob. For a long while he was silent;then he pulled out an address book and leafed through until he came tothe pages marked Canalopolis, Mars. And he was gratified to see that Lieutenant Commander David FarragutStrykalski III was doing the same. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Strike and Aphrodite?

Strike is a member of a famous, well-behaved, and well-trained service family. His father and grandfather served in World War II and the Atomic War, respectively. Both earned medals for their heroic service. Strike, however, did not follow in his family’s footsteps. With a tendency to say the wrong thing at the wrong time, Strike often offended those around him and garnered a negative reputation. After being put in charge of the Ganymede, he soon lost his position after abandoning his station to rescue colonists who were not in danger. As well, he accused a Martian Ambassador of being a spy at a respectable ball. Admiral Gorman soon demoted him, and he became the commander of the Aphrodite. At first, Strike was not a fan. He sees her as ugly, fat, and cantankerous. He misses the Ganymede, a shiny and new rocketship, and views the Aphrodite as less-than. Within the first week of flying her, the Aphrodite had a burned steering tube, which made it necessary to go into free-fall as the damage control party made repairs. Strike’s faith in Lover-Girl continued to plummet. However, after Lieutenant Hendricks, the resident engineer, got her hands on the Aphrodite, Strike’s opinion started to change. Her knowledge of the ship, engineering, and piloting helped him gain confidence in both her abilities and those of Aphrodite.Near the end of the story, the Aphrodite is tasked with rescuing two ships that are falling into the sun. Previously Lieutenant Hendricks had fixed up the surge-circuit rheostat, and so she offered it up as the only solution. Strike agrees to try it, which shows his faith and trust in the Aphrodite. Luckily, all things go to plan, and the Aphrodite, with Strike piloting, is able to save the two ships and Admiral Gorman. After Strike won a medal himself, finally following in the family footsteps, he is offered his old position back on the Ganymede. He refuses, and instead returns to old Lover-Girl. He has grown fond of her over the course of their adventure, and they develop a partnership.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> Jinx Ship To The Rescue By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. Stand by for T.R.S. Aphrodite , butt of the Space Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of theTellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in theviscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with ajaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusportfor two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now amiasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling acrossthe mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility wasdropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to findthe way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus. Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealthof feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and togetherthey sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor. The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship Aphrodite loomedunhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached theventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of thefat spaceship. It looks, he commented bitterly, like a pregnant carp. Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley—Cob to his friends—nodded inagreement. That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The shipwith the poison personality. Cob was the Aphrodite's Executive,and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execson the Aphrodite . She generally sent them Earthside with nervousbreakdowns in half that time. Tell me, Captain, continued Cob curiously, how does it happenthat you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? Ithought.... You know Gorman? queried Strykalski. Cob nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman? The same. Well, Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, I know Gorman'sa prize stinker ... but you were in command of the Ganymede . And,after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How comethis? He indicated the monitor expressively. Strike sighed. Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing withme and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that youwouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharpoperators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy withtradition. The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polishimmigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and CongressionalMedal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in theabortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a UnitedNations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...me. From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But somethinghappened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest ofthem. Call it luck or temperament or what have you. In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying thewrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take toomuch on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the Ganymede because I left my station where I was supposed to be runningsection-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were indanger.... The Procyon A people? asked Cob. So you've heard about it. Strike shook his head sadly. My tacticalastrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left myroutine post and loaded up on colonists. He shrugged. Wrong guess. Nonova. I made an ass of myself and lost the Ganymede . Gorman gave itto his former aide. I got this. Cob coughed slightly. I heard something about Ley City, too. Me again. The Ganymede's whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.We celebrated a bit too freely. Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. That was the nightafter the Ganymede broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about.... Canalopolis? Whitley nodded. That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a TellurianEmbassy Ball. I begin to see what you mean, Captain. Strike's the name, Cob. Whitley's smile was expansive. Strike, I think you're going to likeour old tin pot here. He patted the Aphrodite's nether bellyaffectionately. She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely tomeet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either. Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek Ganymede . She'llcarry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her. Cob shrugged philosophically. Better than tanking that stinking rocketfuel, anyway. Deep space? Strike shook his head. Venus-Mars. Cob scratched his chin speculatively. Perihelion run. Hot work. Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.A surge-circuit monitor, so help me. Cob nodded agreement. The last of her class. <doc-sep>And she was not an inspiring sight. The fantastically misnamed Aphrodite was a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built some tenyears back in the period immediately preceding the Ionian SubjugationIncident. She had been designed primarily for atomics, with asurge-circuit set-up for interstellar flight. At least that was theplanner's view. In those days, interstellar astrogation was in itsformative stage, and at the time of the Aphrodite's launching thesurge-circuit was hailed as the very latest in space drives. Her designer, Harlan Hendricks, had been awarded a Legion of Meritfor her, and every silver-braided admiral in the Fleet had dreamedof hoisting his flag on one of her class. There had been three. The Artemis , the Andromeda , and the prototype ... old Aphrodisiac. Thethree vessels had gone into action off Callisto after the Phobos Raidhad set off hostilities between the Ionians and the Solarian Combine. All three were miserable failures. The eager officers commanding the three monitors had found the circuittoo appealing to their hot little hands. They used it ... in some way,wrongly. The Artemis exploded. The Andromeda vanished in the generaldirection of Coma Berenices glowing white hot from the heat of aruptured fission chamber and spewing gamma rays in all directions.And the Aphrodite's starboard tubes blew, causing her to spend herstore of vicious energy spinning like a Fourth of July pinwheel under20 gravities until all her interior fittings ... including crew were atangled, pulpy mess within her pressure hull. The Aphrodite was refitted for space. And because it was an integralpart of her design, the circuit was rebuilt ... and sealed. She becamea workhorse, growing more cantankerous with each passing year. Shecarried personnel.... She trucked ores. She ferried skeeterboats andtanked rocket fuel. Now, she would carry the mail. She would lift fromVenusport and jet to Canalopolis, Mars, without delay or variation.Regulations, tradition and Admiral Gorman of the Inner Planet Fleetrequired it. And it was now up to David Farragut Strykalski III to seeto it that she did.... The Officer of the Deck, a trim blonde girl in spotless greys salutedsmartly as Strike and Cob stepped through the valve. Strike felt vaguely uncomfortable. He knew, of course, that at least athird of the personnel on board non-combat vessels of the Inner PlanetFleet was female, but he had never actually had women on board a shipof his own, and he felt quite certain that he preferred them elsewhere. Cob sensed his discomfort. That was Celia Graham, Strike. Ensign.Radar Officer. She's good, too. Strike shook his head. Don't like women in space. They make meuncomfortable. Cob shrugged. Celia's the only officer. But about a quarter of ourratings are women. He grinned maliciously. Equal rights, you know. No doubt, commented the other sourly. Is that why they namedthis ... ship 'Aphrodite'? Whitley saw fit to consider the question rhetorical and remained silent. Strike lowered his head to clear the arch of the flying-bridgebulkhead. Cob followed. He trailed his Captain through a jungleof chrome piping to the main control panels. Strike sank into anacceleration chair in front of the red DANGER seal on the surge-circuitrheostat. Looks like a drug-store fountain, doesn't it? commented Cob. Strykalski nodded sadly, thinking of the padded smoothness of the Ganymede's flying-bridge. But she's home to us, anyway. The thick Venusian fog had closed in around the top levels of the ship,hugging the ports and cutting off all view of the field outside. Strikereached for the squawk-box control. Now hear this. All officer personnel will assemble in the flyingbridge at 600 hours for Captain's briefing. Officer of the Deck willrecall any enlisted personnel now on liberty.... Whitley was on his feet, all the slackness gone from his manner.Orders, Captain? We can't do anything until the new Engineering Officer gets here.They're sending someone down from the Antigone , and I expect him by600 hours. In the meantime you'll take over his part of the work. Seeto it that we are fueled and ready to lift ship by 602. Base will startloading the mail at 599:30. That's about all. Yes, sir. Whitley saluted and turned to go. At the bulkhead, hepaused. Captain, he asked, Who is the new E/O to be? Strike stretched his long legs out on the steel deck. A LieutenantHendricks, I. V. Hendricks, is what the orders say. Cob thought hard for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. I. V.Hendricks. He shook his head. Don't know him. <doc-sep>The other officers of the T.R.S. Aphrodite were in conference withthe Captain when Cob and the girl at his side reached the flyingbridge. She was tall and dark-haired with regular features and paleblue eyes. She wore a service jumper with two silver stripes on theshoulder-straps, and even the shapeless garment could not hide theobvious trimness of her figure. Strike's back was toward the bulkhead, and he was addressing the others. ... and that's about the story. We are to jet within 28,000,000 milesof Sol. Orbit is trans-Mercurian hyperbolic. With Mars in opposition,we have to make a perihelion run and it won't be pleasant. But I'mcertain this old boiler can take it. I understand the old boy whodesigned her wasn't as incompetent as they say. But Space Regs arespecific about mail runs. This is important to you, Evans. Yourastrogation has to be accurate to within twenty-five miles plus orminus the shortest route. And there'll be no breaking orbit. Now becertain that the refrigeration units are checked, Mister Wilkins,especially in the hydroponic cells. Pure air is going to be important. That's about all there is to tell you. As soon as our ratherleisurely E/O gets here, we can jet with Aunt Nelly's postcard. Henodded. That's the story. Lift ship in.... He glanced at his wristchronograph, ... in an hour and five. The officers filed out and Cob Whitley stuck his head into the room.Captain? Come in, Cob. Strike's dark brows knit at the sight of the uniformedgirl in the doorway. Cob's face was sober, but hidden amusement was kindling behind hiseyes. Captain, may I present Lieutenant Hendricks? Lieutenant I-vy Hendricks? Strike looked blankly at the girl. Our new E/O, Captain, prompted Whitley. Uh ... welcome aboard, Miss Hendricks, was all the Captain could findto say. The girl's eyes were cold and unfriendly. Thank you, Captain. Hervoice was like cracked ice tinkling in a glass. If I may have yourpermission to inspect the drives, Captain, I may be able toconvince you that the designer of this vessel was not ... as you seemto think ... a senile incompetent. Strike was perplexed, and he showed it. Why, certainly ... uh ...Miss ... but why should you be so.... The girl's voice was even colder than before as she said, HarlanHendricks, Captain, is my father. <doc-sep>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous Aphrodite had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall. The Aphrodite rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury.... For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman. And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy. At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the Aphrodite's refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing. Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the Lachesis and the Atropos . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the Atropos carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan. Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so. And she agreed. <doc-sep>Old Aphrodisiac had reached perihelion when it happened. Thethermometer stood at 135° and tempers were snapping. Cob and CeliaGraham had tangled about some minor point concerning Lover-Girl'sweight and balance. Ivy went about her work on the bridge withoutspeaking, and Strike made no attempt to brighten her sudden depression.Lieutenant Evans had punched Bayne, the Tactical Astrophysicist,in the eye for some disparaging remark about Southern Californiawomanhood. The ratings were grumbling about the food.... And then it happened. Cob was in the radio room when Sparks pulled the flimsy from thescrambler. It was a distress signal from the Lachesis . The Atropos had burst a fission chamber and was falling into the sun.Radiation made a transfer of personnel impossible, and the Atropos skeeterboats didn't have the power to pull away from the looming star.The Lachesis had a line on the sister dreadnaught and was valiantlytrying to pull the heavy vessel to safety, but even the thunderingpower of the Lachesis' mighty drive wasn't enough to break Sol'sdeathgrip on the battleship. A fleet of souped-up space-tugs was on its way from Luna and Venusport,but they could not possibly arrive on time. And it was doubtful thateven the tugs had the necessary power to drag the crippled Atropos away from a fiery end. Cob snatched the flimsy from Sparks' hands and galloped for theflying-bridge. He burst in and waved the message excitedly in front ofStrykalski's face. Have a look at this! Ye gods and little catfish! Read it! Well, dammit, hold it still so I can! snapped Strike. He read themessage and passed it to Ivy Hendricks with a shake of his head. She read it through and looked up exultantly. This is it ! This isthe chance I've been praying for, Strike! He returned her gaze sourly. For Gorman to fall into the sun? I recallI said something of the sort myself, but there are other men on thoseships. And, if I know Captain Varni on the Lachesis , he won't let gothat line even if he fries himself. Ivy's eyes snapped angrily. That's not what I meant, and you know it!I mean this! She touched the red-sealed surge-circuit rheostat. That's very nice, Lieutenant, commented Cob drily. And I know thatyou've been very busy adjusting that gismo. But I seem to recall thatthe last time that circuit was uncorked everyone aboard became part ofthe woodwork ... very messily, too. Let me understand you, Ivy, said Strike in a flat voice. What youare suggesting is that I risk my ship and the lives of all of us tryingto pull old Gorman's fat out of the fire with a drive that's blownskyhigh three times out of three. Very neat. There were tears bright in Ivy Hendricks' eyes and she soundeddesperate. But we can save those ships! We can, I know we can! Myfather designed this ship! I know every rivet of her! Those idiots offCallisto didn't know what they were doing. These ships needed speciallytrained men. Father told them that! And I'm trained! I can take her inand save those ships! Her expression turned to one of disgust. Or areyou afraid? Frankly, Ivy, I haven't enough sense to be afraid. But are you socertain that we can pull this off? If I make a mistake this time ...it'll be the last. For all of us. We can do it, said Ivy Hendricks simply. Strike turned to Cob. What do you say, Cob? Shall we make it hotter inhere? Whitley shrugged. If you say so, Strike. It's good enough for me. Celia Graham left the bridge shaking her head. We'll all be dead soon.And me so young and pretty. Strike turned to the squawk-box. Evans! Evans here, came the reply. Have Sparks get a DF fix on the Atropos and hold it. We'll home ontheir carrier wave. They're in trouble and we're going after them. Plotthe course. Yes, Captain. Strike turned to Cob. Have the gun-crews stand by to relieve theblack-gang in the tube rooms. It's going to get hotter than the hingesof hell down there and we'll have to shorten shifts. Yes, sir! Cob saluted and was gone. Strike returned to the squawk-box. Radar! Graham here, replied Celia from her station. Get a radar fix on the Lachesis and hold it. Send your dope up toEvans and tell him to send us a range estimate. Yes, Captain, the girl replied crisply. Gun deck! Gun deck here, sir, came a feminine voice. Have number two starboard torpedo tube loaded with a fish and a spoolof cable. Be ready to let fly on short notice ... any range. Yes, sir! The girl switched off. And now you, Miss Hendricks. Yes, Captain? Her voice was low. Take over Control ... and Ivy.... Yes? Don't kill us off. He smiled down at her. She nodded silently and took her place at the control panel. Smoothlyshe turned old Aphrodisiac's nose sunward.... <doc-sep>Lashed together with a length of unbreakable beryllium steel cable,the Lachesis and the Atropos fell helplessly toward the sun. Thefrantic flame that lashed out from the Lachesis' tube was fading, herfission chambers fusing under the terrific heat of splitting atoms.Still she tried. She could not desert her sister ship, nor could shesave her. Already the two ships had fallen to within 18,000,000 milesof the sun's terrifying atmosphere of glowing gases. The prominencesthat spouted spaceward seemed like great fiery tentacles reaching forthe trapped men on board the warships. The atmospheric guiding fins,the gun-turrets and other protuberances on both ships were beginningto melt under the fierce radiance. Only the huge refrigeration plantson the vessels made life within them possible. And, even so, men weredying. Swiftly, the fat, ungainly shape of old Aphrodisiac drew near. In herflying-bridge, Strike and Ivy Hendricks watched the stricken ships inthe darkened viewport. The temperature stood at 140° and the air was bitter with the smellof hot metal. Ivy's blouse clung to her body, soaked through withperspiration. Sweat ran from her hair into her eyes and she gaspedfor breath in the oven hot compartment. Strike watched her withapprehension. Carefully, Ivy circled the two warships. From the starboard tube onthe gun-deck, a homing rocket leapt toward the Atropos . It plungedstraight and true, spilling cable as it flew. It slammed up againstthe hull, and stuck there, fast to the battleship's flank. Quickly,a robocrane drew it within the ship and the cable was made secure.Like cosmic replicas of the ancient South American bolas, the threespacecraft whirled in space ... and all three began that sunward plungetogether. They were diving into the sun. The heat in the Aphrodite's bridge was unbearable. The thermometershowed 145° and it seemed to Strike that Hell must be cool bycomparison. Ivy fought her reeling senses and the bucking ship as the slack cameout of the cable. Blackness was flickering at the edges of her fieldof vision. She could scarcely lift her hand to the red-sealed circuitrheostat. Shudderingly, she made the effort ... and failed. Conscious,but too spent to move, she collapsed over the blistering hot instrumentpanel. Ivy! Strike was beside her, cradling her head in his arm. I ... I ... can't make it ... Strike. You'll ... have to run ... theshow ... after ... all. Strike laid her gently in an acceleration chair and turned toward thecontrol panel. His head was throbbing painfully as he broke the seal onthe surge-circuit. Slowly he turned the rheostat. Relays chattered. From deep withinold Lover-Girl's vitals came a low whine. He fed more power into thecircuit. Cadmium rods slipped into lead sheaths decks below in thetube-rooms. The whining rose in pitch. The spinning of the ships inspace slowed. Stopped. With painful deliberation, they swung into line. More power. The whine changed to a shriek. A banshee wail. Cob's voice came through the squawk-box, soberly. Strike, Celia'sfainted down here. We can't take much more of this heat. We're trying, Cob! shouted Strike over the whine of the circuit. Thegauges showed the accumulators full. Now! He spun the rheostat tothe stops, and black space burst over his brain.... The last thing he remembered was a voice. It sounded like Bayne's. Andit was shouting. We're moving 'em! We're pulling away! We're.... Andthat was all. The space-tug Scylla found them. The three ships ... Atropos , Lachesis , and old Aphrodisiac ...lashed together and drifting in space. Every man and woman aboard outcold from the acceleration, and Aphrodite's tanks bone dry. But theywere a safe 80,000,000 miles from Sol.... <doc-sep>The orchestra was subdued, the officer's club softly lighted. Cobleaned his elbow on the bar and bent to inspect the blue ribbon of theSpatial Cross on Strike's chest. Then he inspected his own and noddedwith tipsy satisfaction. He stared out at the Martian night beyond thebroad windows and back again at Strike. His frown was puzzled. All right, said Strike, setting down his glass. What's on your mind,Cob? Something's eating you. Whitley nodded very slowly. He took a long pull at his highball. Iunderstand that you goofballed your chances of getting the Ganymede back when Gorman spoke his piece to you.... All I said to him.... I know. I know what you said ... and it won't bear repeating. Butyou're not fooling me. You've fallen for old Lover-Girl and you don'twant to leave her. Ver-ry commendable. Loyal! Stout fellah! But whatabout Ivy? Ivy? Cob looked away. I thought that you and she ... well, I thought thatwhen we got back ... well.... Strike shook his head. She's gone to the Bureau of Ships with adesigning job. Cob waved an expressive arm in the air. But dammit, man, I thought.... The answer is no . Ivy's a nice girl ... but.... He paused andsighed. Since she was promoted to her father's old rank ... well....He shrugged. Who wants a wife that ranks you? Never thought of that, mused Cob. For a long while he was silent;then he pulled out an address book and leafed through until he came tothe pages marked Canalopolis, Mars. And he was gratified to see that Lieutenant Commander David FarragutStrykalski III was doing the same. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

Jinx Ship to the Rescue by Alfred Coppel, Jr. takes place in space, but more specifically in the Aphrodite. It starts in the muddy Venusport Base on Venus. Venusport is famous for its warm, slimy, and green rain that falls for 480 hours of every day. A fog rolls in and degrades visibility. Despite starting on Venusport Base, the characters actually spend most of their time onboard the Aphrodite, a Tellurian Rocket Ship. The Aphrodite had a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built into her frame. She was bulky, fat, and ugly, and occasionally had some technical and mechanical struggles as well. Although her frame may not be appealing, she soon becomes victorious as she gains the trust of Strike and other members of his crew and saves two fallen dreadnaughts. With her surge-circuit rheostat rebuilt, the Aphrodite is finally able to accomplish what she was always meant to.

Who is Strike and what happens to him throughout the story? [SEP] <s> Jinx Ship To The Rescue By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. Stand by for T.R.S. Aphrodite , butt of the Space Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of theTellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in theviscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with ajaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusportfor two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now amiasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling acrossthe mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility wasdropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to findthe way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus. Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealthof feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and togetherthey sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor. The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship Aphrodite loomedunhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached theventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of thefat spaceship. It looks, he commented bitterly, like a pregnant carp. Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley—Cob to his friends—nodded inagreement. That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The shipwith the poison personality. Cob was the Aphrodite's Executive,and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execson the Aphrodite . She generally sent them Earthside with nervousbreakdowns in half that time. Tell me, Captain, continued Cob curiously, how does it happenthat you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? Ithought.... You know Gorman? queried Strykalski. Cob nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman? The same. Well, Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, I know Gorman'sa prize stinker ... but you were in command of the Ganymede . And,after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How comethis? He indicated the monitor expressively. Strike sighed. Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing withme and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that youwouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharpoperators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy withtradition. The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polishimmigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and CongressionalMedal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in theabortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a UnitedNations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...me. From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But somethinghappened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest ofthem. Call it luck or temperament or what have you. In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying thewrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take toomuch on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the Ganymede because I left my station where I was supposed to be runningsection-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were indanger.... The Procyon A people? asked Cob. So you've heard about it. Strike shook his head sadly. My tacticalastrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left myroutine post and loaded up on colonists. He shrugged. Wrong guess. Nonova. I made an ass of myself and lost the Ganymede . Gorman gave itto his former aide. I got this. Cob coughed slightly. I heard something about Ley City, too. Me again. The Ganymede's whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.We celebrated a bit too freely. Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. That was the nightafter the Ganymede broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about.... Canalopolis? Whitley nodded. That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a TellurianEmbassy Ball. I begin to see what you mean, Captain. Strike's the name, Cob. Whitley's smile was expansive. Strike, I think you're going to likeour old tin pot here. He patted the Aphrodite's nether bellyaffectionately. She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely tomeet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either. Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek Ganymede . She'llcarry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her. Cob shrugged philosophically. Better than tanking that stinking rocketfuel, anyway. Deep space? Strike shook his head. Venus-Mars. Cob scratched his chin speculatively. Perihelion run. Hot work. Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.A surge-circuit monitor, so help me. Cob nodded agreement. The last of her class. <doc-sep>And she was not an inspiring sight. The fantastically misnamed Aphrodite was a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built some tenyears back in the period immediately preceding the Ionian SubjugationIncident. She had been designed primarily for atomics, with asurge-circuit set-up for interstellar flight. At least that was theplanner's view. In those days, interstellar astrogation was in itsformative stage, and at the time of the Aphrodite's launching thesurge-circuit was hailed as the very latest in space drives. Her designer, Harlan Hendricks, had been awarded a Legion of Meritfor her, and every silver-braided admiral in the Fleet had dreamedof hoisting his flag on one of her class. There had been three. The Artemis , the Andromeda , and the prototype ... old Aphrodisiac. Thethree vessels had gone into action off Callisto after the Phobos Raidhad set off hostilities between the Ionians and the Solarian Combine. All three were miserable failures. The eager officers commanding the three monitors had found the circuittoo appealing to their hot little hands. They used it ... in some way,wrongly. The Artemis exploded. The Andromeda vanished in the generaldirection of Coma Berenices glowing white hot from the heat of aruptured fission chamber and spewing gamma rays in all directions.And the Aphrodite's starboard tubes blew, causing her to spend herstore of vicious energy spinning like a Fourth of July pinwheel under20 gravities until all her interior fittings ... including crew were atangled, pulpy mess within her pressure hull. The Aphrodite was refitted for space. And because it was an integralpart of her design, the circuit was rebuilt ... and sealed. She becamea workhorse, growing more cantankerous with each passing year. Shecarried personnel.... She trucked ores. She ferried skeeterboats andtanked rocket fuel. Now, she would carry the mail. She would lift fromVenusport and jet to Canalopolis, Mars, without delay or variation.Regulations, tradition and Admiral Gorman of the Inner Planet Fleetrequired it. And it was now up to David Farragut Strykalski III to seeto it that she did.... The Officer of the Deck, a trim blonde girl in spotless greys salutedsmartly as Strike and Cob stepped through the valve. Strike felt vaguely uncomfortable. He knew, of course, that at least athird of the personnel on board non-combat vessels of the Inner PlanetFleet was female, but he had never actually had women on board a shipof his own, and he felt quite certain that he preferred them elsewhere. Cob sensed his discomfort. That was Celia Graham, Strike. Ensign.Radar Officer. She's good, too. Strike shook his head. Don't like women in space. They make meuncomfortable. Cob shrugged. Celia's the only officer. But about a quarter of ourratings are women. He grinned maliciously. Equal rights, you know. No doubt, commented the other sourly. Is that why they namedthis ... ship 'Aphrodite'? Whitley saw fit to consider the question rhetorical and remained silent. Strike lowered his head to clear the arch of the flying-bridgebulkhead. Cob followed. He trailed his Captain through a jungleof chrome piping to the main control panels. Strike sank into anacceleration chair in front of the red DANGER seal on the surge-circuitrheostat. Looks like a drug-store fountain, doesn't it? commented Cob. Strykalski nodded sadly, thinking of the padded smoothness of the Ganymede's flying-bridge. But she's home to us, anyway. The thick Venusian fog had closed in around the top levels of the ship,hugging the ports and cutting off all view of the field outside. Strikereached for the squawk-box control. Now hear this. All officer personnel will assemble in the flyingbridge at 600 hours for Captain's briefing. Officer of the Deck willrecall any enlisted personnel now on liberty.... Whitley was on his feet, all the slackness gone from his manner.Orders, Captain? We can't do anything until the new Engineering Officer gets here.They're sending someone down from the Antigone , and I expect him by600 hours. In the meantime you'll take over his part of the work. Seeto it that we are fueled and ready to lift ship by 602. Base will startloading the mail at 599:30. That's about all. Yes, sir. Whitley saluted and turned to go. At the bulkhead, hepaused. Captain, he asked, Who is the new E/O to be? Strike stretched his long legs out on the steel deck. A LieutenantHendricks, I. V. Hendricks, is what the orders say. Cob thought hard for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. I. V.Hendricks. He shook his head. Don't know him. <doc-sep>The other officers of the T.R.S. Aphrodite were in conference withthe Captain when Cob and the girl at his side reached the flyingbridge. She was tall and dark-haired with regular features and paleblue eyes. She wore a service jumper with two silver stripes on theshoulder-straps, and even the shapeless garment could not hide theobvious trimness of her figure. Strike's back was toward the bulkhead, and he was addressing the others. ... and that's about the story. We are to jet within 28,000,000 milesof Sol. Orbit is trans-Mercurian hyperbolic. With Mars in opposition,we have to make a perihelion run and it won't be pleasant. But I'mcertain this old boiler can take it. I understand the old boy whodesigned her wasn't as incompetent as they say. But Space Regs arespecific about mail runs. This is important to you, Evans. Yourastrogation has to be accurate to within twenty-five miles plus orminus the shortest route. And there'll be no breaking orbit. Now becertain that the refrigeration units are checked, Mister Wilkins,especially in the hydroponic cells. Pure air is going to be important. That's about all there is to tell you. As soon as our ratherleisurely E/O gets here, we can jet with Aunt Nelly's postcard. Henodded. That's the story. Lift ship in.... He glanced at his wristchronograph, ... in an hour and five. The officers filed out and Cob Whitley stuck his head into the room.Captain? Come in, Cob. Strike's dark brows knit at the sight of the uniformedgirl in the doorway. Cob's face was sober, but hidden amusement was kindling behind hiseyes. Captain, may I present Lieutenant Hendricks? Lieutenant I-vy Hendricks? Strike looked blankly at the girl. Our new E/O, Captain, prompted Whitley. Uh ... welcome aboard, Miss Hendricks, was all the Captain could findto say. The girl's eyes were cold and unfriendly. Thank you, Captain. Hervoice was like cracked ice tinkling in a glass. If I may have yourpermission to inspect the drives, Captain, I may be able toconvince you that the designer of this vessel was not ... as you seemto think ... a senile incompetent. Strike was perplexed, and he showed it. Why, certainly ... uh ...Miss ... but why should you be so.... The girl's voice was even colder than before as she said, HarlanHendricks, Captain, is my father. <doc-sep>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous Aphrodite had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall. The Aphrodite rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury.... For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman. And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy. At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the Aphrodite's refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing. Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the Lachesis and the Atropos . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the Atropos carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan. Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so. And she agreed. <doc-sep>Old Aphrodisiac had reached perihelion when it happened. Thethermometer stood at 135° and tempers were snapping. Cob and CeliaGraham had tangled about some minor point concerning Lover-Girl'sweight and balance. Ivy went about her work on the bridge withoutspeaking, and Strike made no attempt to brighten her sudden depression.Lieutenant Evans had punched Bayne, the Tactical Astrophysicist,in the eye for some disparaging remark about Southern Californiawomanhood. The ratings were grumbling about the food.... And then it happened. Cob was in the radio room when Sparks pulled the flimsy from thescrambler. It was a distress signal from the Lachesis . The Atropos had burst a fission chamber and was falling into the sun.Radiation made a transfer of personnel impossible, and the Atropos skeeterboats didn't have the power to pull away from the looming star.The Lachesis had a line on the sister dreadnaught and was valiantlytrying to pull the heavy vessel to safety, but even the thunderingpower of the Lachesis' mighty drive wasn't enough to break Sol'sdeathgrip on the battleship. A fleet of souped-up space-tugs was on its way from Luna and Venusport,but they could not possibly arrive on time. And it was doubtful thateven the tugs had the necessary power to drag the crippled Atropos away from a fiery end. Cob snatched the flimsy from Sparks' hands and galloped for theflying-bridge. He burst in and waved the message excitedly in front ofStrykalski's face. Have a look at this! Ye gods and little catfish! Read it! Well, dammit, hold it still so I can! snapped Strike. He read themessage and passed it to Ivy Hendricks with a shake of his head. She read it through and looked up exultantly. This is it ! This isthe chance I've been praying for, Strike! He returned her gaze sourly. For Gorman to fall into the sun? I recallI said something of the sort myself, but there are other men on thoseships. And, if I know Captain Varni on the Lachesis , he won't let gothat line even if he fries himself. Ivy's eyes snapped angrily. That's not what I meant, and you know it!I mean this! She touched the red-sealed surge-circuit rheostat. That's very nice, Lieutenant, commented Cob drily. And I know thatyou've been very busy adjusting that gismo. But I seem to recall thatthe last time that circuit was uncorked everyone aboard became part ofthe woodwork ... very messily, too. Let me understand you, Ivy, said Strike in a flat voice. What youare suggesting is that I risk my ship and the lives of all of us tryingto pull old Gorman's fat out of the fire with a drive that's blownskyhigh three times out of three. Very neat. There were tears bright in Ivy Hendricks' eyes and she soundeddesperate. But we can save those ships! We can, I know we can! Myfather designed this ship! I know every rivet of her! Those idiots offCallisto didn't know what they were doing. These ships needed speciallytrained men. Father told them that! And I'm trained! I can take her inand save those ships! Her expression turned to one of disgust. Or areyou afraid? Frankly, Ivy, I haven't enough sense to be afraid. But are you socertain that we can pull this off? If I make a mistake this time ...it'll be the last. For all of us. We can do it, said Ivy Hendricks simply. Strike turned to Cob. What do you say, Cob? Shall we make it hotter inhere? Whitley shrugged. If you say so, Strike. It's good enough for me. Celia Graham left the bridge shaking her head. We'll all be dead soon.And me so young and pretty. Strike turned to the squawk-box. Evans! Evans here, came the reply. Have Sparks get a DF fix on the Atropos and hold it. We'll home ontheir carrier wave. They're in trouble and we're going after them. Plotthe course. Yes, Captain. Strike turned to Cob. Have the gun-crews stand by to relieve theblack-gang in the tube rooms. It's going to get hotter than the hingesof hell down there and we'll have to shorten shifts. Yes, sir! Cob saluted and was gone. Strike returned to the squawk-box. Radar! Graham here, replied Celia from her station. Get a radar fix on the Lachesis and hold it. Send your dope up toEvans and tell him to send us a range estimate. Yes, Captain, the girl replied crisply. Gun deck! Gun deck here, sir, came a feminine voice. Have number two starboard torpedo tube loaded with a fish and a spoolof cable. Be ready to let fly on short notice ... any range. Yes, sir! The girl switched off. And now you, Miss Hendricks. Yes, Captain? Her voice was low. Take over Control ... and Ivy.... Yes? Don't kill us off. He smiled down at her. She nodded silently and took her place at the control panel. Smoothlyshe turned old Aphrodisiac's nose sunward.... <doc-sep>Lashed together with a length of unbreakable beryllium steel cable,the Lachesis and the Atropos fell helplessly toward the sun. Thefrantic flame that lashed out from the Lachesis' tube was fading, herfission chambers fusing under the terrific heat of splitting atoms.Still she tried. She could not desert her sister ship, nor could shesave her. Already the two ships had fallen to within 18,000,000 milesof the sun's terrifying atmosphere of glowing gases. The prominencesthat spouted spaceward seemed like great fiery tentacles reaching forthe trapped men on board the warships. The atmospheric guiding fins,the gun-turrets and other protuberances on both ships were beginningto melt under the fierce radiance. Only the huge refrigeration plantson the vessels made life within them possible. And, even so, men weredying. Swiftly, the fat, ungainly shape of old Aphrodisiac drew near. In herflying-bridge, Strike and Ivy Hendricks watched the stricken ships inthe darkened viewport. The temperature stood at 140° and the air was bitter with the smellof hot metal. Ivy's blouse clung to her body, soaked through withperspiration. Sweat ran from her hair into her eyes and she gaspedfor breath in the oven hot compartment. Strike watched her withapprehension. Carefully, Ivy circled the two warships. From the starboard tube onthe gun-deck, a homing rocket leapt toward the Atropos . It plungedstraight and true, spilling cable as it flew. It slammed up againstthe hull, and stuck there, fast to the battleship's flank. Quickly,a robocrane drew it within the ship and the cable was made secure.Like cosmic replicas of the ancient South American bolas, the threespacecraft whirled in space ... and all three began that sunward plungetogether. They were diving into the sun. The heat in the Aphrodite's bridge was unbearable. The thermometershowed 145° and it seemed to Strike that Hell must be cool bycomparison. Ivy fought her reeling senses and the bucking ship as the slack cameout of the cable. Blackness was flickering at the edges of her fieldof vision. She could scarcely lift her hand to the red-sealed circuitrheostat. Shudderingly, she made the effort ... and failed. Conscious,but too spent to move, she collapsed over the blistering hot instrumentpanel. Ivy! Strike was beside her, cradling her head in his arm. I ... I ... can't make it ... Strike. You'll ... have to run ... theshow ... after ... all. Strike laid her gently in an acceleration chair and turned toward thecontrol panel. His head was throbbing painfully as he broke the seal onthe surge-circuit. Slowly he turned the rheostat. Relays chattered. From deep withinold Lover-Girl's vitals came a low whine. He fed more power into thecircuit. Cadmium rods slipped into lead sheaths decks below in thetube-rooms. The whining rose in pitch. The spinning of the ships inspace slowed. Stopped. With painful deliberation, they swung into line. More power. The whine changed to a shriek. A banshee wail. Cob's voice came through the squawk-box, soberly. Strike, Celia'sfainted down here. We can't take much more of this heat. We're trying, Cob! shouted Strike over the whine of the circuit. Thegauges showed the accumulators full. Now! He spun the rheostat tothe stops, and black space burst over his brain.... The last thing he remembered was a voice. It sounded like Bayne's. Andit was shouting. We're moving 'em! We're pulling away! We're.... Andthat was all. The space-tug Scylla found them. The three ships ... Atropos , Lachesis , and old Aphrodisiac ...lashed together and drifting in space. Every man and woman aboard outcold from the acceleration, and Aphrodite's tanks bone dry. But theywere a safe 80,000,000 miles from Sol.... <doc-sep>The orchestra was subdued, the officer's club softly lighted. Cobleaned his elbow on the bar and bent to inspect the blue ribbon of theSpatial Cross on Strike's chest. Then he inspected his own and noddedwith tipsy satisfaction. He stared out at the Martian night beyond thebroad windows and back again at Strike. His frown was puzzled. All right, said Strike, setting down his glass. What's on your mind,Cob? Something's eating you. Whitley nodded very slowly. He took a long pull at his highball. Iunderstand that you goofballed your chances of getting the Ganymede back when Gorman spoke his piece to you.... All I said to him.... I know. I know what you said ... and it won't bear repeating. Butyou're not fooling me. You've fallen for old Lover-Girl and you don'twant to leave her. Ver-ry commendable. Loyal! Stout fellah! But whatabout Ivy? Ivy? Cob looked away. I thought that you and she ... well, I thought thatwhen we got back ... well.... Strike shook his head. She's gone to the Bureau of Ships with adesigning job. Cob waved an expressive arm in the air. But dammit, man, I thought.... The answer is no . Ivy's a nice girl ... but.... He paused andsighed. Since she was promoted to her father's old rank ... well....He shrugged. Who wants a wife that ranks you? Never thought of that, mused Cob. For a long while he was silent;then he pulled out an address book and leafed through until he came tothe pages marked Canalopolis, Mars. And he was gratified to see that Lieutenant Commander David FarragutStrykalski III was doing the same. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Strike and what happens to him throughout the story?

Strike is a member of an esteemed service family on Venus; seven generations of well-behaved and well-trained operators. Unfortunately, Strike struggles to carry on the family tradition, and is known for misspeaking and offending those around him. By trusting his gut, he wound up failing his higher-ups and crew several times. All this culminated in an eventual mistrust of Strike, which led to him being charged with the Aphrodite. His deep hatred of Space Admiral Gordon is passionate, but not without reason. Gordon is the one who demoted him to the Aphrodite. At the start, Strike is checking out his new vessel and notes how ugly the ship is. After examining the ship and it’s crew, it is revealed that Strike is uncomfortable around women and believes they don’t belong on a spaceship. In order to start flying, he calls in an expert engineer to come aboard and travel with them. Thinking I.V. Hendricks is a man, he is excited to have them onboard. But when Ivy Hendricks shows up, a female engineer and the daughter of the Aphrodite’s creator, his world is soon turned upside down. His initial negative reaction to her is soon displaced by begrudging appreciation and eventually trust and friendship. Hendricks proves his previous theories about women wrong, and Strike is forced to accept that perhaps women do belong on a spaceship. She especially impresses him with her total knowledge of spaceship engineering and the Aphrodite in general. And it helped that she hated Admiral Gorman just as much as Strike, if not more. While flying by the sun to deliver mail, the Aphrodite receives a distress call from two ships: the Lachesis and the Atropos, the latter of which carried Admiral Gorman onboard. After the Aphrodite reached orbit, the Lachesis reached out and reported the Atropos was falling into the sun, due to a burst chamber. They couldn’t move those onboard over thanks to all the radiation, so the Lachesis was attempting to pull the Atropos back using an unbreakable cord. But it wasn’t enough. Since Ivy Hendricks had fixed the surge-circuit rheostat--the feature that crashed the original Aphrodite--, they were able to save the Lachesis and the Atropos and regain some of their dignity and former glory. Strike is awarded the Spatial Cross, as well as Cob, his friend and longtime executive of the Aphrodite. Strike was asked to return to the Ganymede, a beautiful sleek ship, but allegedly said the wrong thing to Gorman, and was instead sent back to the Aphrodite. Cob believes he did it on purpose, as Strike had grown quite fond of Lover-Girl. Ivy has gone to the Bureau of Ships to engineer vessels, a great upgrade from her previous job. Cob pressures Strike to reach out to her, but he refuses. However, it ends on a hopeful note, with the potential for romance between Strike and Hendricks, and even more adventures on the clunky Aphrodite.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Doorway to Kal-Jmar By Stuart Fleming Two men had died before Syme Rector's guns to give him the key to the ancient city of Kal-Jmar—a city of untold wealth, and of robots that made desires instant commands. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The tall man loitered a moment before a garish window display, his eyesimpassive in his space-burned face, as the Lillis patrolman passed.Then he turned, burying his long chin in the folds of his sand cape,and took up the pursuit of the dark figure ahead once more. Above, the city's multicolored lights were reflected from thetranslucent Dome—a distant, subtly distorted Lillis, through which thestars shone dimly. Getting through that dome had been his first urgent problem, but now hehad another, and a more pressing one. It had been simple enough to passhimself off as an itinerant prospector and gain entrance to the city,after his ship had crashed in the Mare Cimmerium. But the rest wouldnot be so simple. He had to acquire a spaceman's identity card, and hehad to do it fast. It was only a matter of time until the TriplanetPatrol gave up the misleading trail he had made into the hill country,and concluded that he must have reached Lillis. After that, his onlysafety lay in shipping out on a freighter as soon as possible. He hadto get off Mars, because his trail was warm, and the Patrol thorough. They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw—the very fact of thecrashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But theydidn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-fearedraider in the System. In that was his only advantage. He walked a little faster, as his quarry turned up a side street andthen boarded a moving ramp to an upper level. He watched until theshort, wide-shouldered figure in spaceman's harness disappeared overthe top of the ramp, and then followed. The man was waiting for him at the mouth of the ascending tunnel. Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, andstarted to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quiteyoung, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather,and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw. All right, the boy said quietly. What is it? I don't understand, Syme said. The game, the angle. You've been following me. Do you want trouble? Why, no, Syme told him bewilderedly. I haven't been following you.I— The boy knuckled his chin reflectively. You could be lying, he saidfinally. But maybe I've made a mistake. Then—Okay, citizen, you canclear—but don't let me catch you on my tail again. Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's eyeson the small of his back until he turned the corner. At the nextstreet he took a ramp up, crossed over and came down on the other sidea block away. He waited until he saw the boy's broad figure pass theintersection, and then followed again more cautiously. It was risky, but there was no other way. The signatures, the data,even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his handson it, but the identity card itself—that oblong of dark diamondite,glowing with the tiny fires of radioactivity—that could not beimitated, and the only way to get it was to kill. Up ahead was the Founders' Tower, the tallest building in Lillis. Theboy strode into the entrance lobby, bought a ticket for the observationplatform, and took the elevator. As soon as his car was out of sight inthe transparent tube, Syme followed. He put a half-credit slug into themachine, took the punctured slip of plastic that came out. The ticketwent into a scanning slot in the wall of the car, and the elevatorwhisked him up. <doc-sep>The tower was high, more than a hundred meters above the highest levelof the city, and the curved dome that kept air in Lillis was closeoverhead. Syme looked up, after his first appraising glance about theplatform, and saw the bright-blue pinpoint of Earth. The sight stirreda touch of nostalgia in him, as it always did, but he put it aside. The boy was hunched over the circular balustrade a little distanceaway. Except for him, the platform was empty. Syme loosened his slim,deadly energy pistol in its holster and padded catlike toward thesilent figure. It was over in a minute. The boy whirled as he came up, warned bysome slight sound, or by the breath of Syme's passage in the stillair. He opened his mouth to shout, and brought up his arm in a swift,instinctive gesture. But the blow never landed. Syme's pistol spat itssilent white pencil of flame, and the boy crumpled to the floor with aminute, charred hole in the white leather over his chest. Syme stooped over him swiftly, found a thick wallet and thrust it intohis pocket without a second glance. Then he raised the body in his armsand thrust it over the parapet. It fell, and in the same instant Syme felt a violent tug at his wrist.Before he could move to stop himself, he was over the edge. Too late,he realized what had happened—one of the hooks on the dead spaceman'sharness had caught the heavy wristband of his chronometer. He wasfalling, linked to the body of his victim! Hardly knowing what he did, he lashed out wildly with his other arm,felt his fingertips catch and bite into the edge of the balustrade. Hisbody hit the wall of the tower with a thump, and, a second later, thecorpse below him hit the wall. Then they both hung there, swaying alittle and Syme's fingers slipped a little with each motion. Gritting his teeth, he brought the magnificent muscles of his arm intoplay, raising the forearm against the dead weight of the dangling body.Fraction by slow fraction of an inch, it came up. Syme could feel thesweat pouring from his brow, running saltily into his eyes. His armsfelt as if they were being torn from their sockets. Then the hookslipped free, and the tearing, unbearable weight vanished. The reaction swung Syme against the building again, and he almostlost his slippery hold on the balustrade. After a moment he heard thespaceman's body strike with a squashy thud, somewhere below. He swung up his other arm, got a better grip on the balustrade. Hetried cautiously to get a leg up, but the motion loosened his hold onthe smooth surface again. He relaxed, thinking furiously. He could holdon for another minute at most; then it was the final blast-off. He heard running footsteps, and then a pale face peered over the ledgeat him. He realized suddenly that the whole incident could have takenonly a few seconds. He croaked, Get me up. Wordlessly, the man clasped thin fingers around his wrist. The otherpulled, with much puffing and panting, and with his help Syme managedto get a leg over the edge and hoist his trembling body to safety. Are you all right? <doc-sep>Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. Hisrescuer was tall and thin, of indeterminate age. He had light, sandyhair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes and ahumorous wide mouth. He was still panting. I'm not hurt, Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in hisdark, lean face. Thanks for giving me a hand. You scared hell out of me, said the man. I heard a thud. Ithought—you'd gone over. He looked at Syme questioningly. That was my bag, the outlaw said quickly. It slipped out of my hand,and I overbalanced myself when I grabbed for it. The man sighed. I need a drink. You need a drink. Come on. Hepicked up a small black suitcase from the floor and started for theelevator, then stopped. Oh—your bag. Shouldn't we do something aboutthat? Never mind, said Syme, taking his arm. The shock must have busted itwide open. My laundry is probably all over Lillis by now. They got off at the amusement level, three tiers down, and found acafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had justkilled. He had heard no second thud, so the body must have stayed onthe first outcropping of the tower it struck. It probably wouldn't befound until morning. And he had the wallet. When he paid for the first round of culcha , hetook it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. Thereit was—his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and evenfriendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It wasthe culcha , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morninghe'd find a freighter berth—in as big a spaceport as Lillis, therewere always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, andit was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone. He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall,graceful body back into the softly-cushioned seat. Lissen, said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped,caught himself, and looked at the elbow reproachfully. Lissen, hesaid again, I trust you, Jones. You're obvi-obviously an adventurer,but you have an honest face. I can't see it very well at the moment,but I hic!—pardon—seem to recall it as an honest face. I'm going totell you something, because I need your help!—help. He paused. Ineed a guide. D'you know this part of Mars well? Sure, said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AGplate had been turned on. Five Venusian girls were diving and twistingin its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of theirdelicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilkafter them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glowof culcha inside him. I wanta go to Kal-Jmar, said Tate. Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable sense,a hunch that had served him well before, told him that something bigwas coming—something that promised adventure and loot for Syme Rector.Why? he asked softly. Why to Kal-Jmar? Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms,he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had beenright; it was big. <doc-sep>Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remainingcity of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, hadrisen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectlypreserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how manythousands of years. But they couldn't be reached. For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protectedLillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysisas it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended bothabove and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knewwhat had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors ofthe present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knewanything about them or about Kal-Jmar. In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earthscientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed itfrom every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robotsthat still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then theyhad tried everything they knew to pierce the wall. Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated abloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapiddwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had steppedin and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, anyEarthman to go near the place. Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identicalin properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found aforce that would break it down. And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-fourhours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to SymeRector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand creditson his sleek, tigerish head. Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should notoccur to him that he had been indiscreet. This is native territory we're coming to, Harold, he said. Betterstrap on your gun. Why. Are they really dangerous? They're unpredictable, Syme told him. They're built differently, andthey think differently. They breathe like us, down in their cavernswhere there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen thatway. Yes, I've heard about that, Tate said. Iron oxide—very interestingmetabolism. He got his energy pistol out of the compartment andstrapped it on absently. Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuoushill country in the distance. Not only that, he continued. Theyeat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off thedeserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line toxopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they nevercome near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.When the first colonists came here, they had to learn their crazylanguage. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen differentthings, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same. So you think they might attack us? Tate asked again, nervously. They might do anything, Syme said curtly. Don't worry about it. The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of awilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring onsliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down againon the other side. <doc-sep>Syme stopped the car abruptly as a deep, winding channel appearedacross their path. Gully, he announced. Shall we cross it, or followit? Tate peered through the steelite nose of the car. Follow, I guess,he offered. It seems to go more or less where we're going, and if wecross it we'll only come to a couple dozen more. Syme nodded and moved the sand car up to the edge of the gully. Then hepressed a stud on the control board; a metal arm extruded from the tailof the car and a heavy spike slowly unscrewed from it, driving deepinto the sand. A light on the board flashed, indicating that the spikewas in and would bear the car's weight, and Syme started the car overthe edge. As the little car nosed down into the gully, the metal arm left behindrevealed itself to be attached to a length of thick, very strong wirecable, with a control cord inside. They inched down the almost verticalincline, unreeling the cable behind them, and starting minor landslidesas they descended. Finally they touched bottom. Syme pressed another stud, and above, themetal spike that had supported them screwed itself out of the groundagain and the cable reeled in. Tate had been watching with interest. Very ingenious, he said. Buthow do we get up again? Most of these gullies peter out gradually, said Syme, but if we wantor have to climb out where it's deep, we have a little harpoon gun thatshoots the anchor up on top. Good. I shouldn't like to stay down here for the rest of mynatural life. Depressing view. He looked up at the narrow strip ofalmost-black sky visible from the floor of the gully, and shook hishead. Neither Syme nor Tate ever had a chance to test the efficiency of theirharpoon gun. They had traveled no more than five hundred meters, andthe gully was as deep as ever, when Tate, looking up, saw a deeperblackness blot out part of the black sky directly overhead. He shouted,Look out! and grabbed for the nearest steering lever. The car wheeled around in a half circle and ran into the wall of thegully. Syme was saying, What—? when there was a thunderous crashthat shook the sturdy walls of the car, as a huge boulder smashed intothe ground immediately to their left. When the smoky red dust had cleared away, they saw that the left treadof the sand car was crushed beyond all recognition. Syme was cursing slowly and steadily with a deep, seething anger. Tatesaid, I guess we walk from here on. Then he looked up again andcaught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up the gullytoward them. My God! he said. What are those? Syme looked. Those, he said bitterly, are Martians. The natives, like all Martian fauna, were multi-legged. Also like allMartian fauna, they moved so fast that you couldn't see how many legsthey did have. Actually, however, the natives had six legs apiece—or,more properly, four legs and two arms. Their lungs were not as largeas they appeared, being collapsed at the moment. What caused the bulgethat made their torsos look like sausages was a huge air bladder, witha valve arrangement from the stomach and feeding directly into thebloodstream. Their faces were vaguely canine, but the foreheads were high, and thelips were not split. They did resemble dogs, in that their thick blackfur was splotched with irregulate patches of white. These patches ofwhite were subject to muscular control and could be spread out fanwise;or, conversely, the black could be expanded to cover the white, whichhelped to take care of the extremes of Martian temperature. Right nowthey were mostly black. The natives slowed down and spread out to surround the wrecked sandcar, and it could be seen that most of them were armed with spears,although some had the slim Benson energy guns—strictly forbidden toMartians. Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but heswallowed audibly. One Martian, who looked exactly like all the rest, stepped forward andmotioned unmistakably for the two to come out. He waited a moment andthen gestured with his energy gun. That gun, Syme knew from experience,could burn through a small thickness of steelite if held on the samespot long enough. <doc-sep>Come on, Syme said grimly. He rose and reached for a pressure suit,and Tate followed him. What do you think they'll— he began, and then stopped himself. Iknow. They're unpredictable. Yeah, said Syme, and opened the door. The air in the car whooshed into the near-vacuum outside, and he and Tate stepped out. The Martian leader looked at them enigmatically, then turned andstarted off. The other natives closed in on them, and they all boundedalong under the weak gravity. They bounded along for what Syme figured as a good kilometer and ahalf, and they then reached a branch in the gully and turned downit, going lower all the time. Under the light of their helmet lamps,they could see the walls of the gully—a tunnel, now—getting darkerand more solid. Finally, when Syme estimated they were about ninekilometers down, there was even a suggestion of moisture. The tunnel debouched at last into a large cavern. There was aphosphorescent gleam from fungus along the walls, but Syme couldn'tdecide how far away the far wall was. He noticed something else, though. There's air here, he said to Tate. I can see dust motes in it. Heswitched his helmet microphone from radio over to the audio membraneon the outside of the helmet. Kalis methra , he began haltingly, seltin guna getal. Yes, there is air here, said the Martian leader, startlingly. Notenough for your use, however, so do not open your helmets. Syme swore amazedly. I thought you said they didn't speak Terrestrial, Tate said. Symeignored him. We had our reasons for not doing so, the Martian said. But how—? We are telepaths, of course. On a planet which is nearly airless onits surface, we have to be. A tendency of the Terrestrial mind is toignore the obvious. We have not had a spoken language of our own forseveral thousand years. He darted a glance at Syme's darkly scowling face. His own hairy facewas expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused. Yes, you'reright, he said. The language you and your fellows struggled to learnis a fraud, a hodge-podge concocted to deceive you. Tate looked interested. But why this—this gigantic masquerade? You had nothing to give us, the Martian said simply. Tate frowned, then flushed. You mean you avoided revealing yourselvesbecause you—had nothing to gain from mental intercourse with us? Yes. Tate thought again. But— No, the Martian interrupted him, revealing the extent of ourcivilization would have spared us nothing at your people's hands. Yoursis an imperialist culture, and you would have had Mars, whether youthought you were taking it from equals or not. Never mind that, Syme broke in impatiently. What do you want withus? The Martian looked at him appraisingly. You already suspect.Unfortunately, you must die. <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort. Will you tell us why? Tate asked. You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow. Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus. Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan. There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere. I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course. He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone. Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors. Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we. And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture. We hope to win yet, the Martian said. Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity? The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry. Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian. <doc-sep>It was like tangling with a draft horse. The Martian was astonishinglystrong. Syme scrambled desperately for the gun, got it, but couldn'ttear it out of the Martian's fingers. And all the time he could almostfeel the Martian's telepathic call for help surging out. He heard theswift pad of his followers coming across the cavern. He put everything he had into one mighty, murderous effort. Everymuscle fiber in his superbly trained body crackled and surged withpower. He roared his fury. And the gun twisted out of the Martian'siron grip! He clubbed the prostrate leader with it instantly, then reversed theweapon and snapped a shot at the nearest Martian. The creature droppedhis lance and fell without a sound. The next instant a ray blinked at him, and he rolled out of the waybarely in time. The searing ray cut a swath over the leader's body andswerved to cut down on him. Still rolling, he fired at the holder ofthe weapon. The gun dropped and winked out on the floor. Syme jumped to his feet and faced his enemies, snarling like thetrapped tiger he was. Another ray slashed at him, and he bent lithelyto let it whistle over his head. Another, lower this time. He flippedhis body into the air and landed upright, his gun still blazing. Hisright leg burned fiercely from a ray-graze, but he ignored it. Andall the while he was mowing down the massed natives in great swaths,seeking out the ones armed with Bensons in swift, terrible slashes,dodging spears and other missiles in midair, and roaring at the top ofhis powerful lungs. At last there were none with guns left to oppose him. He scythed downthe rest in two terrible, lightning sweeps of his ray, then droppedthe weapon from blistered fingers. He was gasping for breath, and realized that he was losing air fromthe seared-open right leg of his suit. He reached for the emergencykit at his side, drawing in great, gasping breaths, and fumbled outa tube of sealing liquid. He spread the stuff on liberally, smearingit impartially over flesh and fabric. It felt like liquid hell on theburned, bleeding leg, but he kept on until the quick-drying fluidformed an airtight patch. Only then did he turn, to see Tate flattened against the wall behindhim, his hands empty at his sides. I'm sorry, Tate said miserably. Icould have grabbed a spear or something, but—I just couldn't, not evento save my own life. I—I halfway hoped they'd kill both of us. Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. Heturned and strode out of the cavern, carrying his right leg stiffly,but with his feral, tigerish head held high. He led the way, wordlessly, back to the wrecked sand car. Tate followedhim with a hangdog, beaten air, as though he had just found somethingthat shattered all his previous concepts of the verities in life, anddidn't know what to do about it. Still silently, Syme refilled his oxygen tank, watched Tate do thesame, and then picked up two spare tanks and the precious blacksuitcase and handed one of the tanks to Tate. Then he stumped aroundto the back of the car and inspected the damage. The cable reel, whichmight have drawn them out of the gully, was hopelessly smashed. Thatwas that. <doc-sep>They started off down the canyon, Syme urging the slighter man toa fast clip, even though his leg was already stiffening. When theyfinally reached a climbable spot, Syme was limping badly and Tate wasobviously exhausted. They clambered wearily out onto the level sands again just as thesmall, blazing sun was setting. Luck, grunted Syme. Our only chanceof getting near the city is at night. He peered around, shading hiseyes from the sun's glare with a gauntleted hand. See that? Following his pointing finger, Tate saw a faint, ephemeral arc showingabove a line of low hills in the distance. Kal-Jmar, said Syme. Tate brightened a little. His body was too filled with fatigue for hismind to do any work on the problem that was baffling him, and so itreceded into the back of his mind. Kal-Jmar, whispered Syme again. There was no twilight. The sun dropped abruptly behind the low horizon,and darkness fell, sudden and absolute. Syme picked up the extra oxygentank and the suitcase, checked his direction by a wrist compass, andstarted toward the hills. Tate rose wearily to his feet and followedagain. Two hours later, Kal-Jmar stood before them. They had wormed theirway past the sentry posts, doing most of the last two hundred meterson all fours. With skill and luck, and with Syme's fierce, burningdetermination, they had managed to escape detection—and there theywere. Journey's end. Tate stared up at the shining, starlight towers in speechlessadmiration. If the people who had built this city had been decadent,still their architecture was magnificent. The city was a rhapsody madesolid. There was a sense of decay about it, he thought, but it was thedecay of supreme beauty, caught at the very verge of dissolution andpreserved for all eternity. Well? demanded Syme. Tate started, shaken out of his dream. He looked down at the blacksuitcase, a little wonderingly, and then pulled it to him and opened it. Inside, carefully wrapped in shock-absorbing tissue, was a fragilecontrivance of many tubes and wires, and a tiny parabolic mirror. Ithad a brand new Elecorp 210 volt battery, and it needed every volt ofthat tremendous power. Tate made the connections, his hands tremblingslightly, and set it up on a telescoping tripod. Syme watched himclosely, his big body tensed with expectation. The field was before them, shimmering faintly in the starlight. Itlooked unsubstantial as the stuff of dreams, but both men knew that nopower man possessed, unless it was the thing Tate held, could penetratethat screen. Tate set the mechanism up close to the field, aimed it very delicately,and closed a minute switch. After a long second, he opened it again. Nothing happened. The screen was still there, as unsubstantial and as solid as ever.There was no change. <doc-sep>Tate looked worriedly at his wiring, a deep wrinkle appearing betweenhis pale, serious eyes. Syme stood stock-still but quivering withrepressed energy, scowling like a thundercloud. It must be capable of working, Tate told himself querulously. TheMartians knew—they wouldn't have tried to stop us if—Wait a minute.He paced back and forth, biting his lip. Syme watched him with catlikeeyes, clenching and unclenching his great fists. Tate paused. I think I have it, he said slowly. I haven't enoughpower to hetrodyne the whole screen, although that's theoreticallypossible. But there must be weaker portions of the field—doors—setto open on the impact of a beam like this one. But I've only got powerenough for two more tries. Jones, where would you put an entrance, ifyou'd built Kal-Jmar? Syme's eyes widened, and he stared around slowly. A thousand yearsago? he muttered. Two thousand? These hills were raised in fivehundred. We can't go by topography. In front of one of the main arteries, then. But there are dozens, noone larger than the other. Did they have dozens of doors? Maybe, said Tate. He pointed to the right, where the fairy towers ofKal-Jmar swept aside to leave a broad avenue. It's the nearest—asgood as any other. They walked over to it in silence, and in silence Tate set up hisequipment once more. He shifted it from side to side, squinting, untilhe had it lined up exactly on the center of the avenue. Then he took along breath, and closed the switch again. The switch came up. Syme stared with fierce eagerness, eyes ablaze. Fora moment there was nothing, and then— Tate clutched the big man's arm. Look! he breathed. Where the ray from Tate's machine had impinged, a faintly-glowingspot of violet radiance! As they watched it widened, dilating into aperfect circle of violet, enclosing nothingness. The door was opening. It worked, Tate said softly. It worked! Syme shook off his grip impatiently, put his hand to the gun in theholster of his suit. Tate was still watching, fascinated. Look, hesaid again. The color is changing slightly, falling down the spectrum.I think that's a warning signal. When it reaches red, the door willclose. He moved toward the widening door, like a sleepwalker. Wait, Syme said hoarsely. You forgot the machine. Tate turned, said, Oh yes, and walked back. Then he saw the gun inSyme's hand. His jaw dropped slightly, but he didn't say anything. Hejust stood there, looking dumbly from the gun to Syme's dark face. Syme shot him carefully in the chest. He dropped like a rag doll, but Syme's aim had been bad. He wasn't deadyet. He rolled his eyes up, like a child. His lips moved. In spite ofhimself, Syme bent forward to listen. You'll be — sorry , Tate said, and died. Air was sighing out through the widening hole in the screen. Symestraightened and smiled tolerantly. For a moment, he had beenunreasonably afraid of what Tate was about to say. Some detail he hadforgotten, perhaps, something that would trap him now that Tate, theman who knew the answers, was dead. But—he'd be sorry! For what? Another dead fool? He gathered up the delicate mechanism in one arm, and, filling his deeplungs, stepped forward through the opening. <doc-sep>The towers of dead Kal-Jmar loomed over him in the dusk as he strodelike a conqueror down the long-deserted avenue. The city was full ofthe whisperings of Kal-Jmar's ancient wraiths, but they touched onlya corner of his mind. He was filled to overflowing with the bright,glowing joy of conquest. The city was his! His boots trod an avenue where no foot had fallen these untold eons,yet there was no dust. The city was bright and furbished waiting forhim. He was intoxicated. The city was his! There was a gentle ramp leading upward, and Syme followed it, breathingin the manufactured air of his pressure suit like wine. All around him,the city blazed with treasures beyond price. It was his! The ramp led to a portal set in the side of a shining needle of abuilding. Syme strode up to the threshold, and the door dilated forhim. He stepped inside; the door closed and a soft light glowed on. There was air here: good, breathable air. A tiny zephyr of it wasblowing from some hidden source against his body. Greatly daring, heunfastened the helmet of his suit and flung it back. He breathed in alungful of it. God, but it was good after that canned stuff! It was alittle heady; it made his head swim—but it was good air, excellent air! He looked around him, measuring, assessing for the first time. Thisroom alone was worth a fortune. There was platinum; in ornaments, setinto the walls, in furniture. That would be enough to buy the littlethings—a new ship, or perhaps even immunity back on Earth. But thatwas as nothing to the rest of it, the things three worlds would clamorfor—the artifacts, the record books, the machines! He strode about the room, building plan on grandiose plan. He couldtake back only a little with him at first; but he could return againand again, with Tate's mechanism and new batteries. But he'd explorethe city thoroughly before he left. Somewhere there must be weapons. Aninvincible weapon, perhaps, that a man could carry in his hand. Perhapseven a perfect body screen. With that he wouldn't have to steal awayfrom Mars on a freighter, hiding his loot and his greatness in a dingyengine room. He could walk into a Triplanet ship and order its captainto take him wherever he chose to go! <doc-sep>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth. They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought. And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled. But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the xopa fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse. And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof xopa -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings.... Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Syme Rector is the most-wanted raider in the Triplanet Patrol system and wants access to the ancient Martian city of Kal-Jmar so that he can steal the priceless objects located there. The city has been abandoned for thousands of years, but no human has been able to enter it. Rector crashed his ship in the Mare Cimmerium and left a false trail for authorities to divert them from following him to Lillis, where he plans to obtain a spaceman’s identity card. This card will enable him to ship out on a freighter flight after he has obtained his stolen goods. Rector follows a young patrolman until he catches him unaware on the observation deck of the Founders’ Tower. Rector shoots him in the chest, steals his wallet, and throws his body over the parapet. However, a hook on the patrolman’s uniform catches Rector, pulling Rector over the parapet. He manages to unhook himself, and just as he estimates he can hold on one minute longer, a man comes and pulls him up. The man is Harold Tate, and he invites Rector to have a drink with him. As they get drunk, Tate confides to Rector that he needs a guide to take him to Kal-Jmar; he has discovered a way to enter the dome surrounding the city. The two men set out on their journey and follow a gully they reach. While they are in the lower part, Tate sees something overhead, and a boulder crashes down just to the left of their sand car. A horde of Martians surrounds them and forces the two men to go with them. The leader reveals that the Martians are telepathic and have no need for a spoken language. The Martians want nothing to do with the humans because there is nothing to gain from the humans. The leader tells the men the history of the two species of Martians but says they will kill the men.When the leader pulls his gun on Tate, Rector launches himself against the leader and wrestles away his gun. He shoots the leader and the other Martians as he dodges their shots. The two men then begin walking toward Kal-Jmar and reach the city. Tate uses his device to create a hole in the dome but realizes it isn’t strong enough. Then he thinks of using it where a door would have been, and it works. Rector shoots Tate, and just before he dies, Tate warns him, “You’ll be--sorry.” Rector takes the device and enters the city, noting all the treasures he can steal. He realizes he is hungry and takes two food tablets, but they don’t satisfy him. Then a lifelike robot that is a feeding machine enters and approaches Rector. Rector is startled and opens his mouth, and the robot shoots a feeding tube into Rector’s throat and pours xopa juice into him. The juice is poisonous to humans, and Rector dies immediately. The doorway to Kal-Jmar closes.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> Doorway to Kal-Jmar By Stuart Fleming Two men had died before Syme Rector's guns to give him the key to the ancient city of Kal-Jmar—a city of untold wealth, and of robots that made desires instant commands. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The tall man loitered a moment before a garish window display, his eyesimpassive in his space-burned face, as the Lillis patrolman passed.Then he turned, burying his long chin in the folds of his sand cape,and took up the pursuit of the dark figure ahead once more. Above, the city's multicolored lights were reflected from thetranslucent Dome—a distant, subtly distorted Lillis, through which thestars shone dimly. Getting through that dome had been his first urgent problem, but now hehad another, and a more pressing one. It had been simple enough to passhimself off as an itinerant prospector and gain entrance to the city,after his ship had crashed in the Mare Cimmerium. But the rest wouldnot be so simple. He had to acquire a spaceman's identity card, and hehad to do it fast. It was only a matter of time until the TriplanetPatrol gave up the misleading trail he had made into the hill country,and concluded that he must have reached Lillis. After that, his onlysafety lay in shipping out on a freighter as soon as possible. He hadto get off Mars, because his trail was warm, and the Patrol thorough. They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw—the very fact of thecrashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But theydidn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-fearedraider in the System. In that was his only advantage. He walked a little faster, as his quarry turned up a side street andthen boarded a moving ramp to an upper level. He watched until theshort, wide-shouldered figure in spaceman's harness disappeared overthe top of the ramp, and then followed. The man was waiting for him at the mouth of the ascending tunnel. Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, andstarted to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quiteyoung, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather,and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw. All right, the boy said quietly. What is it? I don't understand, Syme said. The game, the angle. You've been following me. Do you want trouble? Why, no, Syme told him bewilderedly. I haven't been following you.I— The boy knuckled his chin reflectively. You could be lying, he saidfinally. But maybe I've made a mistake. Then—Okay, citizen, you canclear—but don't let me catch you on my tail again. Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's eyeson the small of his back until he turned the corner. At the nextstreet he took a ramp up, crossed over and came down on the other sidea block away. He waited until he saw the boy's broad figure pass theintersection, and then followed again more cautiously. It was risky, but there was no other way. The signatures, the data,even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his handson it, but the identity card itself—that oblong of dark diamondite,glowing with the tiny fires of radioactivity—that could not beimitated, and the only way to get it was to kill. Up ahead was the Founders' Tower, the tallest building in Lillis. Theboy strode into the entrance lobby, bought a ticket for the observationplatform, and took the elevator. As soon as his car was out of sight inthe transparent tube, Syme followed. He put a half-credit slug into themachine, took the punctured slip of plastic that came out. The ticketwent into a scanning slot in the wall of the car, and the elevatorwhisked him up. <doc-sep>The tower was high, more than a hundred meters above the highest levelof the city, and the curved dome that kept air in Lillis was closeoverhead. Syme looked up, after his first appraising glance about theplatform, and saw the bright-blue pinpoint of Earth. The sight stirreda touch of nostalgia in him, as it always did, but he put it aside. The boy was hunched over the circular balustrade a little distanceaway. Except for him, the platform was empty. Syme loosened his slim,deadly energy pistol in its holster and padded catlike toward thesilent figure. It was over in a minute. The boy whirled as he came up, warned bysome slight sound, or by the breath of Syme's passage in the stillair. He opened his mouth to shout, and brought up his arm in a swift,instinctive gesture. But the blow never landed. Syme's pistol spat itssilent white pencil of flame, and the boy crumpled to the floor with aminute, charred hole in the white leather over his chest. Syme stooped over him swiftly, found a thick wallet and thrust it intohis pocket without a second glance. Then he raised the body in his armsand thrust it over the parapet. It fell, and in the same instant Syme felt a violent tug at his wrist.Before he could move to stop himself, he was over the edge. Too late,he realized what had happened—one of the hooks on the dead spaceman'sharness had caught the heavy wristband of his chronometer. He wasfalling, linked to the body of his victim! Hardly knowing what he did, he lashed out wildly with his other arm,felt his fingertips catch and bite into the edge of the balustrade. Hisbody hit the wall of the tower with a thump, and, a second later, thecorpse below him hit the wall. Then they both hung there, swaying alittle and Syme's fingers slipped a little with each motion. Gritting his teeth, he brought the magnificent muscles of his arm intoplay, raising the forearm against the dead weight of the dangling body.Fraction by slow fraction of an inch, it came up. Syme could feel thesweat pouring from his brow, running saltily into his eyes. His armsfelt as if they were being torn from their sockets. Then the hookslipped free, and the tearing, unbearable weight vanished. The reaction swung Syme against the building again, and he almostlost his slippery hold on the balustrade. After a moment he heard thespaceman's body strike with a squashy thud, somewhere below. He swung up his other arm, got a better grip on the balustrade. Hetried cautiously to get a leg up, but the motion loosened his hold onthe smooth surface again. He relaxed, thinking furiously. He could holdon for another minute at most; then it was the final blast-off. He heard running footsteps, and then a pale face peered over the ledgeat him. He realized suddenly that the whole incident could have takenonly a few seconds. He croaked, Get me up. Wordlessly, the man clasped thin fingers around his wrist. The otherpulled, with much puffing and panting, and with his help Syme managedto get a leg over the edge and hoist his trembling body to safety. Are you all right? <doc-sep>Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. Hisrescuer was tall and thin, of indeterminate age. He had light, sandyhair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes and ahumorous wide mouth. He was still panting. I'm not hurt, Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in hisdark, lean face. Thanks for giving me a hand. You scared hell out of me, said the man. I heard a thud. Ithought—you'd gone over. He looked at Syme questioningly. That was my bag, the outlaw said quickly. It slipped out of my hand,and I overbalanced myself when I grabbed for it. The man sighed. I need a drink. You need a drink. Come on. Hepicked up a small black suitcase from the floor and started for theelevator, then stopped. Oh—your bag. Shouldn't we do something aboutthat? Never mind, said Syme, taking his arm. The shock must have busted itwide open. My laundry is probably all over Lillis by now. They got off at the amusement level, three tiers down, and found acafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had justkilled. He had heard no second thud, so the body must have stayed onthe first outcropping of the tower it struck. It probably wouldn't befound until morning. And he had the wallet. When he paid for the first round of culcha , hetook it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. Thereit was—his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and evenfriendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It wasthe culcha , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morninghe'd find a freighter berth—in as big a spaceport as Lillis, therewere always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, andit was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone. He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall,graceful body back into the softly-cushioned seat. Lissen, said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped,caught himself, and looked at the elbow reproachfully. Lissen, hesaid again, I trust you, Jones. You're obvi-obviously an adventurer,but you have an honest face. I can't see it very well at the moment,but I hic!—pardon—seem to recall it as an honest face. I'm going totell you something, because I need your help!—help. He paused. Ineed a guide. D'you know this part of Mars well? Sure, said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AGplate had been turned on. Five Venusian girls were diving and twistingin its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of theirdelicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilkafter them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glowof culcha inside him. I wanta go to Kal-Jmar, said Tate. Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable sense,a hunch that had served him well before, told him that something bigwas coming—something that promised adventure and loot for Syme Rector.Why? he asked softly. Why to Kal-Jmar? Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms,he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had beenright; it was big. <doc-sep>Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remainingcity of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, hadrisen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectlypreserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how manythousands of years. But they couldn't be reached. For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protectedLillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysisas it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended bothabove and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knewwhat had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors ofthe present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knewanything about them or about Kal-Jmar. In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earthscientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed itfrom every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robotsthat still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then theyhad tried everything they knew to pierce the wall. Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated abloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapiddwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had steppedin and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, anyEarthman to go near the place. Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identicalin properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found aforce that would break it down. And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-fourhours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to SymeRector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand creditson his sleek, tigerish head. Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should notoccur to him that he had been indiscreet. This is native territory we're coming to, Harold, he said. Betterstrap on your gun. Why. Are they really dangerous? They're unpredictable, Syme told him. They're built differently, andthey think differently. They breathe like us, down in their cavernswhere there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen thatway. Yes, I've heard about that, Tate said. Iron oxide—very interestingmetabolism. He got his energy pistol out of the compartment andstrapped it on absently. Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuoushill country in the distance. Not only that, he continued. Theyeat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off thedeserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line toxopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they nevercome near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.When the first colonists came here, they had to learn their crazylanguage. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen differentthings, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same. So you think they might attack us? Tate asked again, nervously. They might do anything, Syme said curtly. Don't worry about it. The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of awilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring onsliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down againon the other side. <doc-sep>Syme stopped the car abruptly as a deep, winding channel appearedacross their path. Gully, he announced. Shall we cross it, or followit? Tate peered through the steelite nose of the car. Follow, I guess,he offered. It seems to go more or less where we're going, and if wecross it we'll only come to a couple dozen more. Syme nodded and moved the sand car up to the edge of the gully. Then hepressed a stud on the control board; a metal arm extruded from the tailof the car and a heavy spike slowly unscrewed from it, driving deepinto the sand. A light on the board flashed, indicating that the spikewas in and would bear the car's weight, and Syme started the car overthe edge. As the little car nosed down into the gully, the metal arm left behindrevealed itself to be attached to a length of thick, very strong wirecable, with a control cord inside. They inched down the almost verticalincline, unreeling the cable behind them, and starting minor landslidesas they descended. Finally they touched bottom. Syme pressed another stud, and above, themetal spike that had supported them screwed itself out of the groundagain and the cable reeled in. Tate had been watching with interest. Very ingenious, he said. Buthow do we get up again? Most of these gullies peter out gradually, said Syme, but if we wantor have to climb out where it's deep, we have a little harpoon gun thatshoots the anchor up on top. Good. I shouldn't like to stay down here for the rest of mynatural life. Depressing view. He looked up at the narrow strip ofalmost-black sky visible from the floor of the gully, and shook hishead. Neither Syme nor Tate ever had a chance to test the efficiency of theirharpoon gun. They had traveled no more than five hundred meters, andthe gully was as deep as ever, when Tate, looking up, saw a deeperblackness blot out part of the black sky directly overhead. He shouted,Look out! and grabbed for the nearest steering lever. The car wheeled around in a half circle and ran into the wall of thegully. Syme was saying, What—? when there was a thunderous crashthat shook the sturdy walls of the car, as a huge boulder smashed intothe ground immediately to their left. When the smoky red dust had cleared away, they saw that the left treadof the sand car was crushed beyond all recognition. Syme was cursing slowly and steadily with a deep, seething anger. Tatesaid, I guess we walk from here on. Then he looked up again andcaught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up the gullytoward them. My God! he said. What are those? Syme looked. Those, he said bitterly, are Martians. The natives, like all Martian fauna, were multi-legged. Also like allMartian fauna, they moved so fast that you couldn't see how many legsthey did have. Actually, however, the natives had six legs apiece—or,more properly, four legs and two arms. Their lungs were not as largeas they appeared, being collapsed at the moment. What caused the bulgethat made their torsos look like sausages was a huge air bladder, witha valve arrangement from the stomach and feeding directly into thebloodstream. Their faces were vaguely canine, but the foreheads were high, and thelips were not split. They did resemble dogs, in that their thick blackfur was splotched with irregulate patches of white. These patches ofwhite were subject to muscular control and could be spread out fanwise;or, conversely, the black could be expanded to cover the white, whichhelped to take care of the extremes of Martian temperature. Right nowthey were mostly black. The natives slowed down and spread out to surround the wrecked sandcar, and it could be seen that most of them were armed with spears,although some had the slim Benson energy guns—strictly forbidden toMartians. Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but heswallowed audibly. One Martian, who looked exactly like all the rest, stepped forward andmotioned unmistakably for the two to come out. He waited a moment andthen gestured with his energy gun. That gun, Syme knew from experience,could burn through a small thickness of steelite if held on the samespot long enough. <doc-sep>Come on, Syme said grimly. He rose and reached for a pressure suit,and Tate followed him. What do you think they'll— he began, and then stopped himself. Iknow. They're unpredictable. Yeah, said Syme, and opened the door. The air in the car whooshed into the near-vacuum outside, and he and Tate stepped out. The Martian leader looked at them enigmatically, then turned andstarted off. The other natives closed in on them, and they all boundedalong under the weak gravity. They bounded along for what Syme figured as a good kilometer and ahalf, and they then reached a branch in the gully and turned downit, going lower all the time. Under the light of their helmet lamps,they could see the walls of the gully—a tunnel, now—getting darkerand more solid. Finally, when Syme estimated they were about ninekilometers down, there was even a suggestion of moisture. The tunnel debouched at last into a large cavern. There was aphosphorescent gleam from fungus along the walls, but Syme couldn'tdecide how far away the far wall was. He noticed something else, though. There's air here, he said to Tate. I can see dust motes in it. Heswitched his helmet microphone from radio over to the audio membraneon the outside of the helmet. Kalis methra , he began haltingly, seltin guna getal. Yes, there is air here, said the Martian leader, startlingly. Notenough for your use, however, so do not open your helmets. Syme swore amazedly. I thought you said they didn't speak Terrestrial, Tate said. Symeignored him. We had our reasons for not doing so, the Martian said. But how—? We are telepaths, of course. On a planet which is nearly airless onits surface, we have to be. A tendency of the Terrestrial mind is toignore the obvious. We have not had a spoken language of our own forseveral thousand years. He darted a glance at Syme's darkly scowling face. His own hairy facewas expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused. Yes, you'reright, he said. The language you and your fellows struggled to learnis a fraud, a hodge-podge concocted to deceive you. Tate looked interested. But why this—this gigantic masquerade? You had nothing to give us, the Martian said simply. Tate frowned, then flushed. You mean you avoided revealing yourselvesbecause you—had nothing to gain from mental intercourse with us? Yes. Tate thought again. But— No, the Martian interrupted him, revealing the extent of ourcivilization would have spared us nothing at your people's hands. Yoursis an imperialist culture, and you would have had Mars, whether youthought you were taking it from equals or not. Never mind that, Syme broke in impatiently. What do you want withus? The Martian looked at him appraisingly. You already suspect.Unfortunately, you must die. <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort. Will you tell us why? Tate asked. You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow. Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus. Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan. There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere. I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course. He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone. Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors. Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we. And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture. We hope to win yet, the Martian said. Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity? The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry. Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian. <doc-sep>It was like tangling with a draft horse. The Martian was astonishinglystrong. Syme scrambled desperately for the gun, got it, but couldn'ttear it out of the Martian's fingers. And all the time he could almostfeel the Martian's telepathic call for help surging out. He heard theswift pad of his followers coming across the cavern. He put everything he had into one mighty, murderous effort. Everymuscle fiber in his superbly trained body crackled and surged withpower. He roared his fury. And the gun twisted out of the Martian'siron grip! He clubbed the prostrate leader with it instantly, then reversed theweapon and snapped a shot at the nearest Martian. The creature droppedhis lance and fell without a sound. The next instant a ray blinked at him, and he rolled out of the waybarely in time. The searing ray cut a swath over the leader's body andswerved to cut down on him. Still rolling, he fired at the holder ofthe weapon. The gun dropped and winked out on the floor. Syme jumped to his feet and faced his enemies, snarling like thetrapped tiger he was. Another ray slashed at him, and he bent lithelyto let it whistle over his head. Another, lower this time. He flippedhis body into the air and landed upright, his gun still blazing. Hisright leg burned fiercely from a ray-graze, but he ignored it. Andall the while he was mowing down the massed natives in great swaths,seeking out the ones armed with Bensons in swift, terrible slashes,dodging spears and other missiles in midair, and roaring at the top ofhis powerful lungs. At last there were none with guns left to oppose him. He scythed downthe rest in two terrible, lightning sweeps of his ray, then droppedthe weapon from blistered fingers. He was gasping for breath, and realized that he was losing air fromthe seared-open right leg of his suit. He reached for the emergencykit at his side, drawing in great, gasping breaths, and fumbled outa tube of sealing liquid. He spread the stuff on liberally, smearingit impartially over flesh and fabric. It felt like liquid hell on theburned, bleeding leg, but he kept on until the quick-drying fluidformed an airtight patch. Only then did he turn, to see Tate flattened against the wall behindhim, his hands empty at his sides. I'm sorry, Tate said miserably. Icould have grabbed a spear or something, but—I just couldn't, not evento save my own life. I—I halfway hoped they'd kill both of us. Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. Heturned and strode out of the cavern, carrying his right leg stiffly,but with his feral, tigerish head held high. He led the way, wordlessly, back to the wrecked sand car. Tate followedhim with a hangdog, beaten air, as though he had just found somethingthat shattered all his previous concepts of the verities in life, anddidn't know what to do about it. Still silently, Syme refilled his oxygen tank, watched Tate do thesame, and then picked up two spare tanks and the precious blacksuitcase and handed one of the tanks to Tate. Then he stumped aroundto the back of the car and inspected the damage. The cable reel, whichmight have drawn them out of the gully, was hopelessly smashed. Thatwas that. <doc-sep>They started off down the canyon, Syme urging the slighter man toa fast clip, even though his leg was already stiffening. When theyfinally reached a climbable spot, Syme was limping badly and Tate wasobviously exhausted. They clambered wearily out onto the level sands again just as thesmall, blazing sun was setting. Luck, grunted Syme. Our only chanceof getting near the city is at night. He peered around, shading hiseyes from the sun's glare with a gauntleted hand. See that? Following his pointing finger, Tate saw a faint, ephemeral arc showingabove a line of low hills in the distance. Kal-Jmar, said Syme. Tate brightened a little. His body was too filled with fatigue for hismind to do any work on the problem that was baffling him, and so itreceded into the back of his mind. Kal-Jmar, whispered Syme again. There was no twilight. The sun dropped abruptly behind the low horizon,and darkness fell, sudden and absolute. Syme picked up the extra oxygentank and the suitcase, checked his direction by a wrist compass, andstarted toward the hills. Tate rose wearily to his feet and followedagain. Two hours later, Kal-Jmar stood before them. They had wormed theirway past the sentry posts, doing most of the last two hundred meterson all fours. With skill and luck, and with Syme's fierce, burningdetermination, they had managed to escape detection—and there theywere. Journey's end. Tate stared up at the shining, starlight towers in speechlessadmiration. If the people who had built this city had been decadent,still their architecture was magnificent. The city was a rhapsody madesolid. There was a sense of decay about it, he thought, but it was thedecay of supreme beauty, caught at the very verge of dissolution andpreserved for all eternity. Well? demanded Syme. Tate started, shaken out of his dream. He looked down at the blacksuitcase, a little wonderingly, and then pulled it to him and opened it. Inside, carefully wrapped in shock-absorbing tissue, was a fragilecontrivance of many tubes and wires, and a tiny parabolic mirror. Ithad a brand new Elecorp 210 volt battery, and it needed every volt ofthat tremendous power. Tate made the connections, his hands tremblingslightly, and set it up on a telescoping tripod. Syme watched himclosely, his big body tensed with expectation. The field was before them, shimmering faintly in the starlight. Itlooked unsubstantial as the stuff of dreams, but both men knew that nopower man possessed, unless it was the thing Tate held, could penetratethat screen. Tate set the mechanism up close to the field, aimed it very delicately,and closed a minute switch. After a long second, he opened it again. Nothing happened. The screen was still there, as unsubstantial and as solid as ever.There was no change. <doc-sep>Tate looked worriedly at his wiring, a deep wrinkle appearing betweenhis pale, serious eyes. Syme stood stock-still but quivering withrepressed energy, scowling like a thundercloud. It must be capable of working, Tate told himself querulously. TheMartians knew—they wouldn't have tried to stop us if—Wait a minute.He paced back and forth, biting his lip. Syme watched him with catlikeeyes, clenching and unclenching his great fists. Tate paused. I think I have it, he said slowly. I haven't enoughpower to hetrodyne the whole screen, although that's theoreticallypossible. But there must be weaker portions of the field—doors—setto open on the impact of a beam like this one. But I've only got powerenough for two more tries. Jones, where would you put an entrance, ifyou'd built Kal-Jmar? Syme's eyes widened, and he stared around slowly. A thousand yearsago? he muttered. Two thousand? These hills were raised in fivehundred. We can't go by topography. In front of one of the main arteries, then. But there are dozens, noone larger than the other. Did they have dozens of doors? Maybe, said Tate. He pointed to the right, where the fairy towers ofKal-Jmar swept aside to leave a broad avenue. It's the nearest—asgood as any other. They walked over to it in silence, and in silence Tate set up hisequipment once more. He shifted it from side to side, squinting, untilhe had it lined up exactly on the center of the avenue. Then he took along breath, and closed the switch again. The switch came up. Syme stared with fierce eagerness, eyes ablaze. Fora moment there was nothing, and then— Tate clutched the big man's arm. Look! he breathed. Where the ray from Tate's machine had impinged, a faintly-glowingspot of violet radiance! As they watched it widened, dilating into aperfect circle of violet, enclosing nothingness. The door was opening. It worked, Tate said softly. It worked! Syme shook off his grip impatiently, put his hand to the gun in theholster of his suit. Tate was still watching, fascinated. Look, hesaid again. The color is changing slightly, falling down the spectrum.I think that's a warning signal. When it reaches red, the door willclose. He moved toward the widening door, like a sleepwalker. Wait, Syme said hoarsely. You forgot the machine. Tate turned, said, Oh yes, and walked back. Then he saw the gun inSyme's hand. His jaw dropped slightly, but he didn't say anything. Hejust stood there, looking dumbly from the gun to Syme's dark face. Syme shot him carefully in the chest. He dropped like a rag doll, but Syme's aim had been bad. He wasn't deadyet. He rolled his eyes up, like a child. His lips moved. In spite ofhimself, Syme bent forward to listen. You'll be — sorry , Tate said, and died. Air was sighing out through the widening hole in the screen. Symestraightened and smiled tolerantly. For a moment, he had beenunreasonably afraid of what Tate was about to say. Some detail he hadforgotten, perhaps, something that would trap him now that Tate, theman who knew the answers, was dead. But—he'd be sorry! For what? Another dead fool? He gathered up the delicate mechanism in one arm, and, filling his deeplungs, stepped forward through the opening. <doc-sep>The towers of dead Kal-Jmar loomed over him in the dusk as he strodelike a conqueror down the long-deserted avenue. The city was full ofthe whisperings of Kal-Jmar's ancient wraiths, but they touched onlya corner of his mind. He was filled to overflowing with the bright,glowing joy of conquest. The city was his! His boots trod an avenue where no foot had fallen these untold eons,yet there was no dust. The city was bright and furbished waiting forhim. He was intoxicated. The city was his! There was a gentle ramp leading upward, and Syme followed it, breathingin the manufactured air of his pressure suit like wine. All around him,the city blazed with treasures beyond price. It was his! The ramp led to a portal set in the side of a shining needle of abuilding. Syme strode up to the threshold, and the door dilated forhim. He stepped inside; the door closed and a soft light glowed on. There was air here: good, breathable air. A tiny zephyr of it wasblowing from some hidden source against his body. Greatly daring, heunfastened the helmet of his suit and flung it back. He breathed in alungful of it. God, but it was good after that canned stuff! It was alittle heady; it made his head swim—but it was good air, excellent air! He looked around him, measuring, assessing for the first time. Thisroom alone was worth a fortune. There was platinum; in ornaments, setinto the walls, in furniture. That would be enough to buy the littlethings—a new ship, or perhaps even immunity back on Earth. But thatwas as nothing to the rest of it, the things three worlds would clamorfor—the artifacts, the record books, the machines! He strode about the room, building plan on grandiose plan. He couldtake back only a little with him at first; but he could return againand again, with Tate's mechanism and new batteries. But he'd explorethe city thoroughly before he left. Somewhere there must be weapons. Aninvincible weapon, perhaps, that a man could carry in his hand. Perhapseven a perfect body screen. With that he wouldn't have to steal awayfrom Mars on a freighter, hiding his loot and his greatness in a dingyengine room. He could walk into a Triplanet ship and order its captainto take him wherever he chose to go! <doc-sep>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth. They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought. And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled. But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the xopa fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse. And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof xopa -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings.... Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The setting of the story is on Mars. It begins in the city of Lillis, which is covered with a translucent steelite dome and is guarded by the Triplanet Patrol. One outstanding feature of the city is its Founders’ Tower, which is the tallest building in Lillis. On the top level, there is an observation deck that looks out over the city. Outside the city is an area called the Mare Cimmerium. The planet has red dust and supports some life, specifically lichens and tumble-grass. It has mountains, canyons, gullies, and deserts.The ancient city of Kal-Jmar features prominently in the story. It is an ancient city of the Martian race that was very advanced but is now abandoned. There are machines, records, and other objects left behind, and all are perfectly preserved inside a bubble-like dome that is formed by a force field. Humans have tried to enter the dome using explosives, diamond drills, and even tunnels under the city, but nothing they have tried has penetrated the dome. When Mars was first being conquered, humans tried to get into the city, but their efforts resulted in bloody battles with the current Martians, so eventually, the Mars Protectorate forbade any Earthmen from going near Kal-Jmar. The city has elaborate architecture and features a pair of twin towers. When Rector enters the city, he notices there is no dust, and the air is breathable. Doors open and close automatically. The room Rector enters has platinum ornaments set in the walls and the furniture. As Tate and Rector travel toward Kal-Jmar in their sand car outside of Lillis, they note that Mars has a deceptively low horizon. The surface contains a series of dunes, channels, and gullies that they have to cross. The gully they follow is extremely deep and steep, and from the bottom, they can only see a small section of the sky. When the Martians take Tate and Rector to their cavern, it is approximately nine kilometers below the gully they were in. There is a sense of moisture in the tunnel they take to the Martians’ cavern. In the cavern, the walls are covered with a phosphorescent glowing fungus, and there is air, although not enough for the humans to use. Some of the Martians eat the fungus.

Who is Harold Tate, and what happens to him in the story? [SEP] <s> Doorway to Kal-Jmar By Stuart Fleming Two men had died before Syme Rector's guns to give him the key to the ancient city of Kal-Jmar—a city of untold wealth, and of robots that made desires instant commands. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The tall man loitered a moment before a garish window display, his eyesimpassive in his space-burned face, as the Lillis patrolman passed.Then he turned, burying his long chin in the folds of his sand cape,and took up the pursuit of the dark figure ahead once more. Above, the city's multicolored lights were reflected from thetranslucent Dome—a distant, subtly distorted Lillis, through which thestars shone dimly. Getting through that dome had been his first urgent problem, but now hehad another, and a more pressing one. It had been simple enough to passhimself off as an itinerant prospector and gain entrance to the city,after his ship had crashed in the Mare Cimmerium. But the rest wouldnot be so simple. He had to acquire a spaceman's identity card, and hehad to do it fast. It was only a matter of time until the TriplanetPatrol gave up the misleading trail he had made into the hill country,and concluded that he must have reached Lillis. After that, his onlysafety lay in shipping out on a freighter as soon as possible. He hadto get off Mars, because his trail was warm, and the Patrol thorough. They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw—the very fact of thecrashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But theydidn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-fearedraider in the System. In that was his only advantage. He walked a little faster, as his quarry turned up a side street andthen boarded a moving ramp to an upper level. He watched until theshort, wide-shouldered figure in spaceman's harness disappeared overthe top of the ramp, and then followed. The man was waiting for him at the mouth of the ascending tunnel. Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, andstarted to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quiteyoung, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather,and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw. All right, the boy said quietly. What is it? I don't understand, Syme said. The game, the angle. You've been following me. Do you want trouble? Why, no, Syme told him bewilderedly. I haven't been following you.I— The boy knuckled his chin reflectively. You could be lying, he saidfinally. But maybe I've made a mistake. Then—Okay, citizen, you canclear—but don't let me catch you on my tail again. Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's eyeson the small of his back until he turned the corner. At the nextstreet he took a ramp up, crossed over and came down on the other sidea block away. He waited until he saw the boy's broad figure pass theintersection, and then followed again more cautiously. It was risky, but there was no other way. The signatures, the data,even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his handson it, but the identity card itself—that oblong of dark diamondite,glowing with the tiny fires of radioactivity—that could not beimitated, and the only way to get it was to kill. Up ahead was the Founders' Tower, the tallest building in Lillis. Theboy strode into the entrance lobby, bought a ticket for the observationplatform, and took the elevator. As soon as his car was out of sight inthe transparent tube, Syme followed. He put a half-credit slug into themachine, took the punctured slip of plastic that came out. The ticketwent into a scanning slot in the wall of the car, and the elevatorwhisked him up. <doc-sep>The tower was high, more than a hundred meters above the highest levelof the city, and the curved dome that kept air in Lillis was closeoverhead. Syme looked up, after his first appraising glance about theplatform, and saw the bright-blue pinpoint of Earth. The sight stirreda touch of nostalgia in him, as it always did, but he put it aside. The boy was hunched over the circular balustrade a little distanceaway. Except for him, the platform was empty. Syme loosened his slim,deadly energy pistol in its holster and padded catlike toward thesilent figure. It was over in a minute. The boy whirled as he came up, warned bysome slight sound, or by the breath of Syme's passage in the stillair. He opened his mouth to shout, and brought up his arm in a swift,instinctive gesture. But the blow never landed. Syme's pistol spat itssilent white pencil of flame, and the boy crumpled to the floor with aminute, charred hole in the white leather over his chest. Syme stooped over him swiftly, found a thick wallet and thrust it intohis pocket without a second glance. Then he raised the body in his armsand thrust it over the parapet. It fell, and in the same instant Syme felt a violent tug at his wrist.Before he could move to stop himself, he was over the edge. Too late,he realized what had happened—one of the hooks on the dead spaceman'sharness had caught the heavy wristband of his chronometer. He wasfalling, linked to the body of his victim! Hardly knowing what he did, he lashed out wildly with his other arm,felt his fingertips catch and bite into the edge of the balustrade. Hisbody hit the wall of the tower with a thump, and, a second later, thecorpse below him hit the wall. Then they both hung there, swaying alittle and Syme's fingers slipped a little with each motion. Gritting his teeth, he brought the magnificent muscles of his arm intoplay, raising the forearm against the dead weight of the dangling body.Fraction by slow fraction of an inch, it came up. Syme could feel thesweat pouring from his brow, running saltily into his eyes. His armsfelt as if they were being torn from their sockets. Then the hookslipped free, and the tearing, unbearable weight vanished. The reaction swung Syme against the building again, and he almostlost his slippery hold on the balustrade. After a moment he heard thespaceman's body strike with a squashy thud, somewhere below. He swung up his other arm, got a better grip on the balustrade. Hetried cautiously to get a leg up, but the motion loosened his hold onthe smooth surface again. He relaxed, thinking furiously. He could holdon for another minute at most; then it was the final blast-off. He heard running footsteps, and then a pale face peered over the ledgeat him. He realized suddenly that the whole incident could have takenonly a few seconds. He croaked, Get me up. Wordlessly, the man clasped thin fingers around his wrist. The otherpulled, with much puffing and panting, and with his help Syme managedto get a leg over the edge and hoist his trembling body to safety. Are you all right? <doc-sep>Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. Hisrescuer was tall and thin, of indeterminate age. He had light, sandyhair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes and ahumorous wide mouth. He was still panting. I'm not hurt, Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in hisdark, lean face. Thanks for giving me a hand. You scared hell out of me, said the man. I heard a thud. Ithought—you'd gone over. He looked at Syme questioningly. That was my bag, the outlaw said quickly. It slipped out of my hand,and I overbalanced myself when I grabbed for it. The man sighed. I need a drink. You need a drink. Come on. Hepicked up a small black suitcase from the floor and started for theelevator, then stopped. Oh—your bag. Shouldn't we do something aboutthat? Never mind, said Syme, taking his arm. The shock must have busted itwide open. My laundry is probably all over Lillis by now. They got off at the amusement level, three tiers down, and found acafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had justkilled. He had heard no second thud, so the body must have stayed onthe first outcropping of the tower it struck. It probably wouldn't befound until morning. And he had the wallet. When he paid for the first round of culcha , hetook it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. Thereit was—his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and evenfriendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It wasthe culcha , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morninghe'd find a freighter berth—in as big a spaceport as Lillis, therewere always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, andit was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone. He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall,graceful body back into the softly-cushioned seat. Lissen, said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped,caught himself, and looked at the elbow reproachfully. Lissen, hesaid again, I trust you, Jones. You're obvi-obviously an adventurer,but you have an honest face. I can't see it very well at the moment,but I hic!—pardon—seem to recall it as an honest face. I'm going totell you something, because I need your help!—help. He paused. Ineed a guide. D'you know this part of Mars well? Sure, said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AGplate had been turned on. Five Venusian girls were diving and twistingin its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of theirdelicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilkafter them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glowof culcha inside him. I wanta go to Kal-Jmar, said Tate. Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable sense,a hunch that had served him well before, told him that something bigwas coming—something that promised adventure and loot for Syme Rector.Why? he asked softly. Why to Kal-Jmar? Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms,he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had beenright; it was big. <doc-sep>Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remainingcity of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, hadrisen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectlypreserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how manythousands of years. But they couldn't be reached. For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protectedLillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysisas it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended bothabove and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knewwhat had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors ofthe present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knewanything about them or about Kal-Jmar. In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earthscientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed itfrom every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robotsthat still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then theyhad tried everything they knew to pierce the wall. Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated abloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapiddwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had steppedin and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, anyEarthman to go near the place. Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identicalin properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found aforce that would break it down. And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-fourhours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to SymeRector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand creditson his sleek, tigerish head. Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should notoccur to him that he had been indiscreet. This is native territory we're coming to, Harold, he said. Betterstrap on your gun. Why. Are they really dangerous? They're unpredictable, Syme told him. They're built differently, andthey think differently. They breathe like us, down in their cavernswhere there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen thatway. Yes, I've heard about that, Tate said. Iron oxide—very interestingmetabolism. He got his energy pistol out of the compartment andstrapped it on absently. Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuoushill country in the distance. Not only that, he continued. Theyeat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off thedeserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line toxopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they nevercome near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.When the first colonists came here, they had to learn their crazylanguage. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen differentthings, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same. So you think they might attack us? Tate asked again, nervously. They might do anything, Syme said curtly. Don't worry about it. The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of awilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring onsliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down againon the other side. <doc-sep>Syme stopped the car abruptly as a deep, winding channel appearedacross their path. Gully, he announced. Shall we cross it, or followit? Tate peered through the steelite nose of the car. Follow, I guess,he offered. It seems to go more or less where we're going, and if wecross it we'll only come to a couple dozen more. Syme nodded and moved the sand car up to the edge of the gully. Then hepressed a stud on the control board; a metal arm extruded from the tailof the car and a heavy spike slowly unscrewed from it, driving deepinto the sand. A light on the board flashed, indicating that the spikewas in and would bear the car's weight, and Syme started the car overthe edge. As the little car nosed down into the gully, the metal arm left behindrevealed itself to be attached to a length of thick, very strong wirecable, with a control cord inside. They inched down the almost verticalincline, unreeling the cable behind them, and starting minor landslidesas they descended. Finally they touched bottom. Syme pressed another stud, and above, themetal spike that had supported them screwed itself out of the groundagain and the cable reeled in. Tate had been watching with interest. Very ingenious, he said. Buthow do we get up again? Most of these gullies peter out gradually, said Syme, but if we wantor have to climb out where it's deep, we have a little harpoon gun thatshoots the anchor up on top. Good. I shouldn't like to stay down here for the rest of mynatural life. Depressing view. He looked up at the narrow strip ofalmost-black sky visible from the floor of the gully, and shook hishead. Neither Syme nor Tate ever had a chance to test the efficiency of theirharpoon gun. They had traveled no more than five hundred meters, andthe gully was as deep as ever, when Tate, looking up, saw a deeperblackness blot out part of the black sky directly overhead. He shouted,Look out! and grabbed for the nearest steering lever. The car wheeled around in a half circle and ran into the wall of thegully. Syme was saying, What—? when there was a thunderous crashthat shook the sturdy walls of the car, as a huge boulder smashed intothe ground immediately to their left. When the smoky red dust had cleared away, they saw that the left treadof the sand car was crushed beyond all recognition. Syme was cursing slowly and steadily with a deep, seething anger. Tatesaid, I guess we walk from here on. Then he looked up again andcaught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up the gullytoward them. My God! he said. What are those? Syme looked. Those, he said bitterly, are Martians. The natives, like all Martian fauna, were multi-legged. Also like allMartian fauna, they moved so fast that you couldn't see how many legsthey did have. Actually, however, the natives had six legs apiece—or,more properly, four legs and two arms. Their lungs were not as largeas they appeared, being collapsed at the moment. What caused the bulgethat made their torsos look like sausages was a huge air bladder, witha valve arrangement from the stomach and feeding directly into thebloodstream. Their faces were vaguely canine, but the foreheads were high, and thelips were not split. They did resemble dogs, in that their thick blackfur was splotched with irregulate patches of white. These patches ofwhite were subject to muscular control and could be spread out fanwise;or, conversely, the black could be expanded to cover the white, whichhelped to take care of the extremes of Martian temperature. Right nowthey were mostly black. The natives slowed down and spread out to surround the wrecked sandcar, and it could be seen that most of them were armed with spears,although some had the slim Benson energy guns—strictly forbidden toMartians. Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but heswallowed audibly. One Martian, who looked exactly like all the rest, stepped forward andmotioned unmistakably for the two to come out. He waited a moment andthen gestured with his energy gun. That gun, Syme knew from experience,could burn through a small thickness of steelite if held on the samespot long enough. <doc-sep>Come on, Syme said grimly. He rose and reached for a pressure suit,and Tate followed him. What do you think they'll— he began, and then stopped himself. Iknow. They're unpredictable. Yeah, said Syme, and opened the door. The air in the car whooshed into the near-vacuum outside, and he and Tate stepped out. The Martian leader looked at them enigmatically, then turned andstarted off. The other natives closed in on them, and they all boundedalong under the weak gravity. They bounded along for what Syme figured as a good kilometer and ahalf, and they then reached a branch in the gully and turned downit, going lower all the time. Under the light of their helmet lamps,they could see the walls of the gully—a tunnel, now—getting darkerand more solid. Finally, when Syme estimated they were about ninekilometers down, there was even a suggestion of moisture. The tunnel debouched at last into a large cavern. There was aphosphorescent gleam from fungus along the walls, but Syme couldn'tdecide how far away the far wall was. He noticed something else, though. There's air here, he said to Tate. I can see dust motes in it. Heswitched his helmet microphone from radio over to the audio membraneon the outside of the helmet. Kalis methra , he began haltingly, seltin guna getal. Yes, there is air here, said the Martian leader, startlingly. Notenough for your use, however, so do not open your helmets. Syme swore amazedly. I thought you said they didn't speak Terrestrial, Tate said. Symeignored him. We had our reasons for not doing so, the Martian said. But how—? We are telepaths, of course. On a planet which is nearly airless onits surface, we have to be. A tendency of the Terrestrial mind is toignore the obvious. We have not had a spoken language of our own forseveral thousand years. He darted a glance at Syme's darkly scowling face. His own hairy facewas expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused. Yes, you'reright, he said. The language you and your fellows struggled to learnis a fraud, a hodge-podge concocted to deceive you. Tate looked interested. But why this—this gigantic masquerade? You had nothing to give us, the Martian said simply. Tate frowned, then flushed. You mean you avoided revealing yourselvesbecause you—had nothing to gain from mental intercourse with us? Yes. Tate thought again. But— No, the Martian interrupted him, revealing the extent of ourcivilization would have spared us nothing at your people's hands. Yoursis an imperialist culture, and you would have had Mars, whether youthought you were taking it from equals or not. Never mind that, Syme broke in impatiently. What do you want withus? The Martian looked at him appraisingly. You already suspect.Unfortunately, you must die. <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort. Will you tell us why? Tate asked. You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow. Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus. Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan. There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere. I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course. He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone. Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors. Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we. And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture. We hope to win yet, the Martian said. Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity? The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry. Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian. <doc-sep>It was like tangling with a draft horse. The Martian was astonishinglystrong. Syme scrambled desperately for the gun, got it, but couldn'ttear it out of the Martian's fingers. And all the time he could almostfeel the Martian's telepathic call for help surging out. He heard theswift pad of his followers coming across the cavern. He put everything he had into one mighty, murderous effort. Everymuscle fiber in his superbly trained body crackled and surged withpower. He roared his fury. And the gun twisted out of the Martian'siron grip! He clubbed the prostrate leader with it instantly, then reversed theweapon and snapped a shot at the nearest Martian. The creature droppedhis lance and fell without a sound. The next instant a ray blinked at him, and he rolled out of the waybarely in time. The searing ray cut a swath over the leader's body andswerved to cut down on him. Still rolling, he fired at the holder ofthe weapon. The gun dropped and winked out on the floor. Syme jumped to his feet and faced his enemies, snarling like thetrapped tiger he was. Another ray slashed at him, and he bent lithelyto let it whistle over his head. Another, lower this time. He flippedhis body into the air and landed upright, his gun still blazing. Hisright leg burned fiercely from a ray-graze, but he ignored it. Andall the while he was mowing down the massed natives in great swaths,seeking out the ones armed with Bensons in swift, terrible slashes,dodging spears and other missiles in midair, and roaring at the top ofhis powerful lungs. At last there were none with guns left to oppose him. He scythed downthe rest in two terrible, lightning sweeps of his ray, then droppedthe weapon from blistered fingers. He was gasping for breath, and realized that he was losing air fromthe seared-open right leg of his suit. He reached for the emergencykit at his side, drawing in great, gasping breaths, and fumbled outa tube of sealing liquid. He spread the stuff on liberally, smearingit impartially over flesh and fabric. It felt like liquid hell on theburned, bleeding leg, but he kept on until the quick-drying fluidformed an airtight patch. Only then did he turn, to see Tate flattened against the wall behindhim, his hands empty at his sides. I'm sorry, Tate said miserably. Icould have grabbed a spear or something, but—I just couldn't, not evento save my own life. I—I halfway hoped they'd kill both of us. Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. Heturned and strode out of the cavern, carrying his right leg stiffly,but with his feral, tigerish head held high. He led the way, wordlessly, back to the wrecked sand car. Tate followedhim with a hangdog, beaten air, as though he had just found somethingthat shattered all his previous concepts of the verities in life, anddidn't know what to do about it. Still silently, Syme refilled his oxygen tank, watched Tate do thesame, and then picked up two spare tanks and the precious blacksuitcase and handed one of the tanks to Tate. Then he stumped aroundto the back of the car and inspected the damage. The cable reel, whichmight have drawn them out of the gully, was hopelessly smashed. Thatwas that. <doc-sep>They started off down the canyon, Syme urging the slighter man toa fast clip, even though his leg was already stiffening. When theyfinally reached a climbable spot, Syme was limping badly and Tate wasobviously exhausted. They clambered wearily out onto the level sands again just as thesmall, blazing sun was setting. Luck, grunted Syme. Our only chanceof getting near the city is at night. He peered around, shading hiseyes from the sun's glare with a gauntleted hand. See that? Following his pointing finger, Tate saw a faint, ephemeral arc showingabove a line of low hills in the distance. Kal-Jmar, said Syme. Tate brightened a little. His body was too filled with fatigue for hismind to do any work on the problem that was baffling him, and so itreceded into the back of his mind. Kal-Jmar, whispered Syme again. There was no twilight. The sun dropped abruptly behind the low horizon,and darkness fell, sudden and absolute. Syme picked up the extra oxygentank and the suitcase, checked his direction by a wrist compass, andstarted toward the hills. Tate rose wearily to his feet and followedagain. Two hours later, Kal-Jmar stood before them. They had wormed theirway past the sentry posts, doing most of the last two hundred meterson all fours. With skill and luck, and with Syme's fierce, burningdetermination, they had managed to escape detection—and there theywere. Journey's end. Tate stared up at the shining, starlight towers in speechlessadmiration. If the people who had built this city had been decadent,still their architecture was magnificent. The city was a rhapsody madesolid. There was a sense of decay about it, he thought, but it was thedecay of supreme beauty, caught at the very verge of dissolution andpreserved for all eternity. Well? demanded Syme. Tate started, shaken out of his dream. He looked down at the blacksuitcase, a little wonderingly, and then pulled it to him and opened it. Inside, carefully wrapped in shock-absorbing tissue, was a fragilecontrivance of many tubes and wires, and a tiny parabolic mirror. Ithad a brand new Elecorp 210 volt battery, and it needed every volt ofthat tremendous power. Tate made the connections, his hands tremblingslightly, and set it up on a telescoping tripod. Syme watched himclosely, his big body tensed with expectation. The field was before them, shimmering faintly in the starlight. Itlooked unsubstantial as the stuff of dreams, but both men knew that nopower man possessed, unless it was the thing Tate held, could penetratethat screen. Tate set the mechanism up close to the field, aimed it very delicately,and closed a minute switch. After a long second, he opened it again. Nothing happened. The screen was still there, as unsubstantial and as solid as ever.There was no change. <doc-sep>Tate looked worriedly at his wiring, a deep wrinkle appearing betweenhis pale, serious eyes. Syme stood stock-still but quivering withrepressed energy, scowling like a thundercloud. It must be capable of working, Tate told himself querulously. TheMartians knew—they wouldn't have tried to stop us if—Wait a minute.He paced back and forth, biting his lip. Syme watched him with catlikeeyes, clenching and unclenching his great fists. Tate paused. I think I have it, he said slowly. I haven't enoughpower to hetrodyne the whole screen, although that's theoreticallypossible. But there must be weaker portions of the field—doors—setto open on the impact of a beam like this one. But I've only got powerenough for two more tries. Jones, where would you put an entrance, ifyou'd built Kal-Jmar? Syme's eyes widened, and he stared around slowly. A thousand yearsago? he muttered. Two thousand? These hills were raised in fivehundred. We can't go by topography. In front of one of the main arteries, then. But there are dozens, noone larger than the other. Did they have dozens of doors? Maybe, said Tate. He pointed to the right, where the fairy towers ofKal-Jmar swept aside to leave a broad avenue. It's the nearest—asgood as any other. They walked over to it in silence, and in silence Tate set up hisequipment once more. He shifted it from side to side, squinting, untilhe had it lined up exactly on the center of the avenue. Then he took along breath, and closed the switch again. The switch came up. Syme stared with fierce eagerness, eyes ablaze. Fora moment there was nothing, and then— Tate clutched the big man's arm. Look! he breathed. Where the ray from Tate's machine had impinged, a faintly-glowingspot of violet radiance! As they watched it widened, dilating into aperfect circle of violet, enclosing nothingness. The door was opening. It worked, Tate said softly. It worked! Syme shook off his grip impatiently, put his hand to the gun in theholster of his suit. Tate was still watching, fascinated. Look, hesaid again. The color is changing slightly, falling down the spectrum.I think that's a warning signal. When it reaches red, the door willclose. He moved toward the widening door, like a sleepwalker. Wait, Syme said hoarsely. You forgot the machine. Tate turned, said, Oh yes, and walked back. Then he saw the gun inSyme's hand. His jaw dropped slightly, but he didn't say anything. Hejust stood there, looking dumbly from the gun to Syme's dark face. Syme shot him carefully in the chest. He dropped like a rag doll, but Syme's aim had been bad. He wasn't deadyet. He rolled his eyes up, like a child. His lips moved. In spite ofhimself, Syme bent forward to listen. You'll be — sorry , Tate said, and died. Air was sighing out through the widening hole in the screen. Symestraightened and smiled tolerantly. For a moment, he had beenunreasonably afraid of what Tate was about to say. Some detail he hadforgotten, perhaps, something that would trap him now that Tate, theman who knew the answers, was dead. But—he'd be sorry! For what? Another dead fool? He gathered up the delicate mechanism in one arm, and, filling his deeplungs, stepped forward through the opening. <doc-sep>The towers of dead Kal-Jmar loomed over him in the dusk as he strodelike a conqueror down the long-deserted avenue. The city was full ofthe whisperings of Kal-Jmar's ancient wraiths, but they touched onlya corner of his mind. He was filled to overflowing with the bright,glowing joy of conquest. The city was his! His boots trod an avenue where no foot had fallen these untold eons,yet there was no dust. The city was bright and furbished waiting forhim. He was intoxicated. The city was his! There was a gentle ramp leading upward, and Syme followed it, breathingin the manufactured air of his pressure suit like wine. All around him,the city blazed with treasures beyond price. It was his! The ramp led to a portal set in the side of a shining needle of abuilding. Syme strode up to the threshold, and the door dilated forhim. He stepped inside; the door closed and a soft light glowed on. There was air here: good, breathable air. A tiny zephyr of it wasblowing from some hidden source against his body. Greatly daring, heunfastened the helmet of his suit and flung it back. He breathed in alungful of it. God, but it was good after that canned stuff! It was alittle heady; it made his head swim—but it was good air, excellent air! He looked around him, measuring, assessing for the first time. Thisroom alone was worth a fortune. There was platinum; in ornaments, setinto the walls, in furniture. That would be enough to buy the littlethings—a new ship, or perhaps even immunity back on Earth. But thatwas as nothing to the rest of it, the things three worlds would clamorfor—the artifacts, the record books, the machines! He strode about the room, building plan on grandiose plan. He couldtake back only a little with him at first; but he could return againand again, with Tate's mechanism and new batteries. But he'd explorethe city thoroughly before he left. Somewhere there must be weapons. Aninvincible weapon, perhaps, that a man could carry in his hand. Perhapseven a perfect body screen. With that he wouldn't have to steal awayfrom Mars on a freighter, hiding his loot and his greatness in a dingyengine room. He could walk into a Triplanet ship and order its captainto take him wherever he chose to go! <doc-sep>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth. They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought. And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled. But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the xopa fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse. And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof xopa -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings.... Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Harold Tate, and what happens to him in the story?

Harold Tate is a physicist who has developed a way to create an opening in the force field dome covering the ancient city of Kal-Jmar. Other humans have tried to enter, but none have succeeded. They have not been able to breach the force field, and efforts to do so led to bloody uprisings of current Martians, so the Mars Protectorate has forbidden any Earthmen to go there. Tate happens to be on the observation deck of the Founders’ Tower when Syme Rector is trying to pull himself back over the parapet after getting pulled over it by the patrolman’s body that he threw over the side. Tate invites Rector to have a drink with him, and when he is drunk, he tells Rector he trusts him because he has an honest face. Tate asks Rector to be his guide to Kal-Jmar and tells him about the device he invented. Tate sees the boulder that the Martians lob toward their sand car when they are in the gully and saves their lives by using a steering level to flip the car around and out of the main path of the boulder.When the Martians take the two men to their subterranean cavern and reveal that they can speak Terrestrial, Tate asks the leader many questions about the Martians. When the leader of the Martians starts to shoot him, Rector saves Tate by hitting the Martian, wrestling his gun away, and shooting the rest of the Martians while Tate cowers against the wall. When they reach Kal-Jmar, Tate uses his device to open the force field, but then Rector shoots him. As he is dying, Tate warns Rector that he will be sorry.

What are the items that Syme Rector uses that help him survive? [SEP] <s> Doorway to Kal-Jmar By Stuart Fleming Two men had died before Syme Rector's guns to give him the key to the ancient city of Kal-Jmar—a city of untold wealth, and of robots that made desires instant commands. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The tall man loitered a moment before a garish window display, his eyesimpassive in his space-burned face, as the Lillis patrolman passed.Then he turned, burying his long chin in the folds of his sand cape,and took up the pursuit of the dark figure ahead once more. Above, the city's multicolored lights were reflected from thetranslucent Dome—a distant, subtly distorted Lillis, through which thestars shone dimly. Getting through that dome had been his first urgent problem, but now hehad another, and a more pressing one. It had been simple enough to passhimself off as an itinerant prospector and gain entrance to the city,after his ship had crashed in the Mare Cimmerium. But the rest wouldnot be so simple. He had to acquire a spaceman's identity card, and hehad to do it fast. It was only a matter of time until the TriplanetPatrol gave up the misleading trail he had made into the hill country,and concluded that he must have reached Lillis. After that, his onlysafety lay in shipping out on a freighter as soon as possible. He hadto get off Mars, because his trail was warm, and the Patrol thorough. They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw—the very fact of thecrashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But theydidn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-fearedraider in the System. In that was his only advantage. He walked a little faster, as his quarry turned up a side street andthen boarded a moving ramp to an upper level. He watched until theshort, wide-shouldered figure in spaceman's harness disappeared overthe top of the ramp, and then followed. The man was waiting for him at the mouth of the ascending tunnel. Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, andstarted to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quiteyoung, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather,and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw. All right, the boy said quietly. What is it? I don't understand, Syme said. The game, the angle. You've been following me. Do you want trouble? Why, no, Syme told him bewilderedly. I haven't been following you.I— The boy knuckled his chin reflectively. You could be lying, he saidfinally. But maybe I've made a mistake. Then—Okay, citizen, you canclear—but don't let me catch you on my tail again. Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's eyeson the small of his back until he turned the corner. At the nextstreet he took a ramp up, crossed over and came down on the other sidea block away. He waited until he saw the boy's broad figure pass theintersection, and then followed again more cautiously. It was risky, but there was no other way. The signatures, the data,even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his handson it, but the identity card itself—that oblong of dark diamondite,glowing with the tiny fires of radioactivity—that could not beimitated, and the only way to get it was to kill. Up ahead was the Founders' Tower, the tallest building in Lillis. Theboy strode into the entrance lobby, bought a ticket for the observationplatform, and took the elevator. As soon as his car was out of sight inthe transparent tube, Syme followed. He put a half-credit slug into themachine, took the punctured slip of plastic that came out. The ticketwent into a scanning slot in the wall of the car, and the elevatorwhisked him up. <doc-sep>The tower was high, more than a hundred meters above the highest levelof the city, and the curved dome that kept air in Lillis was closeoverhead. Syme looked up, after his first appraising glance about theplatform, and saw the bright-blue pinpoint of Earth. The sight stirreda touch of nostalgia in him, as it always did, but he put it aside. The boy was hunched over the circular balustrade a little distanceaway. Except for him, the platform was empty. Syme loosened his slim,deadly energy pistol in its holster and padded catlike toward thesilent figure. It was over in a minute. The boy whirled as he came up, warned bysome slight sound, or by the breath of Syme's passage in the stillair. He opened his mouth to shout, and brought up his arm in a swift,instinctive gesture. But the blow never landed. Syme's pistol spat itssilent white pencil of flame, and the boy crumpled to the floor with aminute, charred hole in the white leather over his chest. Syme stooped over him swiftly, found a thick wallet and thrust it intohis pocket without a second glance. Then he raised the body in his armsand thrust it over the parapet. It fell, and in the same instant Syme felt a violent tug at his wrist.Before he could move to stop himself, he was over the edge. Too late,he realized what had happened—one of the hooks on the dead spaceman'sharness had caught the heavy wristband of his chronometer. He wasfalling, linked to the body of his victim! Hardly knowing what he did, he lashed out wildly with his other arm,felt his fingertips catch and bite into the edge of the balustrade. Hisbody hit the wall of the tower with a thump, and, a second later, thecorpse below him hit the wall. Then they both hung there, swaying alittle and Syme's fingers slipped a little with each motion. Gritting his teeth, he brought the magnificent muscles of his arm intoplay, raising the forearm against the dead weight of the dangling body.Fraction by slow fraction of an inch, it came up. Syme could feel thesweat pouring from his brow, running saltily into his eyes. His armsfelt as if they were being torn from their sockets. Then the hookslipped free, and the tearing, unbearable weight vanished. The reaction swung Syme against the building again, and he almostlost his slippery hold on the balustrade. After a moment he heard thespaceman's body strike with a squashy thud, somewhere below. He swung up his other arm, got a better grip on the balustrade. Hetried cautiously to get a leg up, but the motion loosened his hold onthe smooth surface again. He relaxed, thinking furiously. He could holdon for another minute at most; then it was the final blast-off. He heard running footsteps, and then a pale face peered over the ledgeat him. He realized suddenly that the whole incident could have takenonly a few seconds. He croaked, Get me up. Wordlessly, the man clasped thin fingers around his wrist. The otherpulled, with much puffing and panting, and with his help Syme managedto get a leg over the edge and hoist his trembling body to safety. Are you all right? <doc-sep>Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. Hisrescuer was tall and thin, of indeterminate age. He had light, sandyhair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes and ahumorous wide mouth. He was still panting. I'm not hurt, Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in hisdark, lean face. Thanks for giving me a hand. You scared hell out of me, said the man. I heard a thud. Ithought—you'd gone over. He looked at Syme questioningly. That was my bag, the outlaw said quickly. It slipped out of my hand,and I overbalanced myself when I grabbed for it. The man sighed. I need a drink. You need a drink. Come on. Hepicked up a small black suitcase from the floor and started for theelevator, then stopped. Oh—your bag. Shouldn't we do something aboutthat? Never mind, said Syme, taking his arm. The shock must have busted itwide open. My laundry is probably all over Lillis by now. They got off at the amusement level, three tiers down, and found acafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had justkilled. He had heard no second thud, so the body must have stayed onthe first outcropping of the tower it struck. It probably wouldn't befound until morning. And he had the wallet. When he paid for the first round of culcha , hetook it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. Thereit was—his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and evenfriendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It wasthe culcha , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morninghe'd find a freighter berth—in as big a spaceport as Lillis, therewere always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, andit was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone. He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall,graceful body back into the softly-cushioned seat. Lissen, said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped,caught himself, and looked at the elbow reproachfully. Lissen, hesaid again, I trust you, Jones. You're obvi-obviously an adventurer,but you have an honest face. I can't see it very well at the moment,but I hic!—pardon—seem to recall it as an honest face. I'm going totell you something, because I need your help!—help. He paused. Ineed a guide. D'you know this part of Mars well? Sure, said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AGplate had been turned on. Five Venusian girls were diving and twistingin its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of theirdelicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilkafter them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glowof culcha inside him. I wanta go to Kal-Jmar, said Tate. Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable sense,a hunch that had served him well before, told him that something bigwas coming—something that promised adventure and loot for Syme Rector.Why? he asked softly. Why to Kal-Jmar? Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms,he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had beenright; it was big. <doc-sep>Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remainingcity of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, hadrisen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectlypreserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how manythousands of years. But they couldn't be reached. For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protectedLillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysisas it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended bothabove and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knewwhat had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors ofthe present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knewanything about them or about Kal-Jmar. In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earthscientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed itfrom every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robotsthat still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then theyhad tried everything they knew to pierce the wall. Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated abloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapiddwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had steppedin and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, anyEarthman to go near the place. Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identicalin properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found aforce that would break it down. And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-fourhours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to SymeRector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand creditson his sleek, tigerish head. Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should notoccur to him that he had been indiscreet. This is native territory we're coming to, Harold, he said. Betterstrap on your gun. Why. Are they really dangerous? They're unpredictable, Syme told him. They're built differently, andthey think differently. They breathe like us, down in their cavernswhere there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen thatway. Yes, I've heard about that, Tate said. Iron oxide—very interestingmetabolism. He got his energy pistol out of the compartment andstrapped it on absently. Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuoushill country in the distance. Not only that, he continued. Theyeat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off thedeserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line toxopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they nevercome near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.When the first colonists came here, they had to learn their crazylanguage. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen differentthings, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same. So you think they might attack us? Tate asked again, nervously. They might do anything, Syme said curtly. Don't worry about it. The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of awilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring onsliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down againon the other side. <doc-sep>Syme stopped the car abruptly as a deep, winding channel appearedacross their path. Gully, he announced. Shall we cross it, or followit? Tate peered through the steelite nose of the car. Follow, I guess,he offered. It seems to go more or less where we're going, and if wecross it we'll only come to a couple dozen more. Syme nodded and moved the sand car up to the edge of the gully. Then hepressed a stud on the control board; a metal arm extruded from the tailof the car and a heavy spike slowly unscrewed from it, driving deepinto the sand. A light on the board flashed, indicating that the spikewas in and would bear the car's weight, and Syme started the car overthe edge. As the little car nosed down into the gully, the metal arm left behindrevealed itself to be attached to a length of thick, very strong wirecable, with a control cord inside. They inched down the almost verticalincline, unreeling the cable behind them, and starting minor landslidesas they descended. Finally they touched bottom. Syme pressed another stud, and above, themetal spike that had supported them screwed itself out of the groundagain and the cable reeled in. Tate had been watching with interest. Very ingenious, he said. Buthow do we get up again? Most of these gullies peter out gradually, said Syme, but if we wantor have to climb out where it's deep, we have a little harpoon gun thatshoots the anchor up on top. Good. I shouldn't like to stay down here for the rest of mynatural life. Depressing view. He looked up at the narrow strip ofalmost-black sky visible from the floor of the gully, and shook hishead. Neither Syme nor Tate ever had a chance to test the efficiency of theirharpoon gun. They had traveled no more than five hundred meters, andthe gully was as deep as ever, when Tate, looking up, saw a deeperblackness blot out part of the black sky directly overhead. He shouted,Look out! and grabbed for the nearest steering lever. The car wheeled around in a half circle and ran into the wall of thegully. Syme was saying, What—? when there was a thunderous crashthat shook the sturdy walls of the car, as a huge boulder smashed intothe ground immediately to their left. When the smoky red dust had cleared away, they saw that the left treadof the sand car was crushed beyond all recognition. Syme was cursing slowly and steadily with a deep, seething anger. Tatesaid, I guess we walk from here on. Then he looked up again andcaught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up the gullytoward them. My God! he said. What are those? Syme looked. Those, he said bitterly, are Martians. The natives, like all Martian fauna, were multi-legged. Also like allMartian fauna, they moved so fast that you couldn't see how many legsthey did have. Actually, however, the natives had six legs apiece—or,more properly, four legs and two arms. Their lungs were not as largeas they appeared, being collapsed at the moment. What caused the bulgethat made their torsos look like sausages was a huge air bladder, witha valve arrangement from the stomach and feeding directly into thebloodstream. Their faces were vaguely canine, but the foreheads were high, and thelips were not split. They did resemble dogs, in that their thick blackfur was splotched with irregulate patches of white. These patches ofwhite were subject to muscular control and could be spread out fanwise;or, conversely, the black could be expanded to cover the white, whichhelped to take care of the extremes of Martian temperature. Right nowthey were mostly black. The natives slowed down and spread out to surround the wrecked sandcar, and it could be seen that most of them were armed with spears,although some had the slim Benson energy guns—strictly forbidden toMartians. Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but heswallowed audibly. One Martian, who looked exactly like all the rest, stepped forward andmotioned unmistakably for the two to come out. He waited a moment andthen gestured with his energy gun. That gun, Syme knew from experience,could burn through a small thickness of steelite if held on the samespot long enough. <doc-sep>Come on, Syme said grimly. He rose and reached for a pressure suit,and Tate followed him. What do you think they'll— he began, and then stopped himself. Iknow. They're unpredictable. Yeah, said Syme, and opened the door. The air in the car whooshed into the near-vacuum outside, and he and Tate stepped out. The Martian leader looked at them enigmatically, then turned andstarted off. The other natives closed in on them, and they all boundedalong under the weak gravity. They bounded along for what Syme figured as a good kilometer and ahalf, and they then reached a branch in the gully and turned downit, going lower all the time. Under the light of their helmet lamps,they could see the walls of the gully—a tunnel, now—getting darkerand more solid. Finally, when Syme estimated they were about ninekilometers down, there was even a suggestion of moisture. The tunnel debouched at last into a large cavern. There was aphosphorescent gleam from fungus along the walls, but Syme couldn'tdecide how far away the far wall was. He noticed something else, though. There's air here, he said to Tate. I can see dust motes in it. Heswitched his helmet microphone from radio over to the audio membraneon the outside of the helmet. Kalis methra , he began haltingly, seltin guna getal. Yes, there is air here, said the Martian leader, startlingly. Notenough for your use, however, so do not open your helmets. Syme swore amazedly. I thought you said they didn't speak Terrestrial, Tate said. Symeignored him. We had our reasons for not doing so, the Martian said. But how—? We are telepaths, of course. On a planet which is nearly airless onits surface, we have to be. A tendency of the Terrestrial mind is toignore the obvious. We have not had a spoken language of our own forseveral thousand years. He darted a glance at Syme's darkly scowling face. His own hairy facewas expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused. Yes, you'reright, he said. The language you and your fellows struggled to learnis a fraud, a hodge-podge concocted to deceive you. Tate looked interested. But why this—this gigantic masquerade? You had nothing to give us, the Martian said simply. Tate frowned, then flushed. You mean you avoided revealing yourselvesbecause you—had nothing to gain from mental intercourse with us? Yes. Tate thought again. But— No, the Martian interrupted him, revealing the extent of ourcivilization would have spared us nothing at your people's hands. Yoursis an imperialist culture, and you would have had Mars, whether youthought you were taking it from equals or not. Never mind that, Syme broke in impatiently. What do you want withus? The Martian looked at him appraisingly. You already suspect.Unfortunately, you must die. <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort. Will you tell us why? Tate asked. You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow. Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus. Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan. There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere. I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course. He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone. Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors. Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we. And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture. We hope to win yet, the Martian said. Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity? The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry. Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian. <doc-sep>It was like tangling with a draft horse. The Martian was astonishinglystrong. Syme scrambled desperately for the gun, got it, but couldn'ttear it out of the Martian's fingers. And all the time he could almostfeel the Martian's telepathic call for help surging out. He heard theswift pad of his followers coming across the cavern. He put everything he had into one mighty, murderous effort. Everymuscle fiber in his superbly trained body crackled and surged withpower. He roared his fury. And the gun twisted out of the Martian'siron grip! He clubbed the prostrate leader with it instantly, then reversed theweapon and snapped a shot at the nearest Martian. The creature droppedhis lance and fell without a sound. The next instant a ray blinked at him, and he rolled out of the waybarely in time. The searing ray cut a swath over the leader's body andswerved to cut down on him. Still rolling, he fired at the holder ofthe weapon. The gun dropped and winked out on the floor. Syme jumped to his feet and faced his enemies, snarling like thetrapped tiger he was. Another ray slashed at him, and he bent lithelyto let it whistle over his head. Another, lower this time. He flippedhis body into the air and landed upright, his gun still blazing. Hisright leg burned fiercely from a ray-graze, but he ignored it. Andall the while he was mowing down the massed natives in great swaths,seeking out the ones armed with Bensons in swift, terrible slashes,dodging spears and other missiles in midair, and roaring at the top ofhis powerful lungs. At last there were none with guns left to oppose him. He scythed downthe rest in two terrible, lightning sweeps of his ray, then droppedthe weapon from blistered fingers. He was gasping for breath, and realized that he was losing air fromthe seared-open right leg of his suit. He reached for the emergencykit at his side, drawing in great, gasping breaths, and fumbled outa tube of sealing liquid. He spread the stuff on liberally, smearingit impartially over flesh and fabric. It felt like liquid hell on theburned, bleeding leg, but he kept on until the quick-drying fluidformed an airtight patch. Only then did he turn, to see Tate flattened against the wall behindhim, his hands empty at his sides. I'm sorry, Tate said miserably. Icould have grabbed a spear or something, but—I just couldn't, not evento save my own life. I—I halfway hoped they'd kill both of us. Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. Heturned and strode out of the cavern, carrying his right leg stiffly,but with his feral, tigerish head held high. He led the way, wordlessly, back to the wrecked sand car. Tate followedhim with a hangdog, beaten air, as though he had just found somethingthat shattered all his previous concepts of the verities in life, anddidn't know what to do about it. Still silently, Syme refilled his oxygen tank, watched Tate do thesame, and then picked up two spare tanks and the precious blacksuitcase and handed one of the tanks to Tate. Then he stumped aroundto the back of the car and inspected the damage. The cable reel, whichmight have drawn them out of the gully, was hopelessly smashed. Thatwas that. <doc-sep>They started off down the canyon, Syme urging the slighter man toa fast clip, even though his leg was already stiffening. When theyfinally reached a climbable spot, Syme was limping badly and Tate wasobviously exhausted. They clambered wearily out onto the level sands again just as thesmall, blazing sun was setting. Luck, grunted Syme. Our only chanceof getting near the city is at night. He peered around, shading hiseyes from the sun's glare with a gauntleted hand. See that? Following his pointing finger, Tate saw a faint, ephemeral arc showingabove a line of low hills in the distance. Kal-Jmar, said Syme. Tate brightened a little. His body was too filled with fatigue for hismind to do any work on the problem that was baffling him, and so itreceded into the back of his mind. Kal-Jmar, whispered Syme again. There was no twilight. The sun dropped abruptly behind the low horizon,and darkness fell, sudden and absolute. Syme picked up the extra oxygentank and the suitcase, checked his direction by a wrist compass, andstarted toward the hills. Tate rose wearily to his feet and followedagain. Two hours later, Kal-Jmar stood before them. They had wormed theirway past the sentry posts, doing most of the last two hundred meterson all fours. With skill and luck, and with Syme's fierce, burningdetermination, they had managed to escape detection—and there theywere. Journey's end. Tate stared up at the shining, starlight towers in speechlessadmiration. If the people who had built this city had been decadent,still their architecture was magnificent. The city was a rhapsody madesolid. There was a sense of decay about it, he thought, but it was thedecay of supreme beauty, caught at the very verge of dissolution andpreserved for all eternity. Well? demanded Syme. Tate started, shaken out of his dream. He looked down at the blacksuitcase, a little wonderingly, and then pulled it to him and opened it. Inside, carefully wrapped in shock-absorbing tissue, was a fragilecontrivance of many tubes and wires, and a tiny parabolic mirror. Ithad a brand new Elecorp 210 volt battery, and it needed every volt ofthat tremendous power. Tate made the connections, his hands tremblingslightly, and set it up on a telescoping tripod. Syme watched himclosely, his big body tensed with expectation. The field was before them, shimmering faintly in the starlight. Itlooked unsubstantial as the stuff of dreams, but both men knew that nopower man possessed, unless it was the thing Tate held, could penetratethat screen. Tate set the mechanism up close to the field, aimed it very delicately,and closed a minute switch. After a long second, he opened it again. Nothing happened. The screen was still there, as unsubstantial and as solid as ever.There was no change. <doc-sep>Tate looked worriedly at his wiring, a deep wrinkle appearing betweenhis pale, serious eyes. Syme stood stock-still but quivering withrepressed energy, scowling like a thundercloud. It must be capable of working, Tate told himself querulously. TheMartians knew—they wouldn't have tried to stop us if—Wait a minute.He paced back and forth, biting his lip. Syme watched him with catlikeeyes, clenching and unclenching his great fists. Tate paused. I think I have it, he said slowly. I haven't enoughpower to hetrodyne the whole screen, although that's theoreticallypossible. But there must be weaker portions of the field—doors—setto open on the impact of a beam like this one. But I've only got powerenough for two more tries. Jones, where would you put an entrance, ifyou'd built Kal-Jmar? Syme's eyes widened, and he stared around slowly. A thousand yearsago? he muttered. Two thousand? These hills were raised in fivehundred. We can't go by topography. In front of one of the main arteries, then. But there are dozens, noone larger than the other. Did they have dozens of doors? Maybe, said Tate. He pointed to the right, where the fairy towers ofKal-Jmar swept aside to leave a broad avenue. It's the nearest—asgood as any other. They walked over to it in silence, and in silence Tate set up hisequipment once more. He shifted it from side to side, squinting, untilhe had it lined up exactly on the center of the avenue. Then he took along breath, and closed the switch again. The switch came up. Syme stared with fierce eagerness, eyes ablaze. Fora moment there was nothing, and then— Tate clutched the big man's arm. Look! he breathed. Where the ray from Tate's machine had impinged, a faintly-glowingspot of violet radiance! As they watched it widened, dilating into aperfect circle of violet, enclosing nothingness. The door was opening. It worked, Tate said softly. It worked! Syme shook off his grip impatiently, put his hand to the gun in theholster of his suit. Tate was still watching, fascinated. Look, hesaid again. The color is changing slightly, falling down the spectrum.I think that's a warning signal. When it reaches red, the door willclose. He moved toward the widening door, like a sleepwalker. Wait, Syme said hoarsely. You forgot the machine. Tate turned, said, Oh yes, and walked back. Then he saw the gun inSyme's hand. His jaw dropped slightly, but he didn't say anything. Hejust stood there, looking dumbly from the gun to Syme's dark face. Syme shot him carefully in the chest. He dropped like a rag doll, but Syme's aim had been bad. He wasn't deadyet. He rolled his eyes up, like a child. His lips moved. In spite ofhimself, Syme bent forward to listen. You'll be — sorry , Tate said, and died. Air was sighing out through the widening hole in the screen. Symestraightened and smiled tolerantly. For a moment, he had beenunreasonably afraid of what Tate was about to say. Some detail he hadforgotten, perhaps, something that would trap him now that Tate, theman who knew the answers, was dead. But—he'd be sorry! For what? Another dead fool? He gathered up the delicate mechanism in one arm, and, filling his deeplungs, stepped forward through the opening. <doc-sep>The towers of dead Kal-Jmar loomed over him in the dusk as he strodelike a conqueror down the long-deserted avenue. The city was full ofthe whisperings of Kal-Jmar's ancient wraiths, but they touched onlya corner of his mind. He was filled to overflowing with the bright,glowing joy of conquest. The city was his! His boots trod an avenue where no foot had fallen these untold eons,yet there was no dust. The city was bright and furbished waiting forhim. He was intoxicated. The city was his! There was a gentle ramp leading upward, and Syme followed it, breathingin the manufactured air of his pressure suit like wine. All around him,the city blazed with treasures beyond price. It was his! The ramp led to a portal set in the side of a shining needle of abuilding. Syme strode up to the threshold, and the door dilated forhim. He stepped inside; the door closed and a soft light glowed on. There was air here: good, breathable air. A tiny zephyr of it wasblowing from some hidden source against his body. Greatly daring, heunfastened the helmet of his suit and flung it back. He breathed in alungful of it. God, but it was good after that canned stuff! It was alittle heady; it made his head swim—but it was good air, excellent air! He looked around him, measuring, assessing for the first time. Thisroom alone was worth a fortune. There was platinum; in ornaments, setinto the walls, in furniture. That would be enough to buy the littlethings—a new ship, or perhaps even immunity back on Earth. But thatwas as nothing to the rest of it, the things three worlds would clamorfor—the artifacts, the record books, the machines! He strode about the room, building plan on grandiose plan. He couldtake back only a little with him at first; but he could return againand again, with Tate's mechanism and new batteries. But he'd explorethe city thoroughly before he left. Somewhere there must be weapons. Aninvincible weapon, perhaps, that a man could carry in his hand. Perhapseven a perfect body screen. With that he wouldn't have to steal awayfrom Mars on a freighter, hiding his loot and his greatness in a dingyengine room. He could walk into a Triplanet ship and order its captainto take him wherever he chose to go! <doc-sep>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth. They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought. And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled. But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the xopa fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse. And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof xopa -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings.... Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are the items that Syme Rector uses that help him survive?

Rector carries a pistol that, when shot, is silent. This enables him to shoot the young patrolman without drawing attention to himself or making people aware that there has been a shooting. In the sand car, Rector relies on the car’s metal arm and thick wire cable to travel down into the gully. He has harpoon guns that he and Tate can use later if they need to climb back out of the gully. After Rector battles with the Martians and shoots them, he uses a tube of sealing liquid that he carries in his emergency kit to seal the tear in his suit so that he stops losing oxygen. He also uses the sealant to close the wound in his leg from the graze of one of the Benson guns the Martians fired at him. Rector and Tate use oxygen tanks and space suits in their journey to Kal-Jmar because there is not enough air for them to breathe without these items. When he is hungry, Rector takes two food tablets that he carries in his helmet.

Describe the Martians in the story. [SEP] <s> Doorway to Kal-Jmar By Stuart Fleming Two men had died before Syme Rector's guns to give him the key to the ancient city of Kal-Jmar—a city of untold wealth, and of robots that made desires instant commands. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The tall man loitered a moment before a garish window display, his eyesimpassive in his space-burned face, as the Lillis patrolman passed.Then he turned, burying his long chin in the folds of his sand cape,and took up the pursuit of the dark figure ahead once more. Above, the city's multicolored lights were reflected from thetranslucent Dome—a distant, subtly distorted Lillis, through which thestars shone dimly. Getting through that dome had been his first urgent problem, but now hehad another, and a more pressing one. It had been simple enough to passhimself off as an itinerant prospector and gain entrance to the city,after his ship had crashed in the Mare Cimmerium. But the rest wouldnot be so simple. He had to acquire a spaceman's identity card, and hehad to do it fast. It was only a matter of time until the TriplanetPatrol gave up the misleading trail he had made into the hill country,and concluded that he must have reached Lillis. After that, his onlysafety lay in shipping out on a freighter as soon as possible. He hadto get off Mars, because his trail was warm, and the Patrol thorough. They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw—the very fact of thecrashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But theydidn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-fearedraider in the System. In that was his only advantage. He walked a little faster, as his quarry turned up a side street andthen boarded a moving ramp to an upper level. He watched until theshort, wide-shouldered figure in spaceman's harness disappeared overthe top of the ramp, and then followed. The man was waiting for him at the mouth of the ascending tunnel. Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, andstarted to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quiteyoung, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather,and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw. All right, the boy said quietly. What is it? I don't understand, Syme said. The game, the angle. You've been following me. Do you want trouble? Why, no, Syme told him bewilderedly. I haven't been following you.I— The boy knuckled his chin reflectively. You could be lying, he saidfinally. But maybe I've made a mistake. Then—Okay, citizen, you canclear—but don't let me catch you on my tail again. Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's eyeson the small of his back until he turned the corner. At the nextstreet he took a ramp up, crossed over and came down on the other sidea block away. He waited until he saw the boy's broad figure pass theintersection, and then followed again more cautiously. It was risky, but there was no other way. The signatures, the data,even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his handson it, but the identity card itself—that oblong of dark diamondite,glowing with the tiny fires of radioactivity—that could not beimitated, and the only way to get it was to kill. Up ahead was the Founders' Tower, the tallest building in Lillis. Theboy strode into the entrance lobby, bought a ticket for the observationplatform, and took the elevator. As soon as his car was out of sight inthe transparent tube, Syme followed. He put a half-credit slug into themachine, took the punctured slip of plastic that came out. The ticketwent into a scanning slot in the wall of the car, and the elevatorwhisked him up. <doc-sep>The tower was high, more than a hundred meters above the highest levelof the city, and the curved dome that kept air in Lillis was closeoverhead. Syme looked up, after his first appraising glance about theplatform, and saw the bright-blue pinpoint of Earth. The sight stirreda touch of nostalgia in him, as it always did, but he put it aside. The boy was hunched over the circular balustrade a little distanceaway. Except for him, the platform was empty. Syme loosened his slim,deadly energy pistol in its holster and padded catlike toward thesilent figure. It was over in a minute. The boy whirled as he came up, warned bysome slight sound, or by the breath of Syme's passage in the stillair. He opened his mouth to shout, and brought up his arm in a swift,instinctive gesture. But the blow never landed. Syme's pistol spat itssilent white pencil of flame, and the boy crumpled to the floor with aminute, charred hole in the white leather over his chest. Syme stooped over him swiftly, found a thick wallet and thrust it intohis pocket without a second glance. Then he raised the body in his armsand thrust it over the parapet. It fell, and in the same instant Syme felt a violent tug at his wrist.Before he could move to stop himself, he was over the edge. Too late,he realized what had happened—one of the hooks on the dead spaceman'sharness had caught the heavy wristband of his chronometer. He wasfalling, linked to the body of his victim! Hardly knowing what he did, he lashed out wildly with his other arm,felt his fingertips catch and bite into the edge of the balustrade. Hisbody hit the wall of the tower with a thump, and, a second later, thecorpse below him hit the wall. Then they both hung there, swaying alittle and Syme's fingers slipped a little with each motion. Gritting his teeth, he brought the magnificent muscles of his arm intoplay, raising the forearm against the dead weight of the dangling body.Fraction by slow fraction of an inch, it came up. Syme could feel thesweat pouring from his brow, running saltily into his eyes. His armsfelt as if they were being torn from their sockets. Then the hookslipped free, and the tearing, unbearable weight vanished. The reaction swung Syme against the building again, and he almostlost his slippery hold on the balustrade. After a moment he heard thespaceman's body strike with a squashy thud, somewhere below. He swung up his other arm, got a better grip on the balustrade. Hetried cautiously to get a leg up, but the motion loosened his hold onthe smooth surface again. He relaxed, thinking furiously. He could holdon for another minute at most; then it was the final blast-off. He heard running footsteps, and then a pale face peered over the ledgeat him. He realized suddenly that the whole incident could have takenonly a few seconds. He croaked, Get me up. Wordlessly, the man clasped thin fingers around his wrist. The otherpulled, with much puffing and panting, and with his help Syme managedto get a leg over the edge and hoist his trembling body to safety. Are you all right? <doc-sep>Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. Hisrescuer was tall and thin, of indeterminate age. He had light, sandyhair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes and ahumorous wide mouth. He was still panting. I'm not hurt, Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in hisdark, lean face. Thanks for giving me a hand. You scared hell out of me, said the man. I heard a thud. Ithought—you'd gone over. He looked at Syme questioningly. That was my bag, the outlaw said quickly. It slipped out of my hand,and I overbalanced myself when I grabbed for it. The man sighed. I need a drink. You need a drink. Come on. Hepicked up a small black suitcase from the floor and started for theelevator, then stopped. Oh—your bag. Shouldn't we do something aboutthat? Never mind, said Syme, taking his arm. The shock must have busted itwide open. My laundry is probably all over Lillis by now. They got off at the amusement level, three tiers down, and found acafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had justkilled. He had heard no second thud, so the body must have stayed onthe first outcropping of the tower it struck. It probably wouldn't befound until morning. And he had the wallet. When he paid for the first round of culcha , hetook it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. Thereit was—his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and evenfriendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It wasthe culcha , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morninghe'd find a freighter berth—in as big a spaceport as Lillis, therewere always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, andit was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone. He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall,graceful body back into the softly-cushioned seat. Lissen, said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped,caught himself, and looked at the elbow reproachfully. Lissen, hesaid again, I trust you, Jones. You're obvi-obviously an adventurer,but you have an honest face. I can't see it very well at the moment,but I hic!—pardon—seem to recall it as an honest face. I'm going totell you something, because I need your help!—help. He paused. Ineed a guide. D'you know this part of Mars well? Sure, said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AGplate had been turned on. Five Venusian girls were diving and twistingin its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of theirdelicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilkafter them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glowof culcha inside him. I wanta go to Kal-Jmar, said Tate. Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable sense,a hunch that had served him well before, told him that something bigwas coming—something that promised adventure and loot for Syme Rector.Why? he asked softly. Why to Kal-Jmar? Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms,he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had beenright; it was big. <doc-sep>Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remainingcity of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, hadrisen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectlypreserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how manythousands of years. But they couldn't be reached. For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protectedLillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysisas it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended bothabove and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knewwhat had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors ofthe present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knewanything about them or about Kal-Jmar. In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earthscientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed itfrom every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robotsthat still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then theyhad tried everything they knew to pierce the wall. Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated abloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapiddwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had steppedin and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, anyEarthman to go near the place. Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identicalin properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found aforce that would break it down. And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-fourhours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to SymeRector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand creditson his sleek, tigerish head. Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should notoccur to him that he had been indiscreet. This is native territory we're coming to, Harold, he said. Betterstrap on your gun. Why. Are they really dangerous? They're unpredictable, Syme told him. They're built differently, andthey think differently. They breathe like us, down in their cavernswhere there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen thatway. Yes, I've heard about that, Tate said. Iron oxide—very interestingmetabolism. He got his energy pistol out of the compartment andstrapped it on absently. Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuoushill country in the distance. Not only that, he continued. Theyeat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off thedeserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line toxopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they nevercome near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.When the first colonists came here, they had to learn their crazylanguage. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen differentthings, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same. So you think they might attack us? Tate asked again, nervously. They might do anything, Syme said curtly. Don't worry about it. The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of awilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring onsliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down againon the other side. <doc-sep>Syme stopped the car abruptly as a deep, winding channel appearedacross their path. Gully, he announced. Shall we cross it, or followit? Tate peered through the steelite nose of the car. Follow, I guess,he offered. It seems to go more or less where we're going, and if wecross it we'll only come to a couple dozen more. Syme nodded and moved the sand car up to the edge of the gully. Then hepressed a stud on the control board; a metal arm extruded from the tailof the car and a heavy spike slowly unscrewed from it, driving deepinto the sand. A light on the board flashed, indicating that the spikewas in and would bear the car's weight, and Syme started the car overthe edge. As the little car nosed down into the gully, the metal arm left behindrevealed itself to be attached to a length of thick, very strong wirecable, with a control cord inside. They inched down the almost verticalincline, unreeling the cable behind them, and starting minor landslidesas they descended. Finally they touched bottom. Syme pressed another stud, and above, themetal spike that had supported them screwed itself out of the groundagain and the cable reeled in. Tate had been watching with interest. Very ingenious, he said. Buthow do we get up again? Most of these gullies peter out gradually, said Syme, but if we wantor have to climb out where it's deep, we have a little harpoon gun thatshoots the anchor up on top. Good. I shouldn't like to stay down here for the rest of mynatural life. Depressing view. He looked up at the narrow strip ofalmost-black sky visible from the floor of the gully, and shook hishead. Neither Syme nor Tate ever had a chance to test the efficiency of theirharpoon gun. They had traveled no more than five hundred meters, andthe gully was as deep as ever, when Tate, looking up, saw a deeperblackness blot out part of the black sky directly overhead. He shouted,Look out! and grabbed for the nearest steering lever. The car wheeled around in a half circle and ran into the wall of thegully. Syme was saying, What—? when there was a thunderous crashthat shook the sturdy walls of the car, as a huge boulder smashed intothe ground immediately to their left. When the smoky red dust had cleared away, they saw that the left treadof the sand car was crushed beyond all recognition. Syme was cursing slowly and steadily with a deep, seething anger. Tatesaid, I guess we walk from here on. Then he looked up again andcaught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up the gullytoward them. My God! he said. What are those? Syme looked. Those, he said bitterly, are Martians. The natives, like all Martian fauna, were multi-legged. Also like allMartian fauna, they moved so fast that you couldn't see how many legsthey did have. Actually, however, the natives had six legs apiece—or,more properly, four legs and two arms. Their lungs were not as largeas they appeared, being collapsed at the moment. What caused the bulgethat made their torsos look like sausages was a huge air bladder, witha valve arrangement from the stomach and feeding directly into thebloodstream. Their faces were vaguely canine, but the foreheads were high, and thelips were not split. They did resemble dogs, in that their thick blackfur was splotched with irregulate patches of white. These patches ofwhite were subject to muscular control and could be spread out fanwise;or, conversely, the black could be expanded to cover the white, whichhelped to take care of the extremes of Martian temperature. Right nowthey were mostly black. The natives slowed down and spread out to surround the wrecked sandcar, and it could be seen that most of them were armed with spears,although some had the slim Benson energy guns—strictly forbidden toMartians. Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but heswallowed audibly. One Martian, who looked exactly like all the rest, stepped forward andmotioned unmistakably for the two to come out. He waited a moment andthen gestured with his energy gun. That gun, Syme knew from experience,could burn through a small thickness of steelite if held on the samespot long enough. <doc-sep>Come on, Syme said grimly. He rose and reached for a pressure suit,and Tate followed him. What do you think they'll— he began, and then stopped himself. Iknow. They're unpredictable. Yeah, said Syme, and opened the door. The air in the car whooshed into the near-vacuum outside, and he and Tate stepped out. The Martian leader looked at them enigmatically, then turned andstarted off. The other natives closed in on them, and they all boundedalong under the weak gravity. They bounded along for what Syme figured as a good kilometer and ahalf, and they then reached a branch in the gully and turned downit, going lower all the time. Under the light of their helmet lamps,they could see the walls of the gully—a tunnel, now—getting darkerand more solid. Finally, when Syme estimated they were about ninekilometers down, there was even a suggestion of moisture. The tunnel debouched at last into a large cavern. There was aphosphorescent gleam from fungus along the walls, but Syme couldn'tdecide how far away the far wall was. He noticed something else, though. There's air here, he said to Tate. I can see dust motes in it. Heswitched his helmet microphone from radio over to the audio membraneon the outside of the helmet. Kalis methra , he began haltingly, seltin guna getal. Yes, there is air here, said the Martian leader, startlingly. Notenough for your use, however, so do not open your helmets. Syme swore amazedly. I thought you said they didn't speak Terrestrial, Tate said. Symeignored him. We had our reasons for not doing so, the Martian said. But how—? We are telepaths, of course. On a planet which is nearly airless onits surface, we have to be. A tendency of the Terrestrial mind is toignore the obvious. We have not had a spoken language of our own forseveral thousand years. He darted a glance at Syme's darkly scowling face. His own hairy facewas expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused. Yes, you'reright, he said. The language you and your fellows struggled to learnis a fraud, a hodge-podge concocted to deceive you. Tate looked interested. But why this—this gigantic masquerade? You had nothing to give us, the Martian said simply. Tate frowned, then flushed. You mean you avoided revealing yourselvesbecause you—had nothing to gain from mental intercourse with us? Yes. Tate thought again. But— No, the Martian interrupted him, revealing the extent of ourcivilization would have spared us nothing at your people's hands. Yoursis an imperialist culture, and you would have had Mars, whether youthought you were taking it from equals or not. Never mind that, Syme broke in impatiently. What do you want withus? The Martian looked at him appraisingly. You already suspect.Unfortunately, you must die. <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort. Will you tell us why? Tate asked. You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow. Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus. Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan. There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere. I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course. He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone. Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors. Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we. And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture. We hope to win yet, the Martian said. Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity? The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry. Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian. <doc-sep>It was like tangling with a draft horse. The Martian was astonishinglystrong. Syme scrambled desperately for the gun, got it, but couldn'ttear it out of the Martian's fingers. And all the time he could almostfeel the Martian's telepathic call for help surging out. He heard theswift pad of his followers coming across the cavern. He put everything he had into one mighty, murderous effort. Everymuscle fiber in his superbly trained body crackled and surged withpower. He roared his fury. And the gun twisted out of the Martian'siron grip! He clubbed the prostrate leader with it instantly, then reversed theweapon and snapped a shot at the nearest Martian. The creature droppedhis lance and fell without a sound. The next instant a ray blinked at him, and he rolled out of the waybarely in time. The searing ray cut a swath over the leader's body andswerved to cut down on him. Still rolling, he fired at the holder ofthe weapon. The gun dropped and winked out on the floor. Syme jumped to his feet and faced his enemies, snarling like thetrapped tiger he was. Another ray slashed at him, and he bent lithelyto let it whistle over his head. Another, lower this time. He flippedhis body into the air and landed upright, his gun still blazing. Hisright leg burned fiercely from a ray-graze, but he ignored it. Andall the while he was mowing down the massed natives in great swaths,seeking out the ones armed with Bensons in swift, terrible slashes,dodging spears and other missiles in midair, and roaring at the top ofhis powerful lungs. At last there were none with guns left to oppose him. He scythed downthe rest in two terrible, lightning sweeps of his ray, then droppedthe weapon from blistered fingers. He was gasping for breath, and realized that he was losing air fromthe seared-open right leg of his suit. He reached for the emergencykit at his side, drawing in great, gasping breaths, and fumbled outa tube of sealing liquid. He spread the stuff on liberally, smearingit impartially over flesh and fabric. It felt like liquid hell on theburned, bleeding leg, but he kept on until the quick-drying fluidformed an airtight patch. Only then did he turn, to see Tate flattened against the wall behindhim, his hands empty at his sides. I'm sorry, Tate said miserably. Icould have grabbed a spear or something, but—I just couldn't, not evento save my own life. I—I halfway hoped they'd kill both of us. Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. Heturned and strode out of the cavern, carrying his right leg stiffly,but with his feral, tigerish head held high. He led the way, wordlessly, back to the wrecked sand car. Tate followedhim with a hangdog, beaten air, as though he had just found somethingthat shattered all his previous concepts of the verities in life, anddidn't know what to do about it. Still silently, Syme refilled his oxygen tank, watched Tate do thesame, and then picked up two spare tanks and the precious blacksuitcase and handed one of the tanks to Tate. Then he stumped aroundto the back of the car and inspected the damage. The cable reel, whichmight have drawn them out of the gully, was hopelessly smashed. Thatwas that. <doc-sep>They started off down the canyon, Syme urging the slighter man toa fast clip, even though his leg was already stiffening. When theyfinally reached a climbable spot, Syme was limping badly and Tate wasobviously exhausted. They clambered wearily out onto the level sands again just as thesmall, blazing sun was setting. Luck, grunted Syme. Our only chanceof getting near the city is at night. He peered around, shading hiseyes from the sun's glare with a gauntleted hand. See that? Following his pointing finger, Tate saw a faint, ephemeral arc showingabove a line of low hills in the distance. Kal-Jmar, said Syme. Tate brightened a little. His body was too filled with fatigue for hismind to do any work on the problem that was baffling him, and so itreceded into the back of his mind. Kal-Jmar, whispered Syme again. There was no twilight. The sun dropped abruptly behind the low horizon,and darkness fell, sudden and absolute. Syme picked up the extra oxygentank and the suitcase, checked his direction by a wrist compass, andstarted toward the hills. Tate rose wearily to his feet and followedagain. Two hours later, Kal-Jmar stood before them. They had wormed theirway past the sentry posts, doing most of the last two hundred meterson all fours. With skill and luck, and with Syme's fierce, burningdetermination, they had managed to escape detection—and there theywere. Journey's end. Tate stared up at the shining, starlight towers in speechlessadmiration. If the people who had built this city had been decadent,still their architecture was magnificent. The city was a rhapsody madesolid. There was a sense of decay about it, he thought, but it was thedecay of supreme beauty, caught at the very verge of dissolution andpreserved for all eternity. Well? demanded Syme. Tate started, shaken out of his dream. He looked down at the blacksuitcase, a little wonderingly, and then pulled it to him and opened it. Inside, carefully wrapped in shock-absorbing tissue, was a fragilecontrivance of many tubes and wires, and a tiny parabolic mirror. Ithad a brand new Elecorp 210 volt battery, and it needed every volt ofthat tremendous power. Tate made the connections, his hands tremblingslightly, and set it up on a telescoping tripod. Syme watched himclosely, his big body tensed with expectation. The field was before them, shimmering faintly in the starlight. Itlooked unsubstantial as the stuff of dreams, but both men knew that nopower man possessed, unless it was the thing Tate held, could penetratethat screen. Tate set the mechanism up close to the field, aimed it very delicately,and closed a minute switch. After a long second, he opened it again. Nothing happened. The screen was still there, as unsubstantial and as solid as ever.There was no change. <doc-sep>Tate looked worriedly at his wiring, a deep wrinkle appearing betweenhis pale, serious eyes. Syme stood stock-still but quivering withrepressed energy, scowling like a thundercloud. It must be capable of working, Tate told himself querulously. TheMartians knew—they wouldn't have tried to stop us if—Wait a minute.He paced back and forth, biting his lip. Syme watched him with catlikeeyes, clenching and unclenching his great fists. Tate paused. I think I have it, he said slowly. I haven't enoughpower to hetrodyne the whole screen, although that's theoreticallypossible. But there must be weaker portions of the field—doors—setto open on the impact of a beam like this one. But I've only got powerenough for two more tries. Jones, where would you put an entrance, ifyou'd built Kal-Jmar? Syme's eyes widened, and he stared around slowly. A thousand yearsago? he muttered. Two thousand? These hills were raised in fivehundred. We can't go by topography. In front of one of the main arteries, then. But there are dozens, noone larger than the other. Did they have dozens of doors? Maybe, said Tate. He pointed to the right, where the fairy towers ofKal-Jmar swept aside to leave a broad avenue. It's the nearest—asgood as any other. They walked over to it in silence, and in silence Tate set up hisequipment once more. He shifted it from side to side, squinting, untilhe had it lined up exactly on the center of the avenue. Then he took along breath, and closed the switch again. The switch came up. Syme stared with fierce eagerness, eyes ablaze. Fora moment there was nothing, and then— Tate clutched the big man's arm. Look! he breathed. Where the ray from Tate's machine had impinged, a faintly-glowingspot of violet radiance! As they watched it widened, dilating into aperfect circle of violet, enclosing nothingness. The door was opening. It worked, Tate said softly. It worked! Syme shook off his grip impatiently, put his hand to the gun in theholster of his suit. Tate was still watching, fascinated. Look, hesaid again. The color is changing slightly, falling down the spectrum.I think that's a warning signal. When it reaches red, the door willclose. He moved toward the widening door, like a sleepwalker. Wait, Syme said hoarsely. You forgot the machine. Tate turned, said, Oh yes, and walked back. Then he saw the gun inSyme's hand. His jaw dropped slightly, but he didn't say anything. Hejust stood there, looking dumbly from the gun to Syme's dark face. Syme shot him carefully in the chest. He dropped like a rag doll, but Syme's aim had been bad. He wasn't deadyet. He rolled his eyes up, like a child. His lips moved. In spite ofhimself, Syme bent forward to listen. You'll be — sorry , Tate said, and died. Air was sighing out through the widening hole in the screen. Symestraightened and smiled tolerantly. For a moment, he had beenunreasonably afraid of what Tate was about to say. Some detail he hadforgotten, perhaps, something that would trap him now that Tate, theman who knew the answers, was dead. But—he'd be sorry! For what? Another dead fool? He gathered up the delicate mechanism in one arm, and, filling his deeplungs, stepped forward through the opening. <doc-sep>The towers of dead Kal-Jmar loomed over him in the dusk as he strodelike a conqueror down the long-deserted avenue. The city was full ofthe whisperings of Kal-Jmar's ancient wraiths, but they touched onlya corner of his mind. He was filled to overflowing with the bright,glowing joy of conquest. The city was his! His boots trod an avenue where no foot had fallen these untold eons,yet there was no dust. The city was bright and furbished waiting forhim. He was intoxicated. The city was his! There was a gentle ramp leading upward, and Syme followed it, breathingin the manufactured air of his pressure suit like wine. All around him,the city blazed with treasures beyond price. It was his! The ramp led to a portal set in the side of a shining needle of abuilding. Syme strode up to the threshold, and the door dilated forhim. He stepped inside; the door closed and a soft light glowed on. There was air here: good, breathable air. A tiny zephyr of it wasblowing from some hidden source against his body. Greatly daring, heunfastened the helmet of his suit and flung it back. He breathed in alungful of it. God, but it was good after that canned stuff! It was alittle heady; it made his head swim—but it was good air, excellent air! He looked around him, measuring, assessing for the first time. Thisroom alone was worth a fortune. There was platinum; in ornaments, setinto the walls, in furniture. That would be enough to buy the littlethings—a new ship, or perhaps even immunity back on Earth. But thatwas as nothing to the rest of it, the things three worlds would clamorfor—the artifacts, the record books, the machines! He strode about the room, building plan on grandiose plan. He couldtake back only a little with him at first; but he could return againand again, with Tate's mechanism and new batteries. But he'd explorethe city thoroughly before he left. Somewhere there must be weapons. Aninvincible weapon, perhaps, that a man could carry in his hand. Perhapseven a perfect body screen. With that he wouldn't have to steal awayfrom Mars on a freighter, hiding his loot and his greatness in a dingyengine room. He could walk into a Triplanet ship and order its captainto take him wherever he chose to go! <doc-sep>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth. They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought. And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled. But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the xopa fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse. And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof xopa -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings.... Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the Martians in the story.

From the humans' perspective, the Martians are strange, unpredictable beings. They eat sand to get their oxygen, and lichens, fungi, and tumble-grass from the deserts, all of which contain substances like arsenic that are deadly poisons to humans. The humans believe the Martians cannot or will not learn their language, Terrestrial, and that they have their own language. In it, every word can have multiple meanings depending on the inflection used by the speaker. In truth, the Martians have been telepathic for several thousand years because the planet is practically airless. They are clever and only pretend not to understand Terrestrial, and they make up their complicated language to deceive the humans. Martians want no contact with humans because the Martians have nothing to gain from contact with them. They see the humans as imperialistic. They plan to kill Rector and Tate as part of their concept of justice. The Martians know that Kal-Jmar holds the secret that would make Mars have an Earthlike atmosphere within fifty years. The ancient Kal-Jmar Martians were the contemporaries of the current Martians' ancestors. When the atmosphere of Mars began thinning several thousand years earlier, the Kal-Jmar Martians sealed themselves in their dome where they died of plague and other causes, while the other Martians adapted to the change. The Martians look like they have six legs but really have four legs and two arms. Their torsos bulge because they have a huge air bladder. They look a bit like dogs but have high foreheads and lips that are not split. They are covered with patches of black and white fur; with their muscles, they can control the patches so that they are primarily black or white, depending on the temperature. They can use weapons and are armed with spears and Benson guns when they confront Rector and Tate.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN by KEITH LAUMER Retief knew the importance of sealed orders—and the need to keep them that way! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief. Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel— Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience. He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet. The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results. He passed the buff envelope across to Retief. I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived. Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear? Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe? Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour. What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet. When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me. <doc-sep>The mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spattoward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen. They's shootin' goin' on down there, he said. See them white puffsover the edge of the desert? I'm supposed to be preventing the war, said Retief. It looks likeI'm a little late. The pilot's head snapped around. War? he yelped. Nobody told me theywas a war goin' on on 'Dobe. If that's what that is, I'm gettin' out ofhere. Hold on, said Retief. I've got to get down. They won't shoot at you. They shore won't, sonny. I ain't givin' 'em the chance. He startedpunching keys on the console. Retief reached out, caught his wrist. Maybe you didn't hear me. I said I've got to get down. The pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that Retiefblocked casually. Are you nuts? the pilot screeched. They's plentyshootin' goin' on fer me to see it fifty miles out. The mail must go through, you know. Okay! You're so dead set on gettin' killed, you take the skiff. I'lltell 'em to pick up the remains next trip. You're a pal. I'll take your offer. The pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. Get in.We're closin' fast. Them birds might take it into their heads to lobone this way.... Retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over thecontrols. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed Retief aheavy old-fashioned power pistol. Long as you're goin' in, might aswell take this. Thanks. Retief shoved the pistol in his belt. I hope you're wrong. I'll see they pick you up when the shootin's over—one way or another. The hatch clanked shut. A moment later there was a jar as the skiffdropped away, followed by heavy buffeting in the backwash from thedeparting mail boat. Retief watched the tiny screen, hands on themanual controls. He was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty-nine.... A crimson blip showed on the screen, moving out. Retief felt sweat pop out on his forehead. The red blip meant heavyradiation from a warhead. Somebody was playing around with an outlawedbut by no means unheard of fission weapon. But maybe it was just on ahigh trajectory and had no connection with the skiff.... Retief altered course to the south. The blip followed. He checked instrument readings, gripped the controls, watching. Thiswas going to be tricky. The missile bored closer. At five miles Retiefthrew the light skiff into maximum acceleration, straight toward theoncoming bomb. Crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen,correcting course minutely. The proximity fuse should be set for nomore than 1000 yards. At a combined speed of two miles per second, the skiff flashed pastthe missile, and Retief was slammed violently against the restrainingharness in the concussion of the explosion ... a mile astern, andharmless. Then the planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed.Retief shook his head, kicked in the emergency retro-drive. Pointsof light arced up from the planet face below. If they were ordinarychemical warheads the skiff's meteor screens should handle them. Thescreen flashed brilliant white, then went dark. The skiff flipped onits back. Smoke filled the tiny compartment. There was a series ofshocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by theping of hot metal contracting. <doc-sep>Coughing, Retief disengaged himself from the shock-webbing. He beatout sparks in his lap, groped underfoot for the hatch and wrenched itopen. A wave of hot jungle air struck him. He lowered himself to a bedof shattered foliage, got to his feet ... and dropped flat as a bulletwhined past his ear. He lay listening. Stealthy movements were audible from the left. He inched his way to the shelter of a broad-boled dwarf tree. Somewherea song lizard burbled. Whining insects circled, scented alien life,buzzed off. There was another rustle of foliage from the underbrushfive yards away. A bush quivered, then a low bough dipped. Retief edged back around the trunk, eased down behind a fallen log.A stocky man in grimy leather shirt and shorts appeared, movingcautiously, a pistol in his hand. As he passed, Retief rose, leaped the log and tackled him. They went down together. The stranger gave one short yell, thenstruggled in silence. Retief flipped him onto his back, raised a fist— Hey! the settler yelled. You're as human as I am! Maybe I'll look better after a shave, said Retief. What's the ideaof shooting at me? Lemme up. My name's Potter. Sorry 'bout that. I figured it was aFlap-jack boat; looks just like 'em. I took a shot when I saw somethingmove. Didn't know it was a Terrestrial. Who are you? What you doin'here? We're pretty close to the edge of the oases. That's Flap-jackcountry over there. He waved a hand toward the north, where the desertlay. I'm glad you're a poor shot. That missile was too close for comfort. Missile, eh? Must be Flap-jack artillery. We got nothing like that. I heard there was a full-fledged war brewing, said Retief. I didn'texpect— Good! Potter said. We figured a few of you boys from Ivory would bejoining up when you heard. You are from Ivory? Yes. I'm— Hey, you must be Lemuel's cousin. Good night! I pretty near made a badmistake. Lemuel's a tough man to explain something to. I'm— Keep your head down. These damn Flap-jacks have got some wicked handweapons. Come on.... He moved off silently on all fours. Retieffollowed. They crossed two hundred yards of rough country before Pottergot to his feet, took out a soggy bandana and mopped his face. You move good for a city man. I thought you folks on Ivory just satunder those domes and read dials. But I guess bein' Lemuel's cousin youwas raised different. As a matter of fact— Have to get you some real clothes, though. Those city duds don't standup on 'Dobe. Retief looked down at the charred, torn and sweat-soaked powder-blueblazer and slacks. This outfit seemed pretty rough-and-ready back home, he said. But Iguess leather has its points. Let's get on back to camp. We'll just about make it by sundown.And, look. Don't say anything to Lemuel about me thinking you were aFlap-jack. I won't, but— Potter was on his way, loping off up a gentle slope. Retief pulled offthe sodden blazer, dropped it over a bush, added his string tie andfollowed Potter. II We're damn glad you're here, mister, said a fat man with tworevolvers belted across his paunch. We can use every hand. We're inbad shape. We ran into the Flap-jacks three months ago and we haven'tmade a smart move since. First, we thought they were a native form wehadn't run into before. Fact is, one of the boys shot one, thinkin' itwas fair game. I guess that was the start of it. He stirred the fire,added a stick. And then a bunch of 'em hit Swazey's farm here, Potter said. Killedtwo of his cattle, and pulled back. I figure they thought the cows were people, said Swazey. They wereout for revenge. How could anybody think a cow was folks? another man put in. Theydon't look nothin' like— Don't be so dumb, Bert, said Swazey. They'd never seen Terriesbefore. They know better now. Bert chuckled. Sure do. We showed 'em the next time, didn't we,Potter? Got four. They walked right up to my place a couple days after the first time,Swazey said. We were ready for 'em. Peppered 'em good. They cut andrun. Flopped, you mean. Ugliest lookin' critters you ever saw. Look justlike a old piece of dirty blanket humpin' around. It's been goin' on this way ever since. They raid and then we raid.But lately they've been bringing some big stuff into it. They've gotsome kind of pint-sized airships and automatic rifles. We've lost fourmen now and a dozen more in the freezer, waiting for the med ship. Wecan't afford it. The colony's got less than three hundred able-bodiedmen. But we're hanging onto our farms, said Potter. All these oases areold sea-beds—a mile deep, solid topsoil. And there's a couple ofhundred others we haven't touched yet. The Flap-jacks won't get 'emwhile there's a man alive. The whole system needs the food we can raise, Bert said. These farmswe're trying to start won't be enough but they'll help. We been yellin' for help to the CDT, over on Ivory, said Potter. Butyou know these Embassy stooges. We heard they were sending some kind of bureaucrat in here to tellus to get out and give the oases to the Flap-jacks, said Swazey. Hetightened his mouth. We're waitin' for him.... Meanwhile we got reinforcements comin' up, eh, boys? Bert winked atRetief. We put out the word back home. We all got relatives on Ivoryand Verde. Shut up, you damn fool! a deep voice grated. Lemuel! Potter said. Nobody else could sneak up on us like that. If I'd a been a Flap-jack; I'd of et you alive, the newcomer said,moving into the ring of fire, a tall, broad-faced man in grimy leather.He eyed Retief. Who's that? What do ya mean? Potter spoke in the silence. He's your cousin.... He ain't no cousin of mine, Lemuel said slowly. He stepped to Retief. Who you spyin' for, stranger? he rasped. <doc-sep>Retief got to his feet. I think I should explain— A short-nosed automatic appeared in Lemuel's hand, a clashing noteagainst his fringed buckskins. Skip the talk. I know a fink when I see one. Just for a change, I'd like to finish a sentence, said Retief. And Isuggest you put your courage back in your pocket before it bites you. You talk too damned fancy to suit me. Maybe. But I'm talking to suit me. Now, for the last time, put itaway. Lemuel stared at Retief. You givin' me orders...? Retief's left fist shot out, smacked Lemuel's face dead center. Hestumbled back, blood starting from his nose; the pistol fired into thedirt as he dropped it. He caught himself, jumped for Retief ... and meta straight right that snapped him onto his back: out cold. Wow! said Potter. The stranger took Lem ... in two punches! One, said Swazey. That first one was just a love tap. Bert froze. Hark, boys, he whispered. In the sudden silence a nightlizard called. Retief strained, heard nothing. He narrowed his eyes,peered past the fire— With a swift lunge he seized up the bucket of drinking water, dashed itover the fire, threw himself flat. He heard the others hit the dirt asplit second behind him. You move fast for a city man, breathed Swazey beside him. You seepretty good too. We'll split and take 'em from two sides. You and Bertfrom the left, me and Potter from the right. No, said Retief. You wait here. I'm going out alone. What's the idea...? Later. Sit tight and keep your eyes open. Retief took a bearing on atreetop faintly visible against the sky and started forward. <doc-sep>Five minutes' stealthy progress brought him to a slight rise of ground.With infinite caution he raised himself, risking a glance over anout-cropping of rock. The stunted trees ended just ahead. Beyond, he could make out the dimcontour of rolling desert. Flap-jack country. He got to his feet,clambered over the stone—still hot after a day of tropical heat—andmoved forward twenty yards. Around him he saw nothing but drifted sand,palely visible in the starlight, and the occasional shadow of juttingshale slabs. Behind him the jungle was still. He sat down on the ground to wait. It was ten minutes before a movement caught his eye. Something hadseparated itself from a dark mass of stone, glided across a few yardsof open ground to another shelter. Retief watched. Minutes passed. Theshape moved again, slipped into a shadow ten feet distant. Retief feltthe butt of the power pistol with his elbow. His guess had better beright this time.... There was a sudden rasp, like leather against concrete, and a flurry ofsand as the Flap-jack charged. Retief rolled aside, then lunged, threw his weight on the floppingFlap-jack—a yard square, three inches thick at the center and allmuscle. The ray-like creature heaved up, curled backward, its edgerippling, to stand on the flattened rim of its encircling sphincter.It scrabbled with prehensile fringe-tentacles for a grip on Retief'sshoulders. He wrapped his arms around the alien and struggled to hisfeet. The thing was heavy. A hundred pounds at least. Fighting as itwas, it seemed more like five hundred. The Flap-jack reversed its tactics, went limp. Retief grabbed, felt athumb slip into an orifice— The alien went wild. Retief hung on, dug the thumb in deeper. Sorry, fellow, he muttered between clenched teeth. Eye-gouging isn'tgentlemanly, but it's effective.... The Flap-jack fell still, only its fringes rippling slowly. Retiefrelaxed the pressure of his thumb; the alien gave a tentative jerk; thethumb dug in. The alien went limp again, waiting. Now we understand each other, said Retief. Take me to your leader. <doc-sep>Twenty minutes' walk into the desert brought Retief to a low rampartof thorn branches: the Flap-jacks' outer defensive line against Terryforays. It would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by theFlap-jacks. He sat down and eased the weight of his captive off hisback, but kept a firm thumb in place. If his analysis of the situationwas correct, a Flap-jack picket should be along before too long.... A penetrating beam of red light struck Retief in the face, blinked off.He got to his feet. The captive Flap-jack rippled its fringe in anagitated way. Retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket. Sit tight, he said. Don't try to do anything hasty.... His remarkswere falling on deaf ears—or no ears at all—but the thumb spoke asloudly as words. There was a slither of sand. Another. He became aware of a ring ofpresences drawing closer. Retief tightened his grip on the alien. He could see a dark shape now,looming up almost to his own six-three. It looked like the Flap-jackscame in all sizes. A low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. It strummed on, fadedout. Retief cocked his head, frowning. Try it two octaves higher, he said. Awwrrp! Sorry. Is that better? a clear voice came from the darkness. That's fine, Retief said. I'm here to arrange a prisoner exchange. Prisoners? But we have no prisoners. Sure you have. Me. Is it a deal? Ah, yes, of course. Quite equitable. What guarantees do you require? The word of a gentleman is sufficient. Retief released the alien. Itflopped once, disappeared into the darkness. If you'd care to accompany me to our headquarters, the voice said,we can discuss our mutual concerns in comfort. Delighted. Red lights blinked briefly. Retief glimpsed a gap in the thornybarrier, stepped through it. He followed dim shapes across warm sand toa low cave-like entry, faintly lit with a reddish glow. I must apologize for the awkward design of our comfort-dome, said thevoice. Had we known we would be honored by a visit— Think nothing of it, Retief said. We diplomats are trained to crawl. Inside, with knees bent and head ducked under the five-foot ceiling,Retief looked around at the walls of pink-toned nacre, a floor likeburgundy-colored glass spread with silken rugs and a low table ofpolished red granite that stretched down the center of the spaciousroom, set out with silver dishes and rose-crystal drinking-tubes. III Let me congratulate you, the voice said. Retief turned. An immense Flap-jack, hung with crimson trappings,rippled at his side. The voice issued from a disk strapped to its back.You fight well. I think we will find in each other worthy adversaries. Thanks. I'm sure the test would be interesting, but I'm hoping we canavoid it. Avoid it? Retief heard a low humming coming from the speaker in thesilence. Well, let us dine, the mighty Flap-jack said at last. Wecan resolve these matters later. I am called Hoshick of the Mosaic ofthe Two Dawns. I'm Retief. Hoshick waited expectantly, ... of the Mountain of RedTape, Retief added. Take place, Retief, said Hoshick. I hope you won't find our rudecouches uncomfortable. Two other large Flap-jacks came into the room,communed silently with Hoshick. Pray forgive our lack of translatingdevices, he said to Retief. Permit me to introduce my colleagues.... A small Flap-jack rippled the chamber bearing on its back a silver trayladen with aromatic food. The waiter served the four diners, filled thedrinking tubes with yellow wine. It smelled good. I trust you'll find these dishes palatable, said Hoshick. Ourmetabolisms are much alike, I believe. Retief tried the food. It had adelicious nut-like flavor. The wine was indistinguishable from Chateaud'Yquem. It was an unexpected pleasure to encounter your party here,said Hoshick. I confess at first we took you for an indigenousearth-grubbing form, but we were soon disabused of that notion. Heraised a tube, manipulating it deftly with his fringe tentacles. Retiefreturned the salute and drank. Of course, Hoshick continued, as soon as we realized that you weresportsmen like ourselves, we attempted to make amends by providing abit of activity for you. We've ordered out our heavier equipment and afew trained skirmishers and soon we'll be able to give you an adequateshow. Or so I hope. Additional skirmishers? said Retief. How many, if you don't mind myasking? For the moment, perhaps only a few hundred. There-after ... well,I'm sure we can arrange that between us. Personally I would prefer acontest of limited scope. No nuclear or radiation-effect weapons. Sucha bore, screening the spawn for deviations. Though I confess we've comeupon some remarkably useful sports. The rangerform such as you madecaptive, for example. Simple-minded, of course, but a fantasticallykeen tracker. Oh, by all means, Retief said. No atomics. As you pointed out,spawn-sorting is a nuisance, and then too, it's wasteful of troops. Ah, well, they are after all expendable. But we agree: no atomics.Have you tried the ground-gwack eggs? Rather a specialty of myMosaic.... Delicious, said Retief. I wonder. Have you considered eliminatingweapons altogether? <doc-sep>A scratchy sound issued from the disk. Pardon my laughter, Hoshicksaid, but surely you jest? As a matter of fact, said Retief, we ourselves seldom use weapons. I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved theuse of a weapon by one of your units. My apologies, said Retief. The—ah—the skirmishform failed torecognize that he was dealing with a sportsman. Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons.... Hoshicksignaled and the servant refilled tubes. There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned, Retief went on. I hopeyou won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishformsthink of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certainspecific life-forms. Oh? Curious. What forms are those? Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, butlacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of suchworthy adversaries as yourself as varmints. Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you topoint it out. Hoshick clucked in dismay. I see that skirmishforms aremuch the same among you as with us: lacking in perception. He laughedscratchily. Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints. Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up againsta serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actionsso dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end tothese contests altogether.... Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.What are you saying? he gasped. Are you proposing that Hoshick ofthe Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....? Sir! said Retief sternly. You forget yourself. I, Retief of the RedTape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with thenewest sporting principles. New? cried Hoshick. My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'menthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate. It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and thetwo individuals settle the issue between them. I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance couldone attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms? I haven't made myself clear, said Retief. He took a sip of wine. Wedon't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe. You don't mean...? That's right. You and me. <doc-sep>Outside on the starlit sand Retief tossed aside the power pistol,followed it with the leather shirt Swazey had lent him. By the faintlight he could just make out the towering figure of the Flap-jackrearing up before him, his trappings gone. A silent rank of Flap-jackretainers were grouped behind him. I fear I must lay aside the translator now, Retief, said Hoshick.He sighed and rippled his fringe tentacles. My spawn-fellows willnever credit this. Such a curious turn fashion has taken. How muchmore pleasant it is to observe the action of the skirmishforms from adistance. I suggest we use Tennessee rules, said Retief. They're very liberal.Biting, gouging, stomping, kneeing and of course choking, as well asthe usual punching, shoving and kicking. Hmmm. These gambits seem geared to forms employing rigidendo-skeletons; I fear I shall be at a disadvantage. Of course, Retief said, if you'd prefer a more plebeian type ofcontest.... By no means. But perhaps we could rule out tentacle-twisting, just toeven it. Very well. Shall we begin? With a rush Hoshick threw himself at Retief, who ducked, whirled, andleaped on the Flap-jack's back ... and felt himself flipped clear bya mighty ripple of the alien's slab-like body. Retief rolled asideas Hoshick turned on him; he jumped to his feet and threw a righthay-maker to Hoshick's mid-section. The alien whipped his left fringearound in an arc that connected with Retief's jaw, sent him spinningonto his back ... and Hoshick's weight struck him. Retief twisted, tried to roll. The flat body of the alien blanketedhim. He worked an arm free, drumming blows on the leathery back.Hoshick nestled closer. Retief's air was running out. He heaved up against the smotheringweight. Nothing budged. It was like burial under a dump-truck-load of concrete. He remembered the rangerform he had captured. The sensitive orificehad been placed ventrally, in what would be the thoracic area.... He groped, felt tough hide set with horny granules. He would be missingskin tomorrow ... if there was a tomorrow. His thumb found the orificeand probed. The Flap-jack recoiled. Retief held fast, probed deeper, groping withthe other hand. If the alien were bilaterally symmetrical there wouldbe a set of ready made hand-holds.... <doc-sep>There were. Retief dug in and the Flap-jack writhed, pulled away. Retief held on,scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell ontop of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, floppedin terror, then went limp. Retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard.Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and movedgingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assistedhim into his trappings, strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily,adjusted the volume. There is much to be said for the old system, he said. What a burdenone's sportsmanship places on one at times. Great sport, wasn't it? said Retief. Now, I know you'll be eager tocontinue. If you'll just wait while I run back and fetch some of ourgougerforms— May hide-ticks devour the gougerforms! Hoshick bellowed. You'vegiven me such a sprong-ache as I'll remember each spawning-time for ayear. Speaking of hide-ticks, said Retief, we've developed a biterform— Enough! Hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on hishide. Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I hadhoped.... He broke off, drew a rasping breath. I had hoped, Retief,he said, speaking sadly now, to find a new land here where I mightplan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a cropof paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. Butmy spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerformswithout end. I am shamed before you.... To tell you the truth, I'm old-fashioned myself. I'd rather watch theaction from a distance too. But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude. My spawn-fellows aren't here. And besides, didn't I mention it? Noone who's really in the know would think of engaging in competition bymere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling thesand, raising lichens—things like that— That on which we dined but now, said Hoshick, and from which thewine is made. The big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition.Now, if you'd like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we'llpromise to stick to the oases and vegetables. Hoshick curled his back in attention. Retief, you're quite serious?You would leave all the fair sand hills to us? The whole works, Hoshick. I'll take the oases. Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. Once again you have outdoneme, Retief, he cried. This time, in generosity. We'll talk over the details later. I'm sure we can establish a set ofrules that will satisfy all parties. Now I've got to get back. I thinksome of the gougerforms are waiting to see me. IV It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreedon with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stoodup. There you are, he said. We been wonderin' whether to go out afteryou. Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out araw-boned hand. Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, Ithought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT. Bert came up behind Lemuel. How do you know he ain't, Lemuel? hesaid. Maybe he— Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. Nextcotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse'n that. Tell me, said Retief. How are you boys fixed for wine? Wine? Mister, we been livin' on stump water for a year now. 'Dobe'sfatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker. Try this. Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork,sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel. Mister, where'd you get that? The Flap-jacks make it. Here's another question for you: Would youconcede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peaceguarantee? At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief.We'll make any reasonable deal, he said. I guess they got as muchright here as we have. I think we'd agree to a fifty-fifty split.That'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side. What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them thedesert? Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. Keep talkin',mister, he said. I think you got yourself a deal. <doc-sep>Consul Passwyn glanced up at Retief, went on perusing a paper. Sit down, Retief, he said absently. I thought you were over onPueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert. I'm back. Passwyn eyed him sharply. Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speakup. Don't expect me to request any military assistance, no matter howthings are.... Retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. Here's theTreaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact declaration and a trade agreement. Eh? Passwyn picked up the papers, riffled through them. He leanedback in his chair, beamed. Well, Retief. Expeditiously handled. He stopped, blinked at Retief.You seem to have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you've been conductingyourself as befits a member of the Embassy staff. I attended a sporting event, Retief said. One of the players got alittle excited. Well ... it's one of the hazards of the profession. One mustpretend an interest in such matters. Passwyn rose, extended a hand.You've done well, my boy. Let this teach you the value of followinginstructions to the letter. Outside, by the hall incinerator drop, Retief paused long enough totake from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and dropit in the slot. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story begins with Consul Passwyn giving an assignment in a sealed envelope to Vice-Consul Retief, who is a diplomat with the Embassy. His mission is to visit the planet of Adobe and broker a land treaty between the Terrestrial settlers and an invading species, the Jaq. Before Retief leaves, Passwyn stresses the importance of following his orders exactly as written and acknowledges that no one from the Embassy has visited Adobe before, nor do they know the characteristics of the Jaq. Retief gets a ride to Adobe on a mail carrier with the help of a veteran pilot. When the pilot discovers they are entering the planet in the midst of war, he decides to leave on a lifeboat and gives control of the skiff to Retief. Then, Retief crash lands the skiff in order to avoid being blown up by a fission missile that was tracking him on his course. He lands in the middle of an Adoban oasis and immediately encounters a Terrestrial man named Potter, who confuses him for the cousin of one of his associates, Lemuel. Potter tells Retief about his group's history with the Jaqs, whom he refers to as "Flap-jacks" due to their wide, flat, tentacled bodies. Along with a team of settlers including Swazey, Lemuel, and Bert, Potter has been spending his days protecting his farms against attacks by the Jaqs after they mistakenly killed one three months prior, having mistaken it for one of the native species. Potter and his team do not trust the Embassy, having heard they are sending a representative to tell them to ceded control of the oases to the Jaqs. When they discover Retief is not Lemuel's cousin, Lemuel confronts Retief, who swiftly establishes his authority by knocking him out cold. When the group senses a Jaq nearby, Retief insists on dealing with the issue by himself. He hunts down the Jaq, they wrestle, and he assumes control by pressing his thumb against the Jaq’s eye hole. The captive Jaq leads Retief to the Jaq headquarters, where he is introduced to their leader, Hoshick. Retief discovers the affability of the species and particularly their penchant for proper sportsmanship. He uses this knowledge to his advantage, and convinces Hoshick that it would be more sportsmanlike to abandon the war efforts and solve their differences through a simple wrestling match. Once again, he wins the match by squeezing his thumb against Hoshick’s eye hole, and he convinces Hoshick to agree to cede control of the entirety of the oases to the Terrestrials and his people would be gifted all of the planets’ desert areas. Upon returning to the Embassy, Retief tells Consul Passwyn the good news and then burns the envelope Passwyn had given him at the beginning of the story.

What is the relationship between the Jaqs and the Terrestrials throughout the story? [SEP] <s> RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN by KEITH LAUMER Retief knew the importance of sealed orders—and the need to keep them that way! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief. Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel— Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience. He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet. The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results. He passed the buff envelope across to Retief. I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived. Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear? Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe? Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour. What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet. When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me. <doc-sep>The mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spattoward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen. They's shootin' goin' on down there, he said. See them white puffsover the edge of the desert? I'm supposed to be preventing the war, said Retief. It looks likeI'm a little late. The pilot's head snapped around. War? he yelped. Nobody told me theywas a war goin' on on 'Dobe. If that's what that is, I'm gettin' out ofhere. Hold on, said Retief. I've got to get down. They won't shoot at you. They shore won't, sonny. I ain't givin' 'em the chance. He startedpunching keys on the console. Retief reached out, caught his wrist. Maybe you didn't hear me. I said I've got to get down. The pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that Retiefblocked casually. Are you nuts? the pilot screeched. They's plentyshootin' goin' on fer me to see it fifty miles out. The mail must go through, you know. Okay! You're so dead set on gettin' killed, you take the skiff. I'lltell 'em to pick up the remains next trip. You're a pal. I'll take your offer. The pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. Get in.We're closin' fast. Them birds might take it into their heads to lobone this way.... Retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over thecontrols. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed Retief aheavy old-fashioned power pistol. Long as you're goin' in, might aswell take this. Thanks. Retief shoved the pistol in his belt. I hope you're wrong. I'll see they pick you up when the shootin's over—one way or another. The hatch clanked shut. A moment later there was a jar as the skiffdropped away, followed by heavy buffeting in the backwash from thedeparting mail boat. Retief watched the tiny screen, hands on themanual controls. He was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty-nine.... A crimson blip showed on the screen, moving out. Retief felt sweat pop out on his forehead. The red blip meant heavyradiation from a warhead. Somebody was playing around with an outlawedbut by no means unheard of fission weapon. But maybe it was just on ahigh trajectory and had no connection with the skiff.... Retief altered course to the south. The blip followed. He checked instrument readings, gripped the controls, watching. Thiswas going to be tricky. The missile bored closer. At five miles Retiefthrew the light skiff into maximum acceleration, straight toward theoncoming bomb. Crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen,correcting course minutely. The proximity fuse should be set for nomore than 1000 yards. At a combined speed of two miles per second, the skiff flashed pastthe missile, and Retief was slammed violently against the restrainingharness in the concussion of the explosion ... a mile astern, andharmless. Then the planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed.Retief shook his head, kicked in the emergency retro-drive. Pointsof light arced up from the planet face below. If they were ordinarychemical warheads the skiff's meteor screens should handle them. Thescreen flashed brilliant white, then went dark. The skiff flipped onits back. Smoke filled the tiny compartment. There was a series ofshocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by theping of hot metal contracting. <doc-sep>Coughing, Retief disengaged himself from the shock-webbing. He beatout sparks in his lap, groped underfoot for the hatch and wrenched itopen. A wave of hot jungle air struck him. He lowered himself to a bedof shattered foliage, got to his feet ... and dropped flat as a bulletwhined past his ear. He lay listening. Stealthy movements were audible from the left. He inched his way to the shelter of a broad-boled dwarf tree. Somewherea song lizard burbled. Whining insects circled, scented alien life,buzzed off. There was another rustle of foliage from the underbrushfive yards away. A bush quivered, then a low bough dipped. Retief edged back around the trunk, eased down behind a fallen log.A stocky man in grimy leather shirt and shorts appeared, movingcautiously, a pistol in his hand. As he passed, Retief rose, leaped the log and tackled him. They went down together. The stranger gave one short yell, thenstruggled in silence. Retief flipped him onto his back, raised a fist— Hey! the settler yelled. You're as human as I am! Maybe I'll look better after a shave, said Retief. What's the ideaof shooting at me? Lemme up. My name's Potter. Sorry 'bout that. I figured it was aFlap-jack boat; looks just like 'em. I took a shot when I saw somethingmove. Didn't know it was a Terrestrial. Who are you? What you doin'here? We're pretty close to the edge of the oases. That's Flap-jackcountry over there. He waved a hand toward the north, where the desertlay. I'm glad you're a poor shot. That missile was too close for comfort. Missile, eh? Must be Flap-jack artillery. We got nothing like that. I heard there was a full-fledged war brewing, said Retief. I didn'texpect— Good! Potter said. We figured a few of you boys from Ivory would bejoining up when you heard. You are from Ivory? Yes. I'm— Hey, you must be Lemuel's cousin. Good night! I pretty near made a badmistake. Lemuel's a tough man to explain something to. I'm— Keep your head down. These damn Flap-jacks have got some wicked handweapons. Come on.... He moved off silently on all fours. Retieffollowed. They crossed two hundred yards of rough country before Pottergot to his feet, took out a soggy bandana and mopped his face. You move good for a city man. I thought you folks on Ivory just satunder those domes and read dials. But I guess bein' Lemuel's cousin youwas raised different. As a matter of fact— Have to get you some real clothes, though. Those city duds don't standup on 'Dobe. Retief looked down at the charred, torn and sweat-soaked powder-blueblazer and slacks. This outfit seemed pretty rough-and-ready back home, he said. But Iguess leather has its points. Let's get on back to camp. We'll just about make it by sundown.And, look. Don't say anything to Lemuel about me thinking you were aFlap-jack. I won't, but— Potter was on his way, loping off up a gentle slope. Retief pulled offthe sodden blazer, dropped it over a bush, added his string tie andfollowed Potter. II We're damn glad you're here, mister, said a fat man with tworevolvers belted across his paunch. We can use every hand. We're inbad shape. We ran into the Flap-jacks three months ago and we haven'tmade a smart move since. First, we thought they were a native form wehadn't run into before. Fact is, one of the boys shot one, thinkin' itwas fair game. I guess that was the start of it. He stirred the fire,added a stick. And then a bunch of 'em hit Swazey's farm here, Potter said. Killedtwo of his cattle, and pulled back. I figure they thought the cows were people, said Swazey. They wereout for revenge. How could anybody think a cow was folks? another man put in. Theydon't look nothin' like— Don't be so dumb, Bert, said Swazey. They'd never seen Terriesbefore. They know better now. Bert chuckled. Sure do. We showed 'em the next time, didn't we,Potter? Got four. They walked right up to my place a couple days after the first time,Swazey said. We were ready for 'em. Peppered 'em good. They cut andrun. Flopped, you mean. Ugliest lookin' critters you ever saw. Look justlike a old piece of dirty blanket humpin' around. It's been goin' on this way ever since. They raid and then we raid.But lately they've been bringing some big stuff into it. They've gotsome kind of pint-sized airships and automatic rifles. We've lost fourmen now and a dozen more in the freezer, waiting for the med ship. Wecan't afford it. The colony's got less than three hundred able-bodiedmen. But we're hanging onto our farms, said Potter. All these oases areold sea-beds—a mile deep, solid topsoil. And there's a couple ofhundred others we haven't touched yet. The Flap-jacks won't get 'emwhile there's a man alive. The whole system needs the food we can raise, Bert said. These farmswe're trying to start won't be enough but they'll help. We been yellin' for help to the CDT, over on Ivory, said Potter. Butyou know these Embassy stooges. We heard they were sending some kind of bureaucrat in here to tellus to get out and give the oases to the Flap-jacks, said Swazey. Hetightened his mouth. We're waitin' for him.... Meanwhile we got reinforcements comin' up, eh, boys? Bert winked atRetief. We put out the word back home. We all got relatives on Ivoryand Verde. Shut up, you damn fool! a deep voice grated. Lemuel! Potter said. Nobody else could sneak up on us like that. If I'd a been a Flap-jack; I'd of et you alive, the newcomer said,moving into the ring of fire, a tall, broad-faced man in grimy leather.He eyed Retief. Who's that? What do ya mean? Potter spoke in the silence. He's your cousin.... He ain't no cousin of mine, Lemuel said slowly. He stepped to Retief. Who you spyin' for, stranger? he rasped. <doc-sep>Retief got to his feet. I think I should explain— A short-nosed automatic appeared in Lemuel's hand, a clashing noteagainst his fringed buckskins. Skip the talk. I know a fink when I see one. Just for a change, I'd like to finish a sentence, said Retief. And Isuggest you put your courage back in your pocket before it bites you. You talk too damned fancy to suit me. Maybe. But I'm talking to suit me. Now, for the last time, put itaway. Lemuel stared at Retief. You givin' me orders...? Retief's left fist shot out, smacked Lemuel's face dead center. Hestumbled back, blood starting from his nose; the pistol fired into thedirt as he dropped it. He caught himself, jumped for Retief ... and meta straight right that snapped him onto his back: out cold. Wow! said Potter. The stranger took Lem ... in two punches! One, said Swazey. That first one was just a love tap. Bert froze. Hark, boys, he whispered. In the sudden silence a nightlizard called. Retief strained, heard nothing. He narrowed his eyes,peered past the fire— With a swift lunge he seized up the bucket of drinking water, dashed itover the fire, threw himself flat. He heard the others hit the dirt asplit second behind him. You move fast for a city man, breathed Swazey beside him. You seepretty good too. We'll split and take 'em from two sides. You and Bertfrom the left, me and Potter from the right. No, said Retief. You wait here. I'm going out alone. What's the idea...? Later. Sit tight and keep your eyes open. Retief took a bearing on atreetop faintly visible against the sky and started forward. <doc-sep>Five minutes' stealthy progress brought him to a slight rise of ground.With infinite caution he raised himself, risking a glance over anout-cropping of rock. The stunted trees ended just ahead. Beyond, he could make out the dimcontour of rolling desert. Flap-jack country. He got to his feet,clambered over the stone—still hot after a day of tropical heat—andmoved forward twenty yards. Around him he saw nothing but drifted sand,palely visible in the starlight, and the occasional shadow of juttingshale slabs. Behind him the jungle was still. He sat down on the ground to wait. It was ten minutes before a movement caught his eye. Something hadseparated itself from a dark mass of stone, glided across a few yardsof open ground to another shelter. Retief watched. Minutes passed. Theshape moved again, slipped into a shadow ten feet distant. Retief feltthe butt of the power pistol with his elbow. His guess had better beright this time.... There was a sudden rasp, like leather against concrete, and a flurry ofsand as the Flap-jack charged. Retief rolled aside, then lunged, threw his weight on the floppingFlap-jack—a yard square, three inches thick at the center and allmuscle. The ray-like creature heaved up, curled backward, its edgerippling, to stand on the flattened rim of its encircling sphincter.It scrabbled with prehensile fringe-tentacles for a grip on Retief'sshoulders. He wrapped his arms around the alien and struggled to hisfeet. The thing was heavy. A hundred pounds at least. Fighting as itwas, it seemed more like five hundred. The Flap-jack reversed its tactics, went limp. Retief grabbed, felt athumb slip into an orifice— The alien went wild. Retief hung on, dug the thumb in deeper. Sorry, fellow, he muttered between clenched teeth. Eye-gouging isn'tgentlemanly, but it's effective.... The Flap-jack fell still, only its fringes rippling slowly. Retiefrelaxed the pressure of his thumb; the alien gave a tentative jerk; thethumb dug in. The alien went limp again, waiting. Now we understand each other, said Retief. Take me to your leader. <doc-sep>Twenty minutes' walk into the desert brought Retief to a low rampartof thorn branches: the Flap-jacks' outer defensive line against Terryforays. It would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by theFlap-jacks. He sat down and eased the weight of his captive off hisback, but kept a firm thumb in place. If his analysis of the situationwas correct, a Flap-jack picket should be along before too long.... A penetrating beam of red light struck Retief in the face, blinked off.He got to his feet. The captive Flap-jack rippled its fringe in anagitated way. Retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket. Sit tight, he said. Don't try to do anything hasty.... His remarkswere falling on deaf ears—or no ears at all—but the thumb spoke asloudly as words. There was a slither of sand. Another. He became aware of a ring ofpresences drawing closer. Retief tightened his grip on the alien. He could see a dark shape now,looming up almost to his own six-three. It looked like the Flap-jackscame in all sizes. A low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. It strummed on, fadedout. Retief cocked his head, frowning. Try it two octaves higher, he said. Awwrrp! Sorry. Is that better? a clear voice came from the darkness. That's fine, Retief said. I'm here to arrange a prisoner exchange. Prisoners? But we have no prisoners. Sure you have. Me. Is it a deal? Ah, yes, of course. Quite equitable. What guarantees do you require? The word of a gentleman is sufficient. Retief released the alien. Itflopped once, disappeared into the darkness. If you'd care to accompany me to our headquarters, the voice said,we can discuss our mutual concerns in comfort. Delighted. Red lights blinked briefly. Retief glimpsed a gap in the thornybarrier, stepped through it. He followed dim shapes across warm sand toa low cave-like entry, faintly lit with a reddish glow. I must apologize for the awkward design of our comfort-dome, said thevoice. Had we known we would be honored by a visit— Think nothing of it, Retief said. We diplomats are trained to crawl. Inside, with knees bent and head ducked under the five-foot ceiling,Retief looked around at the walls of pink-toned nacre, a floor likeburgundy-colored glass spread with silken rugs and a low table ofpolished red granite that stretched down the center of the spaciousroom, set out with silver dishes and rose-crystal drinking-tubes. III Let me congratulate you, the voice said. Retief turned. An immense Flap-jack, hung with crimson trappings,rippled at his side. The voice issued from a disk strapped to its back.You fight well. I think we will find in each other worthy adversaries. Thanks. I'm sure the test would be interesting, but I'm hoping we canavoid it. Avoid it? Retief heard a low humming coming from the speaker in thesilence. Well, let us dine, the mighty Flap-jack said at last. Wecan resolve these matters later. I am called Hoshick of the Mosaic ofthe Two Dawns. I'm Retief. Hoshick waited expectantly, ... of the Mountain of RedTape, Retief added. Take place, Retief, said Hoshick. I hope you won't find our rudecouches uncomfortable. Two other large Flap-jacks came into the room,communed silently with Hoshick. Pray forgive our lack of translatingdevices, he said to Retief. Permit me to introduce my colleagues.... A small Flap-jack rippled the chamber bearing on its back a silver trayladen with aromatic food. The waiter served the four diners, filled thedrinking tubes with yellow wine. It smelled good. I trust you'll find these dishes palatable, said Hoshick. Ourmetabolisms are much alike, I believe. Retief tried the food. It had adelicious nut-like flavor. The wine was indistinguishable from Chateaud'Yquem. It was an unexpected pleasure to encounter your party here,said Hoshick. I confess at first we took you for an indigenousearth-grubbing form, but we were soon disabused of that notion. Heraised a tube, manipulating it deftly with his fringe tentacles. Retiefreturned the salute and drank. Of course, Hoshick continued, as soon as we realized that you weresportsmen like ourselves, we attempted to make amends by providing abit of activity for you. We've ordered out our heavier equipment and afew trained skirmishers and soon we'll be able to give you an adequateshow. Or so I hope. Additional skirmishers? said Retief. How many, if you don't mind myasking? For the moment, perhaps only a few hundred. There-after ... well,I'm sure we can arrange that between us. Personally I would prefer acontest of limited scope. No nuclear or radiation-effect weapons. Sucha bore, screening the spawn for deviations. Though I confess we've comeupon some remarkably useful sports. The rangerform such as you madecaptive, for example. Simple-minded, of course, but a fantasticallykeen tracker. Oh, by all means, Retief said. No atomics. As you pointed out,spawn-sorting is a nuisance, and then too, it's wasteful of troops. Ah, well, they are after all expendable. But we agree: no atomics.Have you tried the ground-gwack eggs? Rather a specialty of myMosaic.... Delicious, said Retief. I wonder. Have you considered eliminatingweapons altogether? <doc-sep>A scratchy sound issued from the disk. Pardon my laughter, Hoshicksaid, but surely you jest? As a matter of fact, said Retief, we ourselves seldom use weapons. I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved theuse of a weapon by one of your units. My apologies, said Retief. The—ah—the skirmishform failed torecognize that he was dealing with a sportsman. Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons.... Hoshicksignaled and the servant refilled tubes. There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned, Retief went on. I hopeyou won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishformsthink of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certainspecific life-forms. Oh? Curious. What forms are those? Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, butlacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of suchworthy adversaries as yourself as varmints. Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you topoint it out. Hoshick clucked in dismay. I see that skirmishforms aremuch the same among you as with us: lacking in perception. He laughedscratchily. Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints. Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up againsta serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actionsso dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end tothese contests altogether.... Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.What are you saying? he gasped. Are you proposing that Hoshick ofthe Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....? Sir! said Retief sternly. You forget yourself. I, Retief of the RedTape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with thenewest sporting principles. New? cried Hoshick. My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'menthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate. It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and thetwo individuals settle the issue between them. I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance couldone attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms? I haven't made myself clear, said Retief. He took a sip of wine. Wedon't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe. You don't mean...? That's right. You and me. <doc-sep>Outside on the starlit sand Retief tossed aside the power pistol,followed it with the leather shirt Swazey had lent him. By the faintlight he could just make out the towering figure of the Flap-jackrearing up before him, his trappings gone. A silent rank of Flap-jackretainers were grouped behind him. I fear I must lay aside the translator now, Retief, said Hoshick.He sighed and rippled his fringe tentacles. My spawn-fellows willnever credit this. Such a curious turn fashion has taken. How muchmore pleasant it is to observe the action of the skirmishforms from adistance. I suggest we use Tennessee rules, said Retief. They're very liberal.Biting, gouging, stomping, kneeing and of course choking, as well asthe usual punching, shoving and kicking. Hmmm. These gambits seem geared to forms employing rigidendo-skeletons; I fear I shall be at a disadvantage. Of course, Retief said, if you'd prefer a more plebeian type ofcontest.... By no means. But perhaps we could rule out tentacle-twisting, just toeven it. Very well. Shall we begin? With a rush Hoshick threw himself at Retief, who ducked, whirled, andleaped on the Flap-jack's back ... and felt himself flipped clear bya mighty ripple of the alien's slab-like body. Retief rolled asideas Hoshick turned on him; he jumped to his feet and threw a righthay-maker to Hoshick's mid-section. The alien whipped his left fringearound in an arc that connected with Retief's jaw, sent him spinningonto his back ... and Hoshick's weight struck him. Retief twisted, tried to roll. The flat body of the alien blanketedhim. He worked an arm free, drumming blows on the leathery back.Hoshick nestled closer. Retief's air was running out. He heaved up against the smotheringweight. Nothing budged. It was like burial under a dump-truck-load of concrete. He remembered the rangerform he had captured. The sensitive orificehad been placed ventrally, in what would be the thoracic area.... He groped, felt tough hide set with horny granules. He would be missingskin tomorrow ... if there was a tomorrow. His thumb found the orificeand probed. The Flap-jack recoiled. Retief held fast, probed deeper, groping withthe other hand. If the alien were bilaterally symmetrical there wouldbe a set of ready made hand-holds.... <doc-sep>There were. Retief dug in and the Flap-jack writhed, pulled away. Retief held on,scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell ontop of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, floppedin terror, then went limp. Retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard.Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and movedgingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assistedhim into his trappings, strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily,adjusted the volume. There is much to be said for the old system, he said. What a burdenone's sportsmanship places on one at times. Great sport, wasn't it? said Retief. Now, I know you'll be eager tocontinue. If you'll just wait while I run back and fetch some of ourgougerforms— May hide-ticks devour the gougerforms! Hoshick bellowed. You'vegiven me such a sprong-ache as I'll remember each spawning-time for ayear. Speaking of hide-ticks, said Retief, we've developed a biterform— Enough! Hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on hishide. Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I hadhoped.... He broke off, drew a rasping breath. I had hoped, Retief,he said, speaking sadly now, to find a new land here where I mightplan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a cropof paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. Butmy spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerformswithout end. I am shamed before you.... To tell you the truth, I'm old-fashioned myself. I'd rather watch theaction from a distance too. But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude. My spawn-fellows aren't here. And besides, didn't I mention it? Noone who's really in the know would think of engaging in competition bymere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling thesand, raising lichens—things like that— That on which we dined but now, said Hoshick, and from which thewine is made. The big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition.Now, if you'd like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we'llpromise to stick to the oases and vegetables. Hoshick curled his back in attention. Retief, you're quite serious?You would leave all the fair sand hills to us? The whole works, Hoshick. I'll take the oases. Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. Once again you have outdoneme, Retief, he cried. This time, in generosity. We'll talk over the details later. I'm sure we can establish a set ofrules that will satisfy all parties. Now I've got to get back. I thinksome of the gougerforms are waiting to see me. IV It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreedon with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stoodup. There you are, he said. We been wonderin' whether to go out afteryou. Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out araw-boned hand. Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, Ithought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT. Bert came up behind Lemuel. How do you know he ain't, Lemuel? hesaid. Maybe he— Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. Nextcotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse'n that. Tell me, said Retief. How are you boys fixed for wine? Wine? Mister, we been livin' on stump water for a year now. 'Dobe'sfatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker. Try this. Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork,sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel. Mister, where'd you get that? The Flap-jacks make it. Here's another question for you: Would youconcede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peaceguarantee? At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief.We'll make any reasonable deal, he said. I guess they got as muchright here as we have. I think we'd agree to a fifty-fifty split.That'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side. What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them thedesert? Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. Keep talkin',mister, he said. I think you got yourself a deal. <doc-sep>Consul Passwyn glanced up at Retief, went on perusing a paper. Sit down, Retief, he said absently. I thought you were over onPueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert. I'm back. Passwyn eyed him sharply. Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speakup. Don't expect me to request any military assistance, no matter howthings are.... Retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. Here's theTreaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact declaration and a trade agreement. Eh? Passwyn picked up the papers, riffled through them. He leanedback in his chair, beamed. Well, Retief. Expeditiously handled. He stopped, blinked at Retief.You seem to have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you've been conductingyourself as befits a member of the Embassy staff. I attended a sporting event, Retief said. One of the players got alittle excited. Well ... it's one of the hazards of the profession. One mustpretend an interest in such matters. Passwyn rose, extended a hand.You've done well, my boy. Let this teach you the value of followinginstructions to the letter. Outside, by the hall incinerator drop, Retief paused long enough totake from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and dropit in the slot. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between the Jaqs and the Terrestrials throughout the story?

The Jaq are a flat, wide-bodied species with tentacles and a tender orifice at the center of their bodies where a human chest would normally be. They are led by Hoshick, who has a strong interest in mining the deserts of Adobe for a special lichen used to craft their yellow wine. This wine would then be sold to planets across the universe. The Jaq make their headquarters in the desert. In the scattered oases of Adobe, the Terrestrial settlers have built farms in the rich soil of the planet's surface. The Terrestrials refer to the Jaq as "Flap-jacks" due to their unique physicality. One day, a Terrestrial man mistakes a Jaq for one of Adobe's native species, and he shoots and kills it. This ignites a war between the two groups. The central Terrestrials featured in the story--Potter, Lemuel, Bert, and Swazey--require assistance from their allies on Ivory because they only have three hundred men and are unsure they can defeat the Jaq. When the Embassy sends Retief to serve as an intermediary, he discovers that the two groups have similar interests--they each only want control of their separate areas. By craftily suggesting the use of weapons is no longer fashionable, Retief neutralizes the Jaq artillery and is able to convince both groups to reach a peace treaty. And, as it turns out, the Terrestrial settlements no longer have wine, so the adjacent existence of Jaq wine fields would have a mutual benefit.

Where does the story take place? [SEP] <s> RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN by KEITH LAUMER Retief knew the importance of sealed orders—and the need to keep them that way! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief. Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel— Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience. He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet. The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results. He passed the buff envelope across to Retief. I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived. Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear? Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe? Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour. What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet. When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me. <doc-sep>The mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spattoward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen. They's shootin' goin' on down there, he said. See them white puffsover the edge of the desert? I'm supposed to be preventing the war, said Retief. It looks likeI'm a little late. The pilot's head snapped around. War? he yelped. Nobody told me theywas a war goin' on on 'Dobe. If that's what that is, I'm gettin' out ofhere. Hold on, said Retief. I've got to get down. They won't shoot at you. They shore won't, sonny. I ain't givin' 'em the chance. He startedpunching keys on the console. Retief reached out, caught his wrist. Maybe you didn't hear me. I said I've got to get down. The pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that Retiefblocked casually. Are you nuts? the pilot screeched. They's plentyshootin' goin' on fer me to see it fifty miles out. The mail must go through, you know. Okay! You're so dead set on gettin' killed, you take the skiff. I'lltell 'em to pick up the remains next trip. You're a pal. I'll take your offer. The pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. Get in.We're closin' fast. Them birds might take it into their heads to lobone this way.... Retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over thecontrols. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed Retief aheavy old-fashioned power pistol. Long as you're goin' in, might aswell take this. Thanks. Retief shoved the pistol in his belt. I hope you're wrong. I'll see they pick you up when the shootin's over—one way or another. The hatch clanked shut. A moment later there was a jar as the skiffdropped away, followed by heavy buffeting in the backwash from thedeparting mail boat. Retief watched the tiny screen, hands on themanual controls. He was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty-nine.... A crimson blip showed on the screen, moving out. Retief felt sweat pop out on his forehead. The red blip meant heavyradiation from a warhead. Somebody was playing around with an outlawedbut by no means unheard of fission weapon. But maybe it was just on ahigh trajectory and had no connection with the skiff.... Retief altered course to the south. The blip followed. He checked instrument readings, gripped the controls, watching. Thiswas going to be tricky. The missile bored closer. At five miles Retiefthrew the light skiff into maximum acceleration, straight toward theoncoming bomb. Crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen,correcting course minutely. The proximity fuse should be set for nomore than 1000 yards. At a combined speed of two miles per second, the skiff flashed pastthe missile, and Retief was slammed violently against the restrainingharness in the concussion of the explosion ... a mile astern, andharmless. Then the planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed.Retief shook his head, kicked in the emergency retro-drive. Pointsof light arced up from the planet face below. If they were ordinarychemical warheads the skiff's meteor screens should handle them. Thescreen flashed brilliant white, then went dark. The skiff flipped onits back. Smoke filled the tiny compartment. There was a series ofshocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by theping of hot metal contracting. <doc-sep>Coughing, Retief disengaged himself from the shock-webbing. He beatout sparks in his lap, groped underfoot for the hatch and wrenched itopen. A wave of hot jungle air struck him. He lowered himself to a bedof shattered foliage, got to his feet ... and dropped flat as a bulletwhined past his ear. He lay listening. Stealthy movements were audible from the left. He inched his way to the shelter of a broad-boled dwarf tree. Somewherea song lizard burbled. Whining insects circled, scented alien life,buzzed off. There was another rustle of foliage from the underbrushfive yards away. A bush quivered, then a low bough dipped. Retief edged back around the trunk, eased down behind a fallen log.A stocky man in grimy leather shirt and shorts appeared, movingcautiously, a pistol in his hand. As he passed, Retief rose, leaped the log and tackled him. They went down together. The stranger gave one short yell, thenstruggled in silence. Retief flipped him onto his back, raised a fist— Hey! the settler yelled. You're as human as I am! Maybe I'll look better after a shave, said Retief. What's the ideaof shooting at me? Lemme up. My name's Potter. Sorry 'bout that. I figured it was aFlap-jack boat; looks just like 'em. I took a shot when I saw somethingmove. Didn't know it was a Terrestrial. Who are you? What you doin'here? We're pretty close to the edge of the oases. That's Flap-jackcountry over there. He waved a hand toward the north, where the desertlay. I'm glad you're a poor shot. That missile was too close for comfort. Missile, eh? Must be Flap-jack artillery. We got nothing like that. I heard there was a full-fledged war brewing, said Retief. I didn'texpect— Good! Potter said. We figured a few of you boys from Ivory would bejoining up when you heard. You are from Ivory? Yes. I'm— Hey, you must be Lemuel's cousin. Good night! I pretty near made a badmistake. Lemuel's a tough man to explain something to. I'm— Keep your head down. These damn Flap-jacks have got some wicked handweapons. Come on.... He moved off silently on all fours. Retieffollowed. They crossed two hundred yards of rough country before Pottergot to his feet, took out a soggy bandana and mopped his face. You move good for a city man. I thought you folks on Ivory just satunder those domes and read dials. But I guess bein' Lemuel's cousin youwas raised different. As a matter of fact— Have to get you some real clothes, though. Those city duds don't standup on 'Dobe. Retief looked down at the charred, torn and sweat-soaked powder-blueblazer and slacks. This outfit seemed pretty rough-and-ready back home, he said. But Iguess leather has its points. Let's get on back to camp. We'll just about make it by sundown.And, look. Don't say anything to Lemuel about me thinking you were aFlap-jack. I won't, but— Potter was on his way, loping off up a gentle slope. Retief pulled offthe sodden blazer, dropped it over a bush, added his string tie andfollowed Potter. II We're damn glad you're here, mister, said a fat man with tworevolvers belted across his paunch. We can use every hand. We're inbad shape. We ran into the Flap-jacks three months ago and we haven'tmade a smart move since. First, we thought they were a native form wehadn't run into before. Fact is, one of the boys shot one, thinkin' itwas fair game. I guess that was the start of it. He stirred the fire,added a stick. And then a bunch of 'em hit Swazey's farm here, Potter said. Killedtwo of his cattle, and pulled back. I figure they thought the cows were people, said Swazey. They wereout for revenge. How could anybody think a cow was folks? another man put in. Theydon't look nothin' like— Don't be so dumb, Bert, said Swazey. They'd never seen Terriesbefore. They know better now. Bert chuckled. Sure do. We showed 'em the next time, didn't we,Potter? Got four. They walked right up to my place a couple days after the first time,Swazey said. We were ready for 'em. Peppered 'em good. They cut andrun. Flopped, you mean. Ugliest lookin' critters you ever saw. Look justlike a old piece of dirty blanket humpin' around. It's been goin' on this way ever since. They raid and then we raid.But lately they've been bringing some big stuff into it. They've gotsome kind of pint-sized airships and automatic rifles. We've lost fourmen now and a dozen more in the freezer, waiting for the med ship. Wecan't afford it. The colony's got less than three hundred able-bodiedmen. But we're hanging onto our farms, said Potter. All these oases areold sea-beds—a mile deep, solid topsoil. And there's a couple ofhundred others we haven't touched yet. The Flap-jacks won't get 'emwhile there's a man alive. The whole system needs the food we can raise, Bert said. These farmswe're trying to start won't be enough but they'll help. We been yellin' for help to the CDT, over on Ivory, said Potter. Butyou know these Embassy stooges. We heard they were sending some kind of bureaucrat in here to tellus to get out and give the oases to the Flap-jacks, said Swazey. Hetightened his mouth. We're waitin' for him.... Meanwhile we got reinforcements comin' up, eh, boys? Bert winked atRetief. We put out the word back home. We all got relatives on Ivoryand Verde. Shut up, you damn fool! a deep voice grated. Lemuel! Potter said. Nobody else could sneak up on us like that. If I'd a been a Flap-jack; I'd of et you alive, the newcomer said,moving into the ring of fire, a tall, broad-faced man in grimy leather.He eyed Retief. Who's that? What do ya mean? Potter spoke in the silence. He's your cousin.... He ain't no cousin of mine, Lemuel said slowly. He stepped to Retief. Who you spyin' for, stranger? he rasped. <doc-sep>Retief got to his feet. I think I should explain— A short-nosed automatic appeared in Lemuel's hand, a clashing noteagainst his fringed buckskins. Skip the talk. I know a fink when I see one. Just for a change, I'd like to finish a sentence, said Retief. And Isuggest you put your courage back in your pocket before it bites you. You talk too damned fancy to suit me. Maybe. But I'm talking to suit me. Now, for the last time, put itaway. Lemuel stared at Retief. You givin' me orders...? Retief's left fist shot out, smacked Lemuel's face dead center. Hestumbled back, blood starting from his nose; the pistol fired into thedirt as he dropped it. He caught himself, jumped for Retief ... and meta straight right that snapped him onto his back: out cold. Wow! said Potter. The stranger took Lem ... in two punches! One, said Swazey. That first one was just a love tap. Bert froze. Hark, boys, he whispered. In the sudden silence a nightlizard called. Retief strained, heard nothing. He narrowed his eyes,peered past the fire— With a swift lunge he seized up the bucket of drinking water, dashed itover the fire, threw himself flat. He heard the others hit the dirt asplit second behind him. You move fast for a city man, breathed Swazey beside him. You seepretty good too. We'll split and take 'em from two sides. You and Bertfrom the left, me and Potter from the right. No, said Retief. You wait here. I'm going out alone. What's the idea...? Later. Sit tight and keep your eyes open. Retief took a bearing on atreetop faintly visible against the sky and started forward. <doc-sep>Five minutes' stealthy progress brought him to a slight rise of ground.With infinite caution he raised himself, risking a glance over anout-cropping of rock. The stunted trees ended just ahead. Beyond, he could make out the dimcontour of rolling desert. Flap-jack country. He got to his feet,clambered over the stone—still hot after a day of tropical heat—andmoved forward twenty yards. Around him he saw nothing but drifted sand,palely visible in the starlight, and the occasional shadow of juttingshale slabs. Behind him the jungle was still. He sat down on the ground to wait. It was ten minutes before a movement caught his eye. Something hadseparated itself from a dark mass of stone, glided across a few yardsof open ground to another shelter. Retief watched. Minutes passed. Theshape moved again, slipped into a shadow ten feet distant. Retief feltthe butt of the power pistol with his elbow. His guess had better beright this time.... There was a sudden rasp, like leather against concrete, and a flurry ofsand as the Flap-jack charged. Retief rolled aside, then lunged, threw his weight on the floppingFlap-jack—a yard square, three inches thick at the center and allmuscle. The ray-like creature heaved up, curled backward, its edgerippling, to stand on the flattened rim of its encircling sphincter.It scrabbled with prehensile fringe-tentacles for a grip on Retief'sshoulders. He wrapped his arms around the alien and struggled to hisfeet. The thing was heavy. A hundred pounds at least. Fighting as itwas, it seemed more like five hundred. The Flap-jack reversed its tactics, went limp. Retief grabbed, felt athumb slip into an orifice— The alien went wild. Retief hung on, dug the thumb in deeper. Sorry, fellow, he muttered between clenched teeth. Eye-gouging isn'tgentlemanly, but it's effective.... The Flap-jack fell still, only its fringes rippling slowly. Retiefrelaxed the pressure of his thumb; the alien gave a tentative jerk; thethumb dug in. The alien went limp again, waiting. Now we understand each other, said Retief. Take me to your leader. <doc-sep>Twenty minutes' walk into the desert brought Retief to a low rampartof thorn branches: the Flap-jacks' outer defensive line against Terryforays. It would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by theFlap-jacks. He sat down and eased the weight of his captive off hisback, but kept a firm thumb in place. If his analysis of the situationwas correct, a Flap-jack picket should be along before too long.... A penetrating beam of red light struck Retief in the face, blinked off.He got to his feet. The captive Flap-jack rippled its fringe in anagitated way. Retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket. Sit tight, he said. Don't try to do anything hasty.... His remarkswere falling on deaf ears—or no ears at all—but the thumb spoke asloudly as words. There was a slither of sand. Another. He became aware of a ring ofpresences drawing closer. Retief tightened his grip on the alien. He could see a dark shape now,looming up almost to his own six-three. It looked like the Flap-jackscame in all sizes. A low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. It strummed on, fadedout. Retief cocked his head, frowning. Try it two octaves higher, he said. Awwrrp! Sorry. Is that better? a clear voice came from the darkness. That's fine, Retief said. I'm here to arrange a prisoner exchange. Prisoners? But we have no prisoners. Sure you have. Me. Is it a deal? Ah, yes, of course. Quite equitable. What guarantees do you require? The word of a gentleman is sufficient. Retief released the alien. Itflopped once, disappeared into the darkness. If you'd care to accompany me to our headquarters, the voice said,we can discuss our mutual concerns in comfort. Delighted. Red lights blinked briefly. Retief glimpsed a gap in the thornybarrier, stepped through it. He followed dim shapes across warm sand toa low cave-like entry, faintly lit with a reddish glow. I must apologize for the awkward design of our comfort-dome, said thevoice. Had we known we would be honored by a visit— Think nothing of it, Retief said. We diplomats are trained to crawl. Inside, with knees bent and head ducked under the five-foot ceiling,Retief looked around at the walls of pink-toned nacre, a floor likeburgundy-colored glass spread with silken rugs and a low table ofpolished red granite that stretched down the center of the spaciousroom, set out with silver dishes and rose-crystal drinking-tubes. III Let me congratulate you, the voice said. Retief turned. An immense Flap-jack, hung with crimson trappings,rippled at his side. The voice issued from a disk strapped to its back.You fight well. I think we will find in each other worthy adversaries. Thanks. I'm sure the test would be interesting, but I'm hoping we canavoid it. Avoid it? Retief heard a low humming coming from the speaker in thesilence. Well, let us dine, the mighty Flap-jack said at last. Wecan resolve these matters later. I am called Hoshick of the Mosaic ofthe Two Dawns. I'm Retief. Hoshick waited expectantly, ... of the Mountain of RedTape, Retief added. Take place, Retief, said Hoshick. I hope you won't find our rudecouches uncomfortable. Two other large Flap-jacks came into the room,communed silently with Hoshick. Pray forgive our lack of translatingdevices, he said to Retief. Permit me to introduce my colleagues.... A small Flap-jack rippled the chamber bearing on its back a silver trayladen with aromatic food. The waiter served the four diners, filled thedrinking tubes with yellow wine. It smelled good. I trust you'll find these dishes palatable, said Hoshick. Ourmetabolisms are much alike, I believe. Retief tried the food. It had adelicious nut-like flavor. The wine was indistinguishable from Chateaud'Yquem. It was an unexpected pleasure to encounter your party here,said Hoshick. I confess at first we took you for an indigenousearth-grubbing form, but we were soon disabused of that notion. Heraised a tube, manipulating it deftly with his fringe tentacles. Retiefreturned the salute and drank. Of course, Hoshick continued, as soon as we realized that you weresportsmen like ourselves, we attempted to make amends by providing abit of activity for you. We've ordered out our heavier equipment and afew trained skirmishers and soon we'll be able to give you an adequateshow. Or so I hope. Additional skirmishers? said Retief. How many, if you don't mind myasking? For the moment, perhaps only a few hundred. There-after ... well,I'm sure we can arrange that between us. Personally I would prefer acontest of limited scope. No nuclear or radiation-effect weapons. Sucha bore, screening the spawn for deviations. Though I confess we've comeupon some remarkably useful sports. The rangerform such as you madecaptive, for example. Simple-minded, of course, but a fantasticallykeen tracker. Oh, by all means, Retief said. No atomics. As you pointed out,spawn-sorting is a nuisance, and then too, it's wasteful of troops. Ah, well, they are after all expendable. But we agree: no atomics.Have you tried the ground-gwack eggs? Rather a specialty of myMosaic.... Delicious, said Retief. I wonder. Have you considered eliminatingweapons altogether? <doc-sep>A scratchy sound issued from the disk. Pardon my laughter, Hoshicksaid, but surely you jest? As a matter of fact, said Retief, we ourselves seldom use weapons. I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved theuse of a weapon by one of your units. My apologies, said Retief. The—ah—the skirmishform failed torecognize that he was dealing with a sportsman. Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons.... Hoshicksignaled and the servant refilled tubes. There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned, Retief went on. I hopeyou won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishformsthink of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certainspecific life-forms. Oh? Curious. What forms are those? Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, butlacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of suchworthy adversaries as yourself as varmints. Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you topoint it out. Hoshick clucked in dismay. I see that skirmishforms aremuch the same among you as with us: lacking in perception. He laughedscratchily. Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints. Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up againsta serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actionsso dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end tothese contests altogether.... Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.What are you saying? he gasped. Are you proposing that Hoshick ofthe Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....? Sir! said Retief sternly. You forget yourself. I, Retief of the RedTape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with thenewest sporting principles. New? cried Hoshick. My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'menthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate. It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and thetwo individuals settle the issue between them. I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance couldone attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms? I haven't made myself clear, said Retief. He took a sip of wine. Wedon't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe. You don't mean...? That's right. You and me. <doc-sep>Outside on the starlit sand Retief tossed aside the power pistol,followed it with the leather shirt Swazey had lent him. By the faintlight he could just make out the towering figure of the Flap-jackrearing up before him, his trappings gone. A silent rank of Flap-jackretainers were grouped behind him. I fear I must lay aside the translator now, Retief, said Hoshick.He sighed and rippled his fringe tentacles. My spawn-fellows willnever credit this. Such a curious turn fashion has taken. How muchmore pleasant it is to observe the action of the skirmishforms from adistance. I suggest we use Tennessee rules, said Retief. They're very liberal.Biting, gouging, stomping, kneeing and of course choking, as well asthe usual punching, shoving and kicking. Hmmm. These gambits seem geared to forms employing rigidendo-skeletons; I fear I shall be at a disadvantage. Of course, Retief said, if you'd prefer a more plebeian type ofcontest.... By no means. But perhaps we could rule out tentacle-twisting, just toeven it. Very well. Shall we begin? With a rush Hoshick threw himself at Retief, who ducked, whirled, andleaped on the Flap-jack's back ... and felt himself flipped clear bya mighty ripple of the alien's slab-like body. Retief rolled asideas Hoshick turned on him; he jumped to his feet and threw a righthay-maker to Hoshick's mid-section. The alien whipped his left fringearound in an arc that connected with Retief's jaw, sent him spinningonto his back ... and Hoshick's weight struck him. Retief twisted, tried to roll. The flat body of the alien blanketedhim. He worked an arm free, drumming blows on the leathery back.Hoshick nestled closer. Retief's air was running out. He heaved up against the smotheringweight. Nothing budged. It was like burial under a dump-truck-load of concrete. He remembered the rangerform he had captured. The sensitive orificehad been placed ventrally, in what would be the thoracic area.... He groped, felt tough hide set with horny granules. He would be missingskin tomorrow ... if there was a tomorrow. His thumb found the orificeand probed. The Flap-jack recoiled. Retief held fast, probed deeper, groping withthe other hand. If the alien were bilaterally symmetrical there wouldbe a set of ready made hand-holds.... <doc-sep>There were. Retief dug in and the Flap-jack writhed, pulled away. Retief held on,scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell ontop of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, floppedin terror, then went limp. Retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard.Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and movedgingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assistedhim into his trappings, strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily,adjusted the volume. There is much to be said for the old system, he said. What a burdenone's sportsmanship places on one at times. Great sport, wasn't it? said Retief. Now, I know you'll be eager tocontinue. If you'll just wait while I run back and fetch some of ourgougerforms— May hide-ticks devour the gougerforms! Hoshick bellowed. You'vegiven me such a sprong-ache as I'll remember each spawning-time for ayear. Speaking of hide-ticks, said Retief, we've developed a biterform— Enough! Hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on hishide. Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I hadhoped.... He broke off, drew a rasping breath. I had hoped, Retief,he said, speaking sadly now, to find a new land here where I mightplan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a cropof paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. Butmy spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerformswithout end. I am shamed before you.... To tell you the truth, I'm old-fashioned myself. I'd rather watch theaction from a distance too. But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude. My spawn-fellows aren't here. And besides, didn't I mention it? Noone who's really in the know would think of engaging in competition bymere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling thesand, raising lichens—things like that— That on which we dined but now, said Hoshick, and from which thewine is made. The big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition.Now, if you'd like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we'llpromise to stick to the oases and vegetables. Hoshick curled his back in attention. Retief, you're quite serious?You would leave all the fair sand hills to us? The whole works, Hoshick. I'll take the oases. Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. Once again you have outdoneme, Retief, he cried. This time, in generosity. We'll talk over the details later. I'm sure we can establish a set ofrules that will satisfy all parties. Now I've got to get back. I thinksome of the gougerforms are waiting to see me. IV It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreedon with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stoodup. There you are, he said. We been wonderin' whether to go out afteryou. Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out araw-boned hand. Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, Ithought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT. Bert came up behind Lemuel. How do you know he ain't, Lemuel? hesaid. Maybe he— Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. Nextcotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse'n that. Tell me, said Retief. How are you boys fixed for wine? Wine? Mister, we been livin' on stump water for a year now. 'Dobe'sfatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker. Try this. Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork,sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel. Mister, where'd you get that? The Flap-jacks make it. Here's another question for you: Would youconcede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peaceguarantee? At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief.We'll make any reasonable deal, he said. I guess they got as muchright here as we have. I think we'd agree to a fifty-fifty split.That'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side. What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them thedesert? Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. Keep talkin',mister, he said. I think you got yourself a deal. <doc-sep>Consul Passwyn glanced up at Retief, went on perusing a paper. Sit down, Retief, he said absently. I thought you were over onPueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert. I'm back. Passwyn eyed him sharply. Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speakup. Don't expect me to request any military assistance, no matter howthings are.... Retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. Here's theTreaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact declaration and a trade agreement. Eh? Passwyn picked up the papers, riffled through them. He leanedback in his chair, beamed. Well, Retief. Expeditiously handled. He stopped, blinked at Retief.You seem to have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you've been conductingyourself as befits a member of the Embassy staff. I attended a sporting event, Retief said. One of the players got alittle excited. Well ... it's one of the hazards of the profession. One mustpretend an interest in such matters. Passwyn rose, extended a hand.You've done well, my boy. Let this teach you the value of followinginstructions to the letter. Outside, by the hall incinerator drop, Retief paused long enough totake from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and dropit in the slot. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Where does the story take place?

The story begins on the planet of Ivory, where Retief meets with his superior, Consul Passwyn. This seems to be the headquarters of the CDT, a kind of intergalactic governing body concerned with diplomatic efforts. The majority of the story's action takes place on the planet of Adobe. The planet is covered with vast deserts and spotted with several oases. The oases are like jungles with hot air, dense foliage, and dwarf trees along with a variety of wildlife from lizards to insects. They used to be sea-beds and therefore have rich soil for planting. The Terrestrials settlers live and built farms there. The Jaq built their headquarters in the midst of the deserts, where they prefer to stay for their rich resource of lichen used to produce wine. When Retief crash-lands on Adobe, he meets the Terrestrials in an oasis and eventually crosses over into the desert when he goes to consult with the leader of the Jaq, Hoshick. The Jaq headquarters is a comfort-dome with red lights, granite tables, fine silverware and glassware, pink walls, and a low-lying ceiling. Retief meets with Hoshick here and convinces him to engage in a skirmish. He then fights and defeats the leader outside the headquarters in the bright sand. After securing the deal, Retief returns to Ivory to report on the success of his mission.

What is the significance of wine in the story? [SEP] <s> RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN by KEITH LAUMER Retief knew the importance of sealed orders—and the need to keep them that way! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief. Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel— Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience. He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet. The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results. He passed the buff envelope across to Retief. I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived. Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear? Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe? Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour. What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet. When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me. <doc-sep>The mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spattoward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen. They's shootin' goin' on down there, he said. See them white puffsover the edge of the desert? I'm supposed to be preventing the war, said Retief. It looks likeI'm a little late. The pilot's head snapped around. War? he yelped. Nobody told me theywas a war goin' on on 'Dobe. If that's what that is, I'm gettin' out ofhere. Hold on, said Retief. I've got to get down. They won't shoot at you. They shore won't, sonny. I ain't givin' 'em the chance. He startedpunching keys on the console. Retief reached out, caught his wrist. Maybe you didn't hear me. I said I've got to get down. The pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that Retiefblocked casually. Are you nuts? the pilot screeched. They's plentyshootin' goin' on fer me to see it fifty miles out. The mail must go through, you know. Okay! You're so dead set on gettin' killed, you take the skiff. I'lltell 'em to pick up the remains next trip. You're a pal. I'll take your offer. The pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. Get in.We're closin' fast. Them birds might take it into their heads to lobone this way.... Retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over thecontrols. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed Retief aheavy old-fashioned power pistol. Long as you're goin' in, might aswell take this. Thanks. Retief shoved the pistol in his belt. I hope you're wrong. I'll see they pick you up when the shootin's over—one way or another. The hatch clanked shut. A moment later there was a jar as the skiffdropped away, followed by heavy buffeting in the backwash from thedeparting mail boat. Retief watched the tiny screen, hands on themanual controls. He was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty-nine.... A crimson blip showed on the screen, moving out. Retief felt sweat pop out on his forehead. The red blip meant heavyradiation from a warhead. Somebody was playing around with an outlawedbut by no means unheard of fission weapon. But maybe it was just on ahigh trajectory and had no connection with the skiff.... Retief altered course to the south. The blip followed. He checked instrument readings, gripped the controls, watching. Thiswas going to be tricky. The missile bored closer. At five miles Retiefthrew the light skiff into maximum acceleration, straight toward theoncoming bomb. Crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen,correcting course minutely. The proximity fuse should be set for nomore than 1000 yards. At a combined speed of two miles per second, the skiff flashed pastthe missile, and Retief was slammed violently against the restrainingharness in the concussion of the explosion ... a mile astern, andharmless. Then the planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed.Retief shook his head, kicked in the emergency retro-drive. Pointsof light arced up from the planet face below. If they were ordinarychemical warheads the skiff's meteor screens should handle them. Thescreen flashed brilliant white, then went dark. The skiff flipped onits back. Smoke filled the tiny compartment. There was a series ofshocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by theping of hot metal contracting. <doc-sep>Coughing, Retief disengaged himself from the shock-webbing. He beatout sparks in his lap, groped underfoot for the hatch and wrenched itopen. A wave of hot jungle air struck him. He lowered himself to a bedof shattered foliage, got to his feet ... and dropped flat as a bulletwhined past his ear. He lay listening. Stealthy movements were audible from the left. He inched his way to the shelter of a broad-boled dwarf tree. Somewherea song lizard burbled. Whining insects circled, scented alien life,buzzed off. There was another rustle of foliage from the underbrushfive yards away. A bush quivered, then a low bough dipped. Retief edged back around the trunk, eased down behind a fallen log.A stocky man in grimy leather shirt and shorts appeared, movingcautiously, a pistol in his hand. As he passed, Retief rose, leaped the log and tackled him. They went down together. The stranger gave one short yell, thenstruggled in silence. Retief flipped him onto his back, raised a fist— Hey! the settler yelled. You're as human as I am! Maybe I'll look better after a shave, said Retief. What's the ideaof shooting at me? Lemme up. My name's Potter. Sorry 'bout that. I figured it was aFlap-jack boat; looks just like 'em. I took a shot when I saw somethingmove. Didn't know it was a Terrestrial. Who are you? What you doin'here? We're pretty close to the edge of the oases. That's Flap-jackcountry over there. He waved a hand toward the north, where the desertlay. I'm glad you're a poor shot. That missile was too close for comfort. Missile, eh? Must be Flap-jack artillery. We got nothing like that. I heard there was a full-fledged war brewing, said Retief. I didn'texpect— Good! Potter said. We figured a few of you boys from Ivory would bejoining up when you heard. You are from Ivory? Yes. I'm— Hey, you must be Lemuel's cousin. Good night! I pretty near made a badmistake. Lemuel's a tough man to explain something to. I'm— Keep your head down. These damn Flap-jacks have got some wicked handweapons. Come on.... He moved off silently on all fours. Retieffollowed. They crossed two hundred yards of rough country before Pottergot to his feet, took out a soggy bandana and mopped his face. You move good for a city man. I thought you folks on Ivory just satunder those domes and read dials. But I guess bein' Lemuel's cousin youwas raised different. As a matter of fact— Have to get you some real clothes, though. Those city duds don't standup on 'Dobe. Retief looked down at the charred, torn and sweat-soaked powder-blueblazer and slacks. This outfit seemed pretty rough-and-ready back home, he said. But Iguess leather has its points. Let's get on back to camp. We'll just about make it by sundown.And, look. Don't say anything to Lemuel about me thinking you were aFlap-jack. I won't, but— Potter was on his way, loping off up a gentle slope. Retief pulled offthe sodden blazer, dropped it over a bush, added his string tie andfollowed Potter. II We're damn glad you're here, mister, said a fat man with tworevolvers belted across his paunch. We can use every hand. We're inbad shape. We ran into the Flap-jacks three months ago and we haven'tmade a smart move since. First, we thought they were a native form wehadn't run into before. Fact is, one of the boys shot one, thinkin' itwas fair game. I guess that was the start of it. He stirred the fire,added a stick. And then a bunch of 'em hit Swazey's farm here, Potter said. Killedtwo of his cattle, and pulled back. I figure they thought the cows were people, said Swazey. They wereout for revenge. How could anybody think a cow was folks? another man put in. Theydon't look nothin' like— Don't be so dumb, Bert, said Swazey. They'd never seen Terriesbefore. They know better now. Bert chuckled. Sure do. We showed 'em the next time, didn't we,Potter? Got four. They walked right up to my place a couple days after the first time,Swazey said. We were ready for 'em. Peppered 'em good. They cut andrun. Flopped, you mean. Ugliest lookin' critters you ever saw. Look justlike a old piece of dirty blanket humpin' around. It's been goin' on this way ever since. They raid and then we raid.But lately they've been bringing some big stuff into it. They've gotsome kind of pint-sized airships and automatic rifles. We've lost fourmen now and a dozen more in the freezer, waiting for the med ship. Wecan't afford it. The colony's got less than three hundred able-bodiedmen. But we're hanging onto our farms, said Potter. All these oases areold sea-beds—a mile deep, solid topsoil. And there's a couple ofhundred others we haven't touched yet. The Flap-jacks won't get 'emwhile there's a man alive. The whole system needs the food we can raise, Bert said. These farmswe're trying to start won't be enough but they'll help. We been yellin' for help to the CDT, over on Ivory, said Potter. Butyou know these Embassy stooges. We heard they were sending some kind of bureaucrat in here to tellus to get out and give the oases to the Flap-jacks, said Swazey. Hetightened his mouth. We're waitin' for him.... Meanwhile we got reinforcements comin' up, eh, boys? Bert winked atRetief. We put out the word back home. We all got relatives on Ivoryand Verde. Shut up, you damn fool! a deep voice grated. Lemuel! Potter said. Nobody else could sneak up on us like that. If I'd a been a Flap-jack; I'd of et you alive, the newcomer said,moving into the ring of fire, a tall, broad-faced man in grimy leather.He eyed Retief. Who's that? What do ya mean? Potter spoke in the silence. He's your cousin.... He ain't no cousin of mine, Lemuel said slowly. He stepped to Retief. Who you spyin' for, stranger? he rasped. <doc-sep>Retief got to his feet. I think I should explain— A short-nosed automatic appeared in Lemuel's hand, a clashing noteagainst his fringed buckskins. Skip the talk. I know a fink when I see one. Just for a change, I'd like to finish a sentence, said Retief. And Isuggest you put your courage back in your pocket before it bites you. You talk too damned fancy to suit me. Maybe. But I'm talking to suit me. Now, for the last time, put itaway. Lemuel stared at Retief. You givin' me orders...? Retief's left fist shot out, smacked Lemuel's face dead center. Hestumbled back, blood starting from his nose; the pistol fired into thedirt as he dropped it. He caught himself, jumped for Retief ... and meta straight right that snapped him onto his back: out cold. Wow! said Potter. The stranger took Lem ... in two punches! One, said Swazey. That first one was just a love tap. Bert froze. Hark, boys, he whispered. In the sudden silence a nightlizard called. Retief strained, heard nothing. He narrowed his eyes,peered past the fire— With a swift lunge he seized up the bucket of drinking water, dashed itover the fire, threw himself flat. He heard the others hit the dirt asplit second behind him. You move fast for a city man, breathed Swazey beside him. You seepretty good too. We'll split and take 'em from two sides. You and Bertfrom the left, me and Potter from the right. No, said Retief. You wait here. I'm going out alone. What's the idea...? Later. Sit tight and keep your eyes open. Retief took a bearing on atreetop faintly visible against the sky and started forward. <doc-sep>Five minutes' stealthy progress brought him to a slight rise of ground.With infinite caution he raised himself, risking a glance over anout-cropping of rock. The stunted trees ended just ahead. Beyond, he could make out the dimcontour of rolling desert. Flap-jack country. He got to his feet,clambered over the stone—still hot after a day of tropical heat—andmoved forward twenty yards. Around him he saw nothing but drifted sand,palely visible in the starlight, and the occasional shadow of juttingshale slabs. Behind him the jungle was still. He sat down on the ground to wait. It was ten minutes before a movement caught his eye. Something hadseparated itself from a dark mass of stone, glided across a few yardsof open ground to another shelter. Retief watched. Minutes passed. Theshape moved again, slipped into a shadow ten feet distant. Retief feltthe butt of the power pistol with his elbow. His guess had better beright this time.... There was a sudden rasp, like leather against concrete, and a flurry ofsand as the Flap-jack charged. Retief rolled aside, then lunged, threw his weight on the floppingFlap-jack—a yard square, three inches thick at the center and allmuscle. The ray-like creature heaved up, curled backward, its edgerippling, to stand on the flattened rim of its encircling sphincter.It scrabbled with prehensile fringe-tentacles for a grip on Retief'sshoulders. He wrapped his arms around the alien and struggled to hisfeet. The thing was heavy. A hundred pounds at least. Fighting as itwas, it seemed more like five hundred. The Flap-jack reversed its tactics, went limp. Retief grabbed, felt athumb slip into an orifice— The alien went wild. Retief hung on, dug the thumb in deeper. Sorry, fellow, he muttered between clenched teeth. Eye-gouging isn'tgentlemanly, but it's effective.... The Flap-jack fell still, only its fringes rippling slowly. Retiefrelaxed the pressure of his thumb; the alien gave a tentative jerk; thethumb dug in. The alien went limp again, waiting. Now we understand each other, said Retief. Take me to your leader. <doc-sep>Twenty minutes' walk into the desert brought Retief to a low rampartof thorn branches: the Flap-jacks' outer defensive line against Terryforays. It would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by theFlap-jacks. He sat down and eased the weight of his captive off hisback, but kept a firm thumb in place. If his analysis of the situationwas correct, a Flap-jack picket should be along before too long.... A penetrating beam of red light struck Retief in the face, blinked off.He got to his feet. The captive Flap-jack rippled its fringe in anagitated way. Retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket. Sit tight, he said. Don't try to do anything hasty.... His remarkswere falling on deaf ears—or no ears at all—but the thumb spoke asloudly as words. There was a slither of sand. Another. He became aware of a ring ofpresences drawing closer. Retief tightened his grip on the alien. He could see a dark shape now,looming up almost to his own six-three. It looked like the Flap-jackscame in all sizes. A low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. It strummed on, fadedout. Retief cocked his head, frowning. Try it two octaves higher, he said. Awwrrp! Sorry. Is that better? a clear voice came from the darkness. That's fine, Retief said. I'm here to arrange a prisoner exchange. Prisoners? But we have no prisoners. Sure you have. Me. Is it a deal? Ah, yes, of course. Quite equitable. What guarantees do you require? The word of a gentleman is sufficient. Retief released the alien. Itflopped once, disappeared into the darkness. If you'd care to accompany me to our headquarters, the voice said,we can discuss our mutual concerns in comfort. Delighted. Red lights blinked briefly. Retief glimpsed a gap in the thornybarrier, stepped through it. He followed dim shapes across warm sand toa low cave-like entry, faintly lit with a reddish glow. I must apologize for the awkward design of our comfort-dome, said thevoice. Had we known we would be honored by a visit— Think nothing of it, Retief said. We diplomats are trained to crawl. Inside, with knees bent and head ducked under the five-foot ceiling,Retief looked around at the walls of pink-toned nacre, a floor likeburgundy-colored glass spread with silken rugs and a low table ofpolished red granite that stretched down the center of the spaciousroom, set out with silver dishes and rose-crystal drinking-tubes. III Let me congratulate you, the voice said. Retief turned. An immense Flap-jack, hung with crimson trappings,rippled at his side. The voice issued from a disk strapped to its back.You fight well. I think we will find in each other worthy adversaries. Thanks. I'm sure the test would be interesting, but I'm hoping we canavoid it. Avoid it? Retief heard a low humming coming from the speaker in thesilence. Well, let us dine, the mighty Flap-jack said at last. Wecan resolve these matters later. I am called Hoshick of the Mosaic ofthe Two Dawns. I'm Retief. Hoshick waited expectantly, ... of the Mountain of RedTape, Retief added. Take place, Retief, said Hoshick. I hope you won't find our rudecouches uncomfortable. Two other large Flap-jacks came into the room,communed silently with Hoshick. Pray forgive our lack of translatingdevices, he said to Retief. Permit me to introduce my colleagues.... A small Flap-jack rippled the chamber bearing on its back a silver trayladen with aromatic food. The waiter served the four diners, filled thedrinking tubes with yellow wine. It smelled good. I trust you'll find these dishes palatable, said Hoshick. Ourmetabolisms are much alike, I believe. Retief tried the food. It had adelicious nut-like flavor. The wine was indistinguishable from Chateaud'Yquem. It was an unexpected pleasure to encounter your party here,said Hoshick. I confess at first we took you for an indigenousearth-grubbing form, but we were soon disabused of that notion. Heraised a tube, manipulating it deftly with his fringe tentacles. Retiefreturned the salute and drank. Of course, Hoshick continued, as soon as we realized that you weresportsmen like ourselves, we attempted to make amends by providing abit of activity for you. We've ordered out our heavier equipment and afew trained skirmishers and soon we'll be able to give you an adequateshow. Or so I hope. Additional skirmishers? said Retief. How many, if you don't mind myasking? For the moment, perhaps only a few hundred. There-after ... well,I'm sure we can arrange that between us. Personally I would prefer acontest of limited scope. No nuclear or radiation-effect weapons. Sucha bore, screening the spawn for deviations. Though I confess we've comeupon some remarkably useful sports. The rangerform such as you madecaptive, for example. Simple-minded, of course, but a fantasticallykeen tracker. Oh, by all means, Retief said. No atomics. As you pointed out,spawn-sorting is a nuisance, and then too, it's wasteful of troops. Ah, well, they are after all expendable. But we agree: no atomics.Have you tried the ground-gwack eggs? Rather a specialty of myMosaic.... Delicious, said Retief. I wonder. Have you considered eliminatingweapons altogether? <doc-sep>A scratchy sound issued from the disk. Pardon my laughter, Hoshicksaid, but surely you jest? As a matter of fact, said Retief, we ourselves seldom use weapons. I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved theuse of a weapon by one of your units. My apologies, said Retief. The—ah—the skirmishform failed torecognize that he was dealing with a sportsman. Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons.... Hoshicksignaled and the servant refilled tubes. There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned, Retief went on. I hopeyou won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishformsthink of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certainspecific life-forms. Oh? Curious. What forms are those? Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, butlacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of suchworthy adversaries as yourself as varmints. Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you topoint it out. Hoshick clucked in dismay. I see that skirmishforms aremuch the same among you as with us: lacking in perception. He laughedscratchily. Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints. Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up againsta serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actionsso dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end tothese contests altogether.... Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.What are you saying? he gasped. Are you proposing that Hoshick ofthe Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....? Sir! said Retief sternly. You forget yourself. I, Retief of the RedTape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with thenewest sporting principles. New? cried Hoshick. My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'menthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate. It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and thetwo individuals settle the issue between them. I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance couldone attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms? I haven't made myself clear, said Retief. He took a sip of wine. Wedon't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe. You don't mean...? That's right. You and me. <doc-sep>Outside on the starlit sand Retief tossed aside the power pistol,followed it with the leather shirt Swazey had lent him. By the faintlight he could just make out the towering figure of the Flap-jackrearing up before him, his trappings gone. A silent rank of Flap-jackretainers were grouped behind him. I fear I must lay aside the translator now, Retief, said Hoshick.He sighed and rippled his fringe tentacles. My spawn-fellows willnever credit this. Such a curious turn fashion has taken. How muchmore pleasant it is to observe the action of the skirmishforms from adistance. I suggest we use Tennessee rules, said Retief. They're very liberal.Biting, gouging, stomping, kneeing and of course choking, as well asthe usual punching, shoving and kicking. Hmmm. These gambits seem geared to forms employing rigidendo-skeletons; I fear I shall be at a disadvantage. Of course, Retief said, if you'd prefer a more plebeian type ofcontest.... By no means. But perhaps we could rule out tentacle-twisting, just toeven it. Very well. Shall we begin? With a rush Hoshick threw himself at Retief, who ducked, whirled, andleaped on the Flap-jack's back ... and felt himself flipped clear bya mighty ripple of the alien's slab-like body. Retief rolled asideas Hoshick turned on him; he jumped to his feet and threw a righthay-maker to Hoshick's mid-section. The alien whipped his left fringearound in an arc that connected with Retief's jaw, sent him spinningonto his back ... and Hoshick's weight struck him. Retief twisted, tried to roll. The flat body of the alien blanketedhim. He worked an arm free, drumming blows on the leathery back.Hoshick nestled closer. Retief's air was running out. He heaved up against the smotheringweight. Nothing budged. It was like burial under a dump-truck-load of concrete. He remembered the rangerform he had captured. The sensitive orificehad been placed ventrally, in what would be the thoracic area.... He groped, felt tough hide set with horny granules. He would be missingskin tomorrow ... if there was a tomorrow. His thumb found the orificeand probed. The Flap-jack recoiled. Retief held fast, probed deeper, groping withthe other hand. If the alien were bilaterally symmetrical there wouldbe a set of ready made hand-holds.... <doc-sep>There were. Retief dug in and the Flap-jack writhed, pulled away. Retief held on,scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell ontop of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, floppedin terror, then went limp. Retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard.Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and movedgingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assistedhim into his trappings, strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily,adjusted the volume. There is much to be said for the old system, he said. What a burdenone's sportsmanship places on one at times. Great sport, wasn't it? said Retief. Now, I know you'll be eager tocontinue. If you'll just wait while I run back and fetch some of ourgougerforms— May hide-ticks devour the gougerforms! Hoshick bellowed. You'vegiven me such a sprong-ache as I'll remember each spawning-time for ayear. Speaking of hide-ticks, said Retief, we've developed a biterform— Enough! Hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on hishide. Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I hadhoped.... He broke off, drew a rasping breath. I had hoped, Retief,he said, speaking sadly now, to find a new land here where I mightplan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a cropof paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. Butmy spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerformswithout end. I am shamed before you.... To tell you the truth, I'm old-fashioned myself. I'd rather watch theaction from a distance too. But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude. My spawn-fellows aren't here. And besides, didn't I mention it? Noone who's really in the know would think of engaging in competition bymere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling thesand, raising lichens—things like that— That on which we dined but now, said Hoshick, and from which thewine is made. The big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition.Now, if you'd like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we'llpromise to stick to the oases and vegetables. Hoshick curled his back in attention. Retief, you're quite serious?You would leave all the fair sand hills to us? The whole works, Hoshick. I'll take the oases. Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. Once again you have outdoneme, Retief, he cried. This time, in generosity. We'll talk over the details later. I'm sure we can establish a set ofrules that will satisfy all parties. Now I've got to get back. I thinksome of the gougerforms are waiting to see me. IV It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreedon with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stoodup. There you are, he said. We been wonderin' whether to go out afteryou. Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out araw-boned hand. Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, Ithought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT. Bert came up behind Lemuel. How do you know he ain't, Lemuel? hesaid. Maybe he— Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. Nextcotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse'n that. Tell me, said Retief. How are you boys fixed for wine? Wine? Mister, we been livin' on stump water for a year now. 'Dobe'sfatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker. Try this. Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork,sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel. Mister, where'd you get that? The Flap-jacks make it. Here's another question for you: Would youconcede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peaceguarantee? At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief.We'll make any reasonable deal, he said. I guess they got as muchright here as we have. I think we'd agree to a fifty-fifty split.That'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side. What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them thedesert? Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. Keep talkin',mister, he said. I think you got yourself a deal. <doc-sep>Consul Passwyn glanced up at Retief, went on perusing a paper. Sit down, Retief, he said absently. I thought you were over onPueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert. I'm back. Passwyn eyed him sharply. Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speakup. Don't expect me to request any military assistance, no matter howthings are.... Retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. Here's theTreaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact declaration and a trade agreement. Eh? Passwyn picked up the papers, riffled through them. He leanedback in his chair, beamed. Well, Retief. Expeditiously handled. He stopped, blinked at Retief.You seem to have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you've been conductingyourself as befits a member of the Embassy staff. I attended a sporting event, Retief said. One of the players got alittle excited. Well ... it's one of the hazards of the profession. One mustpretend an interest in such matters. Passwyn rose, extended a hand.You've done well, my boy. Let this teach you the value of followinginstructions to the letter. Outside, by the hall incinerator drop, Retief paused long enough totake from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and dropit in the slot. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of wine in the story?

Wine is the essential reason the Jaq came to Adobe in the first place. Their leader, Hoshick, envisioned sourcing its vast deserts for lichen. This lichen would then be used to produce a yellow wine that could be sold to planets all around the universe. When Retief first meets Hoshick, the Jaq leader provides him with a rose-crystal drinking-tube, from which they are able to sample this wine. Retief notes that the wine tastes delicious and smells good and reminds him of Chateau d'Yquem. This detail reveals the Jaq's interest in the finer things in life, in appearing distinguished. This interest is reflected in all of the Jaq's interactions with Retief, including his ability to be coerced into hand-to-hand combat because he deems it a more modern, sportsmanlike way of resolving issues. Wine again becomes important after Retief wins the fight and gets Hoshick to agree to the terms of his proposed land treaty with the Terrestrials. After Hoshick agrees, Retief attempts to convince the Terrestrials to agree as well. After learning of the lack of wine within their settlements, Retief lets the Terrestrials sample the wine provided to him by the Jaq. Eventually, the Terrestrials agree to the arrangement as well. Therefore, the wine is also a symbol of the newfound peace between the two previously warring groups.

What is the significance of the fission weapon in the story? [SEP] <s> RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN by KEITH LAUMER Retief knew the importance of sealed orders—and the need to keep them that way! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief. Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel— Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience. He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet. The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results. He passed the buff envelope across to Retief. I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived. Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear? Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe? Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour. What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet. When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me. <doc-sep>The mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spattoward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen. They's shootin' goin' on down there, he said. See them white puffsover the edge of the desert? I'm supposed to be preventing the war, said Retief. It looks likeI'm a little late. The pilot's head snapped around. War? he yelped. Nobody told me theywas a war goin' on on 'Dobe. If that's what that is, I'm gettin' out ofhere. Hold on, said Retief. I've got to get down. They won't shoot at you. They shore won't, sonny. I ain't givin' 'em the chance. He startedpunching keys on the console. Retief reached out, caught his wrist. Maybe you didn't hear me. I said I've got to get down. The pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that Retiefblocked casually. Are you nuts? the pilot screeched. They's plentyshootin' goin' on fer me to see it fifty miles out. The mail must go through, you know. Okay! You're so dead set on gettin' killed, you take the skiff. I'lltell 'em to pick up the remains next trip. You're a pal. I'll take your offer. The pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. Get in.We're closin' fast. Them birds might take it into their heads to lobone this way.... Retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over thecontrols. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed Retief aheavy old-fashioned power pistol. Long as you're goin' in, might aswell take this. Thanks. Retief shoved the pistol in his belt. I hope you're wrong. I'll see they pick you up when the shootin's over—one way or another. The hatch clanked shut. A moment later there was a jar as the skiffdropped away, followed by heavy buffeting in the backwash from thedeparting mail boat. Retief watched the tiny screen, hands on themanual controls. He was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty-nine.... A crimson blip showed on the screen, moving out. Retief felt sweat pop out on his forehead. The red blip meant heavyradiation from a warhead. Somebody was playing around with an outlawedbut by no means unheard of fission weapon. But maybe it was just on ahigh trajectory and had no connection with the skiff.... Retief altered course to the south. The blip followed. He checked instrument readings, gripped the controls, watching. Thiswas going to be tricky. The missile bored closer. At five miles Retiefthrew the light skiff into maximum acceleration, straight toward theoncoming bomb. Crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen,correcting course minutely. The proximity fuse should be set for nomore than 1000 yards. At a combined speed of two miles per second, the skiff flashed pastthe missile, and Retief was slammed violently against the restrainingharness in the concussion of the explosion ... a mile astern, andharmless. Then the planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed.Retief shook his head, kicked in the emergency retro-drive. Pointsof light arced up from the planet face below. If they were ordinarychemical warheads the skiff's meteor screens should handle them. Thescreen flashed brilliant white, then went dark. The skiff flipped onits back. Smoke filled the tiny compartment. There was a series ofshocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by theping of hot metal contracting. <doc-sep>Coughing, Retief disengaged himself from the shock-webbing. He beatout sparks in his lap, groped underfoot for the hatch and wrenched itopen. A wave of hot jungle air struck him. He lowered himself to a bedof shattered foliage, got to his feet ... and dropped flat as a bulletwhined past his ear. He lay listening. Stealthy movements were audible from the left. He inched his way to the shelter of a broad-boled dwarf tree. Somewherea song lizard burbled. Whining insects circled, scented alien life,buzzed off. There was another rustle of foliage from the underbrushfive yards away. A bush quivered, then a low bough dipped. Retief edged back around the trunk, eased down behind a fallen log.A stocky man in grimy leather shirt and shorts appeared, movingcautiously, a pistol in his hand. As he passed, Retief rose, leaped the log and tackled him. They went down together. The stranger gave one short yell, thenstruggled in silence. Retief flipped him onto his back, raised a fist— Hey! the settler yelled. You're as human as I am! Maybe I'll look better after a shave, said Retief. What's the ideaof shooting at me? Lemme up. My name's Potter. Sorry 'bout that. I figured it was aFlap-jack boat; looks just like 'em. I took a shot when I saw somethingmove. Didn't know it was a Terrestrial. Who are you? What you doin'here? We're pretty close to the edge of the oases. That's Flap-jackcountry over there. He waved a hand toward the north, where the desertlay. I'm glad you're a poor shot. That missile was too close for comfort. Missile, eh? Must be Flap-jack artillery. We got nothing like that. I heard there was a full-fledged war brewing, said Retief. I didn'texpect— Good! Potter said. We figured a few of you boys from Ivory would bejoining up when you heard. You are from Ivory? Yes. I'm— Hey, you must be Lemuel's cousin. Good night! I pretty near made a badmistake. Lemuel's a tough man to explain something to. I'm— Keep your head down. These damn Flap-jacks have got some wicked handweapons. Come on.... He moved off silently on all fours. Retieffollowed. They crossed two hundred yards of rough country before Pottergot to his feet, took out a soggy bandana and mopped his face. You move good for a city man. I thought you folks on Ivory just satunder those domes and read dials. But I guess bein' Lemuel's cousin youwas raised different. As a matter of fact— Have to get you some real clothes, though. Those city duds don't standup on 'Dobe. Retief looked down at the charred, torn and sweat-soaked powder-blueblazer and slacks. This outfit seemed pretty rough-and-ready back home, he said. But Iguess leather has its points. Let's get on back to camp. We'll just about make it by sundown.And, look. Don't say anything to Lemuel about me thinking you were aFlap-jack. I won't, but— Potter was on his way, loping off up a gentle slope. Retief pulled offthe sodden blazer, dropped it over a bush, added his string tie andfollowed Potter. II We're damn glad you're here, mister, said a fat man with tworevolvers belted across his paunch. We can use every hand. We're inbad shape. We ran into the Flap-jacks three months ago and we haven'tmade a smart move since. First, we thought they were a native form wehadn't run into before. Fact is, one of the boys shot one, thinkin' itwas fair game. I guess that was the start of it. He stirred the fire,added a stick. And then a bunch of 'em hit Swazey's farm here, Potter said. Killedtwo of his cattle, and pulled back. I figure they thought the cows were people, said Swazey. They wereout for revenge. How could anybody think a cow was folks? another man put in. Theydon't look nothin' like— Don't be so dumb, Bert, said Swazey. They'd never seen Terriesbefore. They know better now. Bert chuckled. Sure do. We showed 'em the next time, didn't we,Potter? Got four. They walked right up to my place a couple days after the first time,Swazey said. We were ready for 'em. Peppered 'em good. They cut andrun. Flopped, you mean. Ugliest lookin' critters you ever saw. Look justlike a old piece of dirty blanket humpin' around. It's been goin' on this way ever since. They raid and then we raid.But lately they've been bringing some big stuff into it. They've gotsome kind of pint-sized airships and automatic rifles. We've lost fourmen now and a dozen more in the freezer, waiting for the med ship. Wecan't afford it. The colony's got less than three hundred able-bodiedmen. But we're hanging onto our farms, said Potter. All these oases areold sea-beds—a mile deep, solid topsoil. And there's a couple ofhundred others we haven't touched yet. The Flap-jacks won't get 'emwhile there's a man alive. The whole system needs the food we can raise, Bert said. These farmswe're trying to start won't be enough but they'll help. We been yellin' for help to the CDT, over on Ivory, said Potter. Butyou know these Embassy stooges. We heard they were sending some kind of bureaucrat in here to tellus to get out and give the oases to the Flap-jacks, said Swazey. Hetightened his mouth. We're waitin' for him.... Meanwhile we got reinforcements comin' up, eh, boys? Bert winked atRetief. We put out the word back home. We all got relatives on Ivoryand Verde. Shut up, you damn fool! a deep voice grated. Lemuel! Potter said. Nobody else could sneak up on us like that. If I'd a been a Flap-jack; I'd of et you alive, the newcomer said,moving into the ring of fire, a tall, broad-faced man in grimy leather.He eyed Retief. Who's that? What do ya mean? Potter spoke in the silence. He's your cousin.... He ain't no cousin of mine, Lemuel said slowly. He stepped to Retief. Who you spyin' for, stranger? he rasped. <doc-sep>Retief got to his feet. I think I should explain— A short-nosed automatic appeared in Lemuel's hand, a clashing noteagainst his fringed buckskins. Skip the talk. I know a fink when I see one. Just for a change, I'd like to finish a sentence, said Retief. And Isuggest you put your courage back in your pocket before it bites you. You talk too damned fancy to suit me. Maybe. But I'm talking to suit me. Now, for the last time, put itaway. Lemuel stared at Retief. You givin' me orders...? Retief's left fist shot out, smacked Lemuel's face dead center. Hestumbled back, blood starting from his nose; the pistol fired into thedirt as he dropped it. He caught himself, jumped for Retief ... and meta straight right that snapped him onto his back: out cold. Wow! said Potter. The stranger took Lem ... in two punches! One, said Swazey. That first one was just a love tap. Bert froze. Hark, boys, he whispered. In the sudden silence a nightlizard called. Retief strained, heard nothing. He narrowed his eyes,peered past the fire— With a swift lunge he seized up the bucket of drinking water, dashed itover the fire, threw himself flat. He heard the others hit the dirt asplit second behind him. You move fast for a city man, breathed Swazey beside him. You seepretty good too. We'll split and take 'em from two sides. You and Bertfrom the left, me and Potter from the right. No, said Retief. You wait here. I'm going out alone. What's the idea...? Later. Sit tight and keep your eyes open. Retief took a bearing on atreetop faintly visible against the sky and started forward. <doc-sep>Five minutes' stealthy progress brought him to a slight rise of ground.With infinite caution he raised himself, risking a glance over anout-cropping of rock. The stunted trees ended just ahead. Beyond, he could make out the dimcontour of rolling desert. Flap-jack country. He got to his feet,clambered over the stone—still hot after a day of tropical heat—andmoved forward twenty yards. Around him he saw nothing but drifted sand,palely visible in the starlight, and the occasional shadow of juttingshale slabs. Behind him the jungle was still. He sat down on the ground to wait. It was ten minutes before a movement caught his eye. Something hadseparated itself from a dark mass of stone, glided across a few yardsof open ground to another shelter. Retief watched. Minutes passed. Theshape moved again, slipped into a shadow ten feet distant. Retief feltthe butt of the power pistol with his elbow. His guess had better beright this time.... There was a sudden rasp, like leather against concrete, and a flurry ofsand as the Flap-jack charged. Retief rolled aside, then lunged, threw his weight on the floppingFlap-jack—a yard square, three inches thick at the center and allmuscle. The ray-like creature heaved up, curled backward, its edgerippling, to stand on the flattened rim of its encircling sphincter.It scrabbled with prehensile fringe-tentacles for a grip on Retief'sshoulders. He wrapped his arms around the alien and struggled to hisfeet. The thing was heavy. A hundred pounds at least. Fighting as itwas, it seemed more like five hundred. The Flap-jack reversed its tactics, went limp. Retief grabbed, felt athumb slip into an orifice— The alien went wild. Retief hung on, dug the thumb in deeper. Sorry, fellow, he muttered between clenched teeth. Eye-gouging isn'tgentlemanly, but it's effective.... The Flap-jack fell still, only its fringes rippling slowly. Retiefrelaxed the pressure of his thumb; the alien gave a tentative jerk; thethumb dug in. The alien went limp again, waiting. Now we understand each other, said Retief. Take me to your leader. <doc-sep>Twenty minutes' walk into the desert brought Retief to a low rampartof thorn branches: the Flap-jacks' outer defensive line against Terryforays. It would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by theFlap-jacks. He sat down and eased the weight of his captive off hisback, but kept a firm thumb in place. If his analysis of the situationwas correct, a Flap-jack picket should be along before too long.... A penetrating beam of red light struck Retief in the face, blinked off.He got to his feet. The captive Flap-jack rippled its fringe in anagitated way. Retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket. Sit tight, he said. Don't try to do anything hasty.... His remarkswere falling on deaf ears—or no ears at all—but the thumb spoke asloudly as words. There was a slither of sand. Another. He became aware of a ring ofpresences drawing closer. Retief tightened his grip on the alien. He could see a dark shape now,looming up almost to his own six-three. It looked like the Flap-jackscame in all sizes. A low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. It strummed on, fadedout. Retief cocked his head, frowning. Try it two octaves higher, he said. Awwrrp! Sorry. Is that better? a clear voice came from the darkness. That's fine, Retief said. I'm here to arrange a prisoner exchange. Prisoners? But we have no prisoners. Sure you have. Me. Is it a deal? Ah, yes, of course. Quite equitable. What guarantees do you require? The word of a gentleman is sufficient. Retief released the alien. Itflopped once, disappeared into the darkness. If you'd care to accompany me to our headquarters, the voice said,we can discuss our mutual concerns in comfort. Delighted. Red lights blinked briefly. Retief glimpsed a gap in the thornybarrier, stepped through it. He followed dim shapes across warm sand toa low cave-like entry, faintly lit with a reddish glow. I must apologize for the awkward design of our comfort-dome, said thevoice. Had we known we would be honored by a visit— Think nothing of it, Retief said. We diplomats are trained to crawl. Inside, with knees bent and head ducked under the five-foot ceiling,Retief looked around at the walls of pink-toned nacre, a floor likeburgundy-colored glass spread with silken rugs and a low table ofpolished red granite that stretched down the center of the spaciousroom, set out with silver dishes and rose-crystal drinking-tubes. III Let me congratulate you, the voice said. Retief turned. An immense Flap-jack, hung with crimson trappings,rippled at his side. The voice issued from a disk strapped to its back.You fight well. I think we will find in each other worthy adversaries. Thanks. I'm sure the test would be interesting, but I'm hoping we canavoid it. Avoid it? Retief heard a low humming coming from the speaker in thesilence. Well, let us dine, the mighty Flap-jack said at last. Wecan resolve these matters later. I am called Hoshick of the Mosaic ofthe Two Dawns. I'm Retief. Hoshick waited expectantly, ... of the Mountain of RedTape, Retief added. Take place, Retief, said Hoshick. I hope you won't find our rudecouches uncomfortable. Two other large Flap-jacks came into the room,communed silently with Hoshick. Pray forgive our lack of translatingdevices, he said to Retief. Permit me to introduce my colleagues.... A small Flap-jack rippled the chamber bearing on its back a silver trayladen with aromatic food. The waiter served the four diners, filled thedrinking tubes with yellow wine. It smelled good. I trust you'll find these dishes palatable, said Hoshick. Ourmetabolisms are much alike, I believe. Retief tried the food. It had adelicious nut-like flavor. The wine was indistinguishable from Chateaud'Yquem. It was an unexpected pleasure to encounter your party here,said Hoshick. I confess at first we took you for an indigenousearth-grubbing form, but we were soon disabused of that notion. Heraised a tube, manipulating it deftly with his fringe tentacles. Retiefreturned the salute and drank. Of course, Hoshick continued, as soon as we realized that you weresportsmen like ourselves, we attempted to make amends by providing abit of activity for you. We've ordered out our heavier equipment and afew trained skirmishers and soon we'll be able to give you an adequateshow. Or so I hope. Additional skirmishers? said Retief. How many, if you don't mind myasking? For the moment, perhaps only a few hundred. There-after ... well,I'm sure we can arrange that between us. Personally I would prefer acontest of limited scope. No nuclear or radiation-effect weapons. Sucha bore, screening the spawn for deviations. Though I confess we've comeupon some remarkably useful sports. The rangerform such as you madecaptive, for example. Simple-minded, of course, but a fantasticallykeen tracker. Oh, by all means, Retief said. No atomics. As you pointed out,spawn-sorting is a nuisance, and then too, it's wasteful of troops. Ah, well, they are after all expendable. But we agree: no atomics.Have you tried the ground-gwack eggs? Rather a specialty of myMosaic.... Delicious, said Retief. I wonder. Have you considered eliminatingweapons altogether? <doc-sep>A scratchy sound issued from the disk. Pardon my laughter, Hoshicksaid, but surely you jest? As a matter of fact, said Retief, we ourselves seldom use weapons. I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved theuse of a weapon by one of your units. My apologies, said Retief. The—ah—the skirmishform failed torecognize that he was dealing with a sportsman. Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons.... Hoshicksignaled and the servant refilled tubes. There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned, Retief went on. I hopeyou won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishformsthink of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certainspecific life-forms. Oh? Curious. What forms are those? Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, butlacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of suchworthy adversaries as yourself as varmints. Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you topoint it out. Hoshick clucked in dismay. I see that skirmishforms aremuch the same among you as with us: lacking in perception. He laughedscratchily. Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints. Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up againsta serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actionsso dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end tothese contests altogether.... Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.What are you saying? he gasped. Are you proposing that Hoshick ofthe Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....? Sir! said Retief sternly. You forget yourself. I, Retief of the RedTape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with thenewest sporting principles. New? cried Hoshick. My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'menthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate. It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and thetwo individuals settle the issue between them. I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance couldone attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms? I haven't made myself clear, said Retief. He took a sip of wine. Wedon't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe. You don't mean...? That's right. You and me. <doc-sep>Outside on the starlit sand Retief tossed aside the power pistol,followed it with the leather shirt Swazey had lent him. By the faintlight he could just make out the towering figure of the Flap-jackrearing up before him, his trappings gone. A silent rank of Flap-jackretainers were grouped behind him. I fear I must lay aside the translator now, Retief, said Hoshick.He sighed and rippled his fringe tentacles. My spawn-fellows willnever credit this. Such a curious turn fashion has taken. How muchmore pleasant it is to observe the action of the skirmishforms from adistance. I suggest we use Tennessee rules, said Retief. They're very liberal.Biting, gouging, stomping, kneeing and of course choking, as well asthe usual punching, shoving and kicking. Hmmm. These gambits seem geared to forms employing rigidendo-skeletons; I fear I shall be at a disadvantage. Of course, Retief said, if you'd prefer a more plebeian type ofcontest.... By no means. But perhaps we could rule out tentacle-twisting, just toeven it. Very well. Shall we begin? With a rush Hoshick threw himself at Retief, who ducked, whirled, andleaped on the Flap-jack's back ... and felt himself flipped clear bya mighty ripple of the alien's slab-like body. Retief rolled asideas Hoshick turned on him; he jumped to his feet and threw a righthay-maker to Hoshick's mid-section. The alien whipped his left fringearound in an arc that connected with Retief's jaw, sent him spinningonto his back ... and Hoshick's weight struck him. Retief twisted, tried to roll. The flat body of the alien blanketedhim. He worked an arm free, drumming blows on the leathery back.Hoshick nestled closer. Retief's air was running out. He heaved up against the smotheringweight. Nothing budged. It was like burial under a dump-truck-load of concrete. He remembered the rangerform he had captured. The sensitive orificehad been placed ventrally, in what would be the thoracic area.... He groped, felt tough hide set with horny granules. He would be missingskin tomorrow ... if there was a tomorrow. His thumb found the orificeand probed. The Flap-jack recoiled. Retief held fast, probed deeper, groping withthe other hand. If the alien were bilaterally symmetrical there wouldbe a set of ready made hand-holds.... <doc-sep>There were. Retief dug in and the Flap-jack writhed, pulled away. Retief held on,scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell ontop of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, floppedin terror, then went limp. Retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard.Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and movedgingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assistedhim into his trappings, strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily,adjusted the volume. There is much to be said for the old system, he said. What a burdenone's sportsmanship places on one at times. Great sport, wasn't it? said Retief. Now, I know you'll be eager tocontinue. If you'll just wait while I run back and fetch some of ourgougerforms— May hide-ticks devour the gougerforms! Hoshick bellowed. You'vegiven me such a sprong-ache as I'll remember each spawning-time for ayear. Speaking of hide-ticks, said Retief, we've developed a biterform— Enough! Hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on hishide. Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I hadhoped.... He broke off, drew a rasping breath. I had hoped, Retief,he said, speaking sadly now, to find a new land here where I mightplan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a cropof paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. Butmy spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerformswithout end. I am shamed before you.... To tell you the truth, I'm old-fashioned myself. I'd rather watch theaction from a distance too. But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude. My spawn-fellows aren't here. And besides, didn't I mention it? Noone who's really in the know would think of engaging in competition bymere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling thesand, raising lichens—things like that— That on which we dined but now, said Hoshick, and from which thewine is made. The big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition.Now, if you'd like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we'llpromise to stick to the oases and vegetables. Hoshick curled his back in attention. Retief, you're quite serious?You would leave all the fair sand hills to us? The whole works, Hoshick. I'll take the oases. Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. Once again you have outdoneme, Retief, he cried. This time, in generosity. We'll talk over the details later. I'm sure we can establish a set ofrules that will satisfy all parties. Now I've got to get back. I thinksome of the gougerforms are waiting to see me. IV It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreedon with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stoodup. There you are, he said. We been wonderin' whether to go out afteryou. Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out araw-boned hand. Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, Ithought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT. Bert came up behind Lemuel. How do you know he ain't, Lemuel? hesaid. Maybe he— Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. Nextcotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse'n that. Tell me, said Retief. How are you boys fixed for wine? Wine? Mister, we been livin' on stump water for a year now. 'Dobe'sfatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker. Try this. Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork,sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel. Mister, where'd you get that? The Flap-jacks make it. Here's another question for you: Would youconcede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peaceguarantee? At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief.We'll make any reasonable deal, he said. I guess they got as muchright here as we have. I think we'd agree to a fifty-fifty split.That'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side. What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them thedesert? Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. Keep talkin',mister, he said. I think you got yourself a deal. <doc-sep>Consul Passwyn glanced up at Retief, went on perusing a paper. Sit down, Retief, he said absently. I thought you were over onPueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert. I'm back. Passwyn eyed him sharply. Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speakup. Don't expect me to request any military assistance, no matter howthings are.... Retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. Here's theTreaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact declaration and a trade agreement. Eh? Passwyn picked up the papers, riffled through them. He leanedback in his chair, beamed. Well, Retief. Expeditiously handled. He stopped, blinked at Retief.You seem to have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you've been conductingyourself as befits a member of the Embassy staff. I attended a sporting event, Retief said. One of the players got alittle excited. Well ... it's one of the hazards of the profession. One mustpretend an interest in such matters. Passwyn rose, extended a hand.You've done well, my boy. Let this teach you the value of followinginstructions to the letter. Outside, by the hall incinerator drop, Retief paused long enough totake from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and dropit in the slot. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the fission weapon in the story?

After Retief takes command of the mail skiff, he narrowly misses colliding with a warhead that tracks his trajectory. Thanks to a swift maneuver, Retief is able to dodge its impact and crash-lands on Adobe. However, due to the red blip on his radar screen, Retief is now aware that one of the warring groups on the planet is using illegal fission weapons in battle. Initially, he believes the Terrestrials were responsible for this, but after meeting Potter, he realizes his mistake. Potter informs him the Terrestrials do not have weapons of that kind, so it has to be Jaq weaponry. This information becomes important later when Retief meets Hoshick for the first time. As the leader of the Jaq, Hoshick informs Retief that the skirmishes were a result of a desire to engage in more sportsmanlike conduct on the battlefield. Retief realizes he can use this desire to his advantage and pushes Hoshick to question whether or not weapons are required at all in resolving conflict. He pushes this idea further by suggesting his own kind would never solve problems with weapons, despite one of the Jaqs having been previously shot down by them. Retief excuses this by again playing into Hoshick's desire to appear more dignified and saying the shooting was a failure to recognize the Jaq as sportsmen. This tactic works, and he is able to use it to convince Hoshick to engage in hand-to-hand combat, which eventually leads to the resolution of the war.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> MIGHTIEST QORN BY KEITH LAUMER Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt held all humans in contempt—except one! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff. Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt? There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn. They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect. They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system! But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory.... Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud: His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest. Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said. Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger. We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum! Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan. There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place. Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service! The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table. We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible! <doc-sep>The Military Attache pulled at his lower lip. In that case, we can'ttry conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible driveof our own. I recommend a crash project. In the meantime— I'll have my boys start in to crack this thing, the Chief of theConfidential Terrestrial Source Section spoke up. I'll fit out acouple of volunteers with plastic beaks— No cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! Long range policy will beworked out by Deep-Think teams back at the Department. Our role willbe a holding action. Now I want suggestions for a comprehensive,well rounded and decisive course for meeting this threat. Anyrecommendation? The Political Officer placed his fingertips together. What about astiff Note demanding an extra week's time? No! No begging, the Economic Officer objected. I'd say a calm,dignified, aggressive withdrawal—as soon as possible. We don't want to give them the idea we spook easily, the MilitaryAttache said. Let's delay the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow. Early tomorrow, Magnan said. Or maybe later today. Well, I see you're of a mind with me, Nitworth nodded. Our plan ofaction is clear, but it remains to be implemented. We have a populationof over fifteen million individuals to relocate. He eyed thePolitical Officer. I want five proposals for resettlement on my deskby oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. Nitworth rapped out instructions.Harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. Magnaneased toward the door. Where are you going, Magnan? Nitworth snapped. Since you're so busy, I thought I'd just slip back down to Com Inq. Itwas a most interesting orientation lecture, Mr. Ambassador. Be sure tolet us know how it works out. Kindly return to your chair, Nitworth said coldly. A number ofchores remain to be assigned. I think you, Magnan, need a little fieldexperience. I want you to get over to Roolit I and take a look at theseQornt personally. Magnan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Not afraid of a few Qornt, are you, Magnan? Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha. It's just that I'm afraid I may lose myhead and do something rash if I go. Nonsense! A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along.No dawdling, now! I want you on the way in two hours. Notify thetransport pool at once. Now get going! Magnan nodded unhappily and went into the hall. Oh, Retief, Nitworth said. Retief turned. Try to restrain Mr. Magnan from any impulsive moves—in anydirection. II Retief and Magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slopeof towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set amongflamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip ofwhite beach with the blue sea beyond. A delightful vista, Magnan said, mopping at his face. A pity wecouldn't locate the Qornt. We'll go back now and report— I'm pretty sure the settlement is off to the right, Retief said. Whydon't you head back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I canobserve. Retief, we're engaged in a serious mission. This is not a time tothink of sightseeing. I'd like to take a good look at what we're giving away. See here, Retief! One might almost receive the impression that you'requestioning Corps policy! One might, at that. The Qornt have made their play, but I think itmight be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. If I'mnot back at the boat in an hour, lift without me. You expect me to make my way back alone? It's directly down-slope— Retief broke off, listening. Magnanclutched at his arm. There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafybranch swung aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view, long, thin,green-clad legs with back-bending knees moving in quick, bird-likesteps. A pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes setamong bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. The crest bobbedas the creature cocked its head, listening. Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimeddirectly at the spot where the Terrestrials stood in the deep shade ofa giant trunk. I'll go for help, Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leapsinto the brush. A second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun,darted to the left. The first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to itsnarrow chest. Magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free,turned—and collided with the eight-foot alien, coming in fast from theright. All three went down in a tangle of limbs. Retief jumped forward, hauled Magnan free, thrust him aside andstopped, right fist cocked. The two Qornt lay groaning feebly. Nice piece of work, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. You nailed both ofthem. <doc-sep>Those undoubtedly are the most bloodthirsty, aggressive, mercilesscountenances it has ever been my misfortune to encounter, Magnan said.It hardly seems fair. Eight feet tall and faces like that! The smaller of the two captive Qornt ran long, slender fingers overa bony shin, from which he had turned back the tight-fitting greentrousers. It's not broken, he whistled nasally in passable Terrestrial, eyeingMagnan through the heavy goggles, now badly cracked. Small thanks toyou. Magnan smiled loftily. I daresay you'll think twice before interferingwith peaceable diplomats in future. Diplomats? Surely you jest. Never mind us, Retief said. It's you fellows we'd like to talkabout. How many of you are there? Only Zubb and myself. I mean altogether. How many Qornt? The alien whistled shrilly. Here, no signalling! Magnan snapped, looking around. That was merely an expression of amusement. You find the situation amusing? I assure you, sir, you are in perilousstraits at the moment. I may fly into another rage, you know. Please, restrain yourself. I was merely somewhat astonished— a smallwhistle escaped—at being taken for a Qornt. Aren't you a Qornt? I? Great snail trails, no! More stifled whistles of amusement escapedthe beaked face. Both Zubb and I are Verpp. Naturalists, as ithappens. You certainly look like Qornt. Oh, not at all—except perhaps to a Terrestrial. The Qornt aresturdily built rascals, all over ten feet in height. And, of course,they do nothing but quarrel. A drone caste, actually. A caste? You mean they're biologically the same as you? Not at all! A Verpp wouldn't think of fertilizing a Qornt. I mean to say, you are of the same basic stock—descended from acommon ancestor, perhaps. We are all Pud's creatures. What are the differences between you, then? Why, the Qornt are argumentive, boastful, lacking in appreciationfor the finer things of life. One dreads to contemplate descending to their level. Do you know anything about a Note passed to the Terrestrial Ambassadorat Smorbrod? Retief asked. <doc-sep>The beak twitched. Smorbrod? I know of no place called Smorbrod. The outer planet of this system. Oh, yes. We call it Guzzum. I had heard that some sort of creatureshad established a settlement there, but I confess I pay little note tosuch matters. We're wasting time, Retief, Magnan said. We must truss these chapsup, hurry back to the boat and make our escape. You heard what theysaid. Are there any Qornt down there at the harbor, where the boats are?Retief asked. At Tarroon, you mean? Oh, yes. Planning some adventure. That would be the invasion of Smorbrod, Magnan said. And unless wehurry, Retief, we're likely to be caught there with the last of theevacuees! How many Qornt would you say there are at Tarroon? Oh, a very large number. Perhaps fifteen or twenty. Fifteen or twenty what? Magnan looked perplexed. Fifteen or twenty Qornt. You mean that there are only fifteen or twenty individual Qornt inall? Another whistle. Not at all. I was referring to the local Qornt only.There are more at the other Centers, of course. And the Qornt are responsible for the ultimatum—unilaterally? I suppose so; it sounds like them. A truculent group, you know. Andinterplanetary relations are rather a hobby of theirs. Zubb moaned and stirred. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. He spoketo his companion in a shrill alien clatter of consonants. What did he say? Poor Zubb. He blames me for his bruises, since it was my idea togather you as specimens. You should have known better than to tackle that fierce-lookingcreature, Zubb said, pointing his beak at Magnan. How does it happen that you speak Terrestrial? Retief asked. Oh, one picks up all sorts of dialects. It's quite charming, really, Magnan said. Such a quaint, archaicaccent. Suppose we went down to Tarroon, Retief asked. What kind ofreception would we get? That depends. I wouldn't recommend interfering with the Gwil or theRheuk; it's their nest-mending time, you know. The Boog will be busymating—such a tedious business—and of course the Qornt are tied upwith their ceremonial feasting. I'm afraid no one will take any noticeof you. Do you mean to say, Magnan demanded, that these ferocious Qornt, whohave issued an ultimatum to the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—whoopenly avow their occupied world—would ignore Terrestrials in theirmidst? If at all possible. Retief got to his feet. I think our course is clear, Mr. Magnan. It's up to us to go down andattract a little attention. III I'm not at all sure we're going about this in the right way, Magnanpuffed, trotting at Retief's side. These fellows Zubb and Slun—Oh,they seem affable enough, but how can we be sure we're not being ledinto a trap? We can't. Magnan stopped short. Let's go back. All right, Retief said. Of course there may be an ambush— Magnan moved off. Let's keep going. The party emerged from the undergrowth at the edge of a greatbrush-grown mound. Slun took the lead, rounded the flank of thehillock, halted at a rectangular opening cut into the slope. You can find your way easily enough from here, he said. You'llexcuse us, I hope— Nonsense, Slun! Zubb pushed forward. I'll escort our guests to QorntHall. He twittered briefly to his fellow Verpp. Slun twittered back. I don't like it, Retief, Magnan whispered. Those fellows areplotting mischief. Threaten them with violence, Mr Magnan. They're scared of you. That's true. And the drubbing they received was well-deserved. I'm apatient man, but there are occasions— Come along, please, Zubb called. Another ten minutes' walk— See here, we have no interest in investigating this barrow, Magnanannounced. We wish you to take us direct to Tarroon to interview yourmilitary leaders regarding the ultimatum! Yes, yes, of course. Qornt Hall lies here inside the village. This is Tarroon? A modest civic center, sir, but there are those who love it. No wonder we didn't observe their works from the air, Magnanmuttered. Camouflaged. He moved hesitantly through the opening. The party moved along a wide, deserted tunnel which sloped downsteeply, then leveled off and branched. Zubb took the center branch,ducking slightly under the nine-foot ceiling lit at intervals with whatappeared to be primitive incandescent panels. Few signs of an advanced technology here, Magnan whispered. Thesecreatures must devote all their talents to warlike enterprise. Ahead, Zubb slowed. A distant susurration was audible, a sustainedhigh-pitched screeching. Softly, now. We approach Qornt Hall. Theycan be an irascible lot when disturbed at their feasting. When will the feast be over? Magnan called hoarsely. In another few weeks, I should imagine, if, as you say, they'vescheduled an invasion for next month. Look here, Zubb. Magnan shook a finger at the tall alien. How is itthat these Qornt are allowed to embark on piratical ventures of thissort without reference to the wishes of the majority? Oh, the majority of the Qornt favor the move, I imagine. These few hotheads are permitted to embroil the planet in war? Oh, they don't embroil the planet in war. They merely— Retief, this is fantastic! I've heard of iron-fisted military cliquesbefore, but this is madness! Come softly, now. Zubb beckoned, moving toward a bend in theyellow-lit corridor. Retief and Magnan moved forward. <doc-sep>The corridor debouched through a high double door into a vast ovalchamber, high-domed, gloomy, paneled in dark wood and hung withtattered banners, scarred halberds, pikes, rusted longswords, crossedspears over patinaed hauberks, pitted radiation armor, corroded powerrifles, the immense mummified heads of horned and fanged animals. Greatguttering torches in wall brackets and in stands along the lengthof the long table shed a smoky light that reflected from the mirrorpolish of the red granite floor, gleamed on polished silver bowls andpaper-thin glass, shone jewel-red and gold through dark bottles—andcast long flickering shadows behind the fifteen trolls at the board. Lesser trolls—beaked, bush-haired, great-eyed—trotted briskly,bird-kneed, bearing steaming platters, stood in groups ofthree strumming slender bottle-shaped lutes, or pranced anintricate-patterned dance, unnoticed in the shrill uproar as each ofthe magnificently draped, belted, feathered and jeweled Qornt carriedon a shouted conversation with an equally noisy fellow. A most interesting display of barbaric splendor, Magnan breathed.Now we'd better be getting back. Ah, a moment, Zubb said. Observe the Qornt—the tallest of thefeasters—he with the head-dress of crimson, purple, silver and pink. Twelve feet if he's an inch, Magnan estimated. And now we reallymust hurry along— That one is chief among these rowdies. I'm sure you'll want a wordwith him. He controls not only the Tarroonian vessels but those fromthe other Centers as well. What kind of vessels? Warships? Certainly. What other kind would the Qornt bother with? I don't suppose, Magnan said casually, that you'd know the type,tonnage, armament and manning of these vessels? And how many unitscomprise the fleet? And where they're based at present? They're fully automated twenty-thousand-ton all-purpose dreadnaughts.They mount a variety of weapons. The Qornt are fond of that sort ofthing. Each of the Qornt has his own, of course. They're virtuallyidentical, except for the personal touches each individual has givenhis ship. Great heavens, Retief! Magnan exclaimed in a whisper. It sounds asthough these brutes employ a battle armada as simpler souls might a setof toy sailboats! Retief stepped past Magnan and Zubb to study the feasting hall. I cansee that their votes would carry all the necessary weight. And now an interview with the Qorn himself, Zubb shrilled. If you'llkindly step along, gentlemen.... That won't be necessary, Magnan said hastily, I've decided to referthe matter to committee. After having come so far, Zubb said, it would be a pity to misshaving a cosy chat. There was a pause. Ah ... Retief, Magnan said. Zubb has just presented a mostcompelling argument.... <doc-sep>Retief turned. Zubb stood gripping an ornately decorated power pistolin one bony hand, a slim needler in the other. Both were pointed atMagnan's chest. I suspected you had hidden qualities, Zubb, Retief commented. See here, Zubb! We're diplomats! Magnan started. Careful, Mr. Magnan; you may goad him to a frenzy. By no means, Zubb whistled. I much prefer to observe the frenzyof the Qornt when presented with the news that two peaceful Verpphave been assaulted and kidnapped by bullying interlopers. If there'sanything that annoys the Qornt, it's Qornt-like behavior in others. Nowstep along, please. Rest assured, this will be reported! I doubt it. You'll face the wrath of Enlightened Galactic Opinion! Oh? How big a navy does Enlightened Galactic Opinion have? Stop scaring him, Mr. Magnan. He may get nervous and shoot. Retiefstepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure atthe head of the table. A trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat,staring. An inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as Retief swung past,followed by Magnan and the tall Verpp. The shrill chatter at the tablefaded. Qorn turned as Retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. Zubb steppedforward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. Qorn pushed back hischair—a low, heavily padded stool—and stared unwinking at Retief,moving his head to bring first one great round eye, then the other, tobear. There were small blue veins in the immense fleshy beak. The bushyhair, springing out in a giant halo around the grayish, porous-skinnedface, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with tufts of chartreuse fuzzsurrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes. The tall head-dressof scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and a loop ofpink pearls had slipped down above one eye. Zubb finished his speech and fell silent, breathing hard. Qorn looked Retief over in silence, then belched. Not bad, Retief said admiringly. Maybe we could get up a matchbetween you and Ambassador Sternwheeler. You've got the volume on him,but he's got timbre. So, Qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. You come from Guzzum, eh? OrSmorbrod, as I think you call it. What is it you're after? More time?A compromise? Negotiations? Peace? He slammed a bony hand against thetable. The answer is no ! Zubb twittered. Qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant. Chain thatone. He indicated Magnan. His eyes went to Retief. This one's bigger;you'd best chain him, too. Why, your Excellency— Magnan started, stepping forward. Stay back! Qorn hooted. Stand over there where I can keep an eye onyou. Your Excellency, I'm empowered— Not here, you're not! Qorn trumpeted. Want peace, do you? Well, Idon't want peace! I've had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries!I want action! Loot! Adventure! Glory! He turned to look down thetable. How about it, fellows? It's war to the knife, eh? <doc-sep>There was a momentary silence from all sides. I guess so, grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue withflame-colored plumes. Qorn's eyes bulged. He half rose. We've been all over this, hebassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. Ithought I'd made my point! Oh, sure, Qorn. You bet. I'm convinced. Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. All for one and one for all, that'sus. And you're the one, eh, Qorn? Retief commented. Magnan cleared his throat. I sense that some of you gentlemen are notconvinced of the wisdom of this move, he piped, looking along thetable at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staringeyes. Silence! Qorn hooted. No use your talking to my loyal lieutenantsanyway, he added. They do whatever I convince them they ought to do. But I'm sure that on more mature consideration— I can lick any Qornt in the house. Qorn said. That's why I'm Qorn.He belched again. A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with acrash at Magnan's feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrappedthree loops around Magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place. You next! The guns pointed at Retief's chest. He held out his arms.Four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped aroundthem. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through theends and closed it. Now, Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. There's abit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them? Let them go, the blue and flame Qornt said glumly. You can do better than that, Qorn hooted. Now here's a suggestion:we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,say—and ship them back. Good lord! Retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sendingus home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal! It wouldn't be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,Retief commented. It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up areasonable scrap, Qorn said judiciously. I have a feeling thatthey're thinking of giving up without a struggle. Oh, I doubt that, the blue-and-flame Qornt said. Why should they? Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. Take these two,he hooted. I'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender! Well, Magnan started. Hold it, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. I'll tell him. What's your proposal? Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet.A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I canassure you, it's useless. We Qornt like to fight. I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your Excellency,Retief said blandly. We didn't come to negotiate. We came to deliveran Ultimatum. What? Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered. We plan to use this planet for target practice, Retief said. A newtype hell bomb we've worked out. Have all your people off of it inseventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences. IV You have the gall, Qorn stormed, to stand here in the center ofQornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains— Oh, these, Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum linksstretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. We diplomats liketo go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn't want to misleadyou. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I— Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering. I told you they were brutes, Zubb shrilled. Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. I don't care what they are!he honked. Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships! And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcerswith a hundred megatons/second firepower each. Retief. Magnan tugged at his sleeve. Don't forget their superdrive. That's all right. They don't have one. But— We'll take you on! Qorn French-horned. We're the Qorn! We glory inbattle! We live in fame or go down in— Hogwash, the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. If it wasn't for you, Qorn,we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having toprove anything. Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here, Retief said. I think therest of the boys would listen to reason— Over my dead body! My idea exactly, Retief said. You claim you can lick any man inthe house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on thefloor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation. <doc-sep>Magnan hovered at Retief's side. Twelve feet tall, he moaned. Anddid you notice the size of those hands? Retief watched as Qorn's aides helped him out of his formal trappings.I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. Idoubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard poundshere. But that phenomenal reach— I'll peck away at him at knee level. When he bends over to swat me,I'll get a crack at him. Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort. Enough! Let me at the upstart! Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointedarms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feetclacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitorsand bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on thecombatants. Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut atRetief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. Qornbent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker tookhim just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retiefleaped clear. Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien'soff-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed tothe floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behindthe narrow back, seized Qorn's neck in a stranglehold and threw hisweight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at anawkward angle. He squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reachingin vain for Retief. Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him. Need I remind you, sir, he said icily, that this is an officialdiplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterestedparties. Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. I must ask you to hand me yourweapons, Zubb. Look here, Zubb began. I may lose my temper, Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passedthem to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turnedback to watch the encounter. Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn's left wrist, boundit to the alien's neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn'sshoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrappedit around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qornflopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around hisneck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly. If I were you, I'd relax, Retief said, rising and releasing his grip.Qorn got a leg under him; Retief kicked it. Qorn's chin hit the floorwith a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbsand gay silks. Retief turned to the watching crowd. Next? he called. The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. Maybe this would be a goodtime to elect a new leader, he said. Now, my qualifications— Sit down, Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table,seated himself in Qorn's vacated chair. A couple of you finishtrussing Qorn up for me. But we must select a leader! That won't be necessary, boys. I'm your new leader. <doc-sep>As I see it, Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wineglass, you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly liketo fight. We don't mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, asQornt, we're expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rushthings? I have a suggestion, Magnan said. Why not turn the reins ofgovernment over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group. What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there's always oneamong us who's a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to followhim. Why? Because that's the way it's done. Why not do it another way? Magnan offered. Now, I'd like to suggestcommunity singing— If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what wouldhappen? Live too long? Magnan looked puzzled. When estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. Anyway, withthe new Qornt stepping on our heels— I've lost the thread, Magnan said. Who are the new Qornt? After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they're Qornt, of course.The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosizeinto Verpp— You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will becomewarmongers like Qorn? Very likely. 'The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,' as the oldsaying goes. What do Qornt turn into? Retief asked. Hmmmm. That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood. Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways? Magnan asked. Whatabout taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance? Don't mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It's great sport tosit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashingoff to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. Butwe prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling youTerrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea whatyour strength was. But now that's all off, of course, Magnan chirped. Now that we'vehad diplomatic relations and all— Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we'reQornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action. But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won't let you! Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even ifhe orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the otherCenters—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion isdefinitely on. Why don't you go invade somebody else? Magnan suggested. I couldname some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course. Hold everything, Retief said. I think we've got the basis of a dealhere.... V At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retiefand Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDTSector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged,flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white. Curious, Magnan commented. I wonder what the significance of thewhite ensign might be? Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrementsand a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The highwhite sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes,butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather. A brave show indeed, Magnan commented approvingly. I confess theidea has merit. The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tiredwheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomatstepped out. Why, Ambassador Nitworth, Magnan glowed. This is very kind of you. Keep cool, Magnan, Nitworth said in a strained voice. We'll attemptto get you out of this. He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly atthe ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, atthe eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts. Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency, Nitworth said, blinkingup at the leading Qornt. You are Commander of the Strike Force, Iassume? Nope, the Qornt said shortly. I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuateHeadquarters, Nitworth plowed on. Mr. Ambassador. Retief said. This— Don't panic, Retief. I'll attempt to secure your release, Nitworthhissed over his shoulder. Now— You will address our leader with more respect! the tall Qornt hooted,eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up. Oh, yes indeed, sir ... your Excellency ... Commander. Now, about theinvasion— Mr. Secretary, Magnan tugged at Nitworth's sleeve. In heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace! Nitworth snapped.He rearranged his features. Now your Excellency, we've arranged toevacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested— Requested? the Qornt honked. Ah ... demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered.Instructed. And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow anyother instructions you might have. You don't quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.This isn't— Silence, confound you! Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked atRetief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffeda length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around andheld him facing Retief. If you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr.Ambassador, Retief said blandly. I think I should mention that thisisn't an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the PeaceEnforcement Corps. Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth'smouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. We felt, he said, thatthe establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structurewould provide the element of novelty the Department has requestedin our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma ofTerrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations. Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caughtthe Qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides. I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun, Retief said.Magnan edged close. What about the gag? he whispered. Let's leave it where it is for a while, Retief murmured. It may saveus a few concessions. <doc-sep>An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across hisdesk at Retief and Magnan. This entire affair, he rumbled, has made me appear to be a fool! But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just howclever you are, Magnan burbled. Nitworth purpled. You're skirting insolence, Magnan, he roared. Whywas I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at thesight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced? We tried to get through, but our wavelengths— Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle! Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking— I did not panic! Nitworth bellowed. I merely adjusted to theapparent circumstances. Now, I'm of two minds as to the advisability ofthis foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believethe wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruisein an uninhabited sector of space— The office windows rattled. What the devil! Nitworth turned, staredout at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale bluelight. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third. Nitworth whirled on Magnan. What's this! Who ordered these recruits toembark without my permission? I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,Retief said. There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltratingthe Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it. Call them back at once! I'm afraid that won't be possible. They're under orders to maintaintotal communications silence until completion of the mission. Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtfulexpression dawned. He nodded. This may work out, he said. I should call them back, but sincethe fleet is out of contact, I'm unable to do so, correct? Thus I canhardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising theGroaci. He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan. Very well, gentlemen,I'll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it theSmorbrodian public are notified they can remain where they are. Andby the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of theindetectable drive the Qornt use? No, sir. That is, yes, sir. Well? Well? There isn't any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground. Underground? Doing what? Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch. <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Ambassador Nitworth, the local head of the government for the Terrestrials, has received an ultimatum from a species called the Qornt. The Qornt want to take over the planet that the Terrestrials currently occupy. This is surprising because the whereabouts of the Qornt have been unknown for the past two centuries. The Ambassador orders Second Secretary Magnan to travel to Roolit I, the planet where the Qornt are now, to investigate the situation in person. Retief is sent to go with Magnan, with orders from the Ambassador to avoid Magnan from doing anything impulsive. When they arrive, Retief wants to investigate the situation on the surface, whereas Magnan would have been happy to take one look and return to his office. As Retief is insisting on taking a look, the two men are spotted by two eight-foot-tall creatures and a skirmish starts. After Retief pulls Magnan from the fight, and some bickering takes place, the men learn that these two creatures are Verpp, not Qornt. They ask if they know about the Ultimatum sent to the Ambassador—the men call the outer planet Smorbrod, but those on Roolit I call it Guzzum. Zubb and Slun (the Verpp) say that they aren’t caught up on political matters, so they don’t have anything to say about the upcoming invasion, but they do give the men information about where they are. Tarroon is the town they are closest to, where there are 15-20 Qornt, and Zubb and Slun say that the Qornt would mostly ignore Terrestrials, which makes Retief think they should walk right in. Magnan is afraid of a trap, but they head into the underground Qornt village. Once they make it to Qornt Hall, the group walks through a tunnel into a huge room with high ceilings, where the walls are plastered with weapons and other spoils of battle. It was a trap: the Verpp walk the men into the dining hall where the Qornt are having a feast, hoping that the Qornt would be mad at the men for interfering with the Verpp. It turns out the Qornt are even larger than the Verpp (twelve feet tall), and Qorn (the lead Qornt) is insistent that there will be no peace, because he is hungry for battle, so he ties up the men. Retief threatens them saying the Terrestrials intended to use Roolit I to test a bomb, and breaks out of his chains in the chaos—the differences in gravity between the planets means that the men are very strong, even if they are much smaller than the Verpp and Qornt. Retief ties up Qorn and declares himself the new leader. The Qornt explain that Verpp molt into Qornt after a few other stages of metamorphosis, and that the Qornt are very driven by a need for battle. Upon return to the outer planet, we learn that Retief has supposedly recruited the Qornt for the Peace Enforcement Corps, and sends them out to battle, circumventing Nitworth’s authority.

What is the relationship between Magnan and Retief, and how does it shift throughout the story? [SEP] <s> MIGHTIEST QORN BY KEITH LAUMER Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt held all humans in contempt—except one! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff. Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt? There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn. They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect. They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system! But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory.... Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud: His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest. Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said. Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger. We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum! Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan. There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place. Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service! The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table. We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible! <doc-sep>The Military Attache pulled at his lower lip. In that case, we can'ttry conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible driveof our own. I recommend a crash project. In the meantime— I'll have my boys start in to crack this thing, the Chief of theConfidential Terrestrial Source Section spoke up. I'll fit out acouple of volunteers with plastic beaks— No cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! Long range policy will beworked out by Deep-Think teams back at the Department. Our role willbe a holding action. Now I want suggestions for a comprehensive,well rounded and decisive course for meeting this threat. Anyrecommendation? The Political Officer placed his fingertips together. What about astiff Note demanding an extra week's time? No! No begging, the Economic Officer objected. I'd say a calm,dignified, aggressive withdrawal—as soon as possible. We don't want to give them the idea we spook easily, the MilitaryAttache said. Let's delay the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow. Early tomorrow, Magnan said. Or maybe later today. Well, I see you're of a mind with me, Nitworth nodded. Our plan ofaction is clear, but it remains to be implemented. We have a populationof over fifteen million individuals to relocate. He eyed thePolitical Officer. I want five proposals for resettlement on my deskby oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. Nitworth rapped out instructions.Harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. Magnaneased toward the door. Where are you going, Magnan? Nitworth snapped. Since you're so busy, I thought I'd just slip back down to Com Inq. Itwas a most interesting orientation lecture, Mr. Ambassador. Be sure tolet us know how it works out. Kindly return to your chair, Nitworth said coldly. A number ofchores remain to be assigned. I think you, Magnan, need a little fieldexperience. I want you to get over to Roolit I and take a look at theseQornt personally. Magnan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Not afraid of a few Qornt, are you, Magnan? Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha. It's just that I'm afraid I may lose myhead and do something rash if I go. Nonsense! A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along.No dawdling, now! I want you on the way in two hours. Notify thetransport pool at once. Now get going! Magnan nodded unhappily and went into the hall. Oh, Retief, Nitworth said. Retief turned. Try to restrain Mr. Magnan from any impulsive moves—in anydirection. II Retief and Magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slopeof towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set amongflamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip ofwhite beach with the blue sea beyond. A delightful vista, Magnan said, mopping at his face. A pity wecouldn't locate the Qornt. We'll go back now and report— I'm pretty sure the settlement is off to the right, Retief said. Whydon't you head back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I canobserve. Retief, we're engaged in a serious mission. This is not a time tothink of sightseeing. I'd like to take a good look at what we're giving away. See here, Retief! One might almost receive the impression that you'requestioning Corps policy! One might, at that. The Qornt have made their play, but I think itmight be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. If I'mnot back at the boat in an hour, lift without me. You expect me to make my way back alone? It's directly down-slope— Retief broke off, listening. Magnanclutched at his arm. There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafybranch swung aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view, long, thin,green-clad legs with back-bending knees moving in quick, bird-likesteps. A pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes setamong bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. The crest bobbedas the creature cocked its head, listening. Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimeddirectly at the spot where the Terrestrials stood in the deep shade ofa giant trunk. I'll go for help, Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leapsinto the brush. A second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun,darted to the left. The first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to itsnarrow chest. Magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free,turned—and collided with the eight-foot alien, coming in fast from theright. All three went down in a tangle of limbs. Retief jumped forward, hauled Magnan free, thrust him aside andstopped, right fist cocked. The two Qornt lay groaning feebly. Nice piece of work, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. You nailed both ofthem. <doc-sep>Those undoubtedly are the most bloodthirsty, aggressive, mercilesscountenances it has ever been my misfortune to encounter, Magnan said.It hardly seems fair. Eight feet tall and faces like that! The smaller of the two captive Qornt ran long, slender fingers overa bony shin, from which he had turned back the tight-fitting greentrousers. It's not broken, he whistled nasally in passable Terrestrial, eyeingMagnan through the heavy goggles, now badly cracked. Small thanks toyou. Magnan smiled loftily. I daresay you'll think twice before interferingwith peaceable diplomats in future. Diplomats? Surely you jest. Never mind us, Retief said. It's you fellows we'd like to talkabout. How many of you are there? Only Zubb and myself. I mean altogether. How many Qornt? The alien whistled shrilly. Here, no signalling! Magnan snapped, looking around. That was merely an expression of amusement. You find the situation amusing? I assure you, sir, you are in perilousstraits at the moment. I may fly into another rage, you know. Please, restrain yourself. I was merely somewhat astonished— a smallwhistle escaped—at being taken for a Qornt. Aren't you a Qornt? I? Great snail trails, no! More stifled whistles of amusement escapedthe beaked face. Both Zubb and I are Verpp. Naturalists, as ithappens. You certainly look like Qornt. Oh, not at all—except perhaps to a Terrestrial. The Qornt aresturdily built rascals, all over ten feet in height. And, of course,they do nothing but quarrel. A drone caste, actually. A caste? You mean they're biologically the same as you? Not at all! A Verpp wouldn't think of fertilizing a Qornt. I mean to say, you are of the same basic stock—descended from acommon ancestor, perhaps. We are all Pud's creatures. What are the differences between you, then? Why, the Qornt are argumentive, boastful, lacking in appreciationfor the finer things of life. One dreads to contemplate descending to their level. Do you know anything about a Note passed to the Terrestrial Ambassadorat Smorbrod? Retief asked. <doc-sep>The beak twitched. Smorbrod? I know of no place called Smorbrod. The outer planet of this system. Oh, yes. We call it Guzzum. I had heard that some sort of creatureshad established a settlement there, but I confess I pay little note tosuch matters. We're wasting time, Retief, Magnan said. We must truss these chapsup, hurry back to the boat and make our escape. You heard what theysaid. Are there any Qornt down there at the harbor, where the boats are?Retief asked. At Tarroon, you mean? Oh, yes. Planning some adventure. That would be the invasion of Smorbrod, Magnan said. And unless wehurry, Retief, we're likely to be caught there with the last of theevacuees! How many Qornt would you say there are at Tarroon? Oh, a very large number. Perhaps fifteen or twenty. Fifteen or twenty what? Magnan looked perplexed. Fifteen or twenty Qornt. You mean that there are only fifteen or twenty individual Qornt inall? Another whistle. Not at all. I was referring to the local Qornt only.There are more at the other Centers, of course. And the Qornt are responsible for the ultimatum—unilaterally? I suppose so; it sounds like them. A truculent group, you know. Andinterplanetary relations are rather a hobby of theirs. Zubb moaned and stirred. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. He spoketo his companion in a shrill alien clatter of consonants. What did he say? Poor Zubb. He blames me for his bruises, since it was my idea togather you as specimens. You should have known better than to tackle that fierce-lookingcreature, Zubb said, pointing his beak at Magnan. How does it happen that you speak Terrestrial? Retief asked. Oh, one picks up all sorts of dialects. It's quite charming, really, Magnan said. Such a quaint, archaicaccent. Suppose we went down to Tarroon, Retief asked. What kind ofreception would we get? That depends. I wouldn't recommend interfering with the Gwil or theRheuk; it's their nest-mending time, you know. The Boog will be busymating—such a tedious business—and of course the Qornt are tied upwith their ceremonial feasting. I'm afraid no one will take any noticeof you. Do you mean to say, Magnan demanded, that these ferocious Qornt, whohave issued an ultimatum to the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—whoopenly avow their occupied world—would ignore Terrestrials in theirmidst? If at all possible. Retief got to his feet. I think our course is clear, Mr. Magnan. It's up to us to go down andattract a little attention. III I'm not at all sure we're going about this in the right way, Magnanpuffed, trotting at Retief's side. These fellows Zubb and Slun—Oh,they seem affable enough, but how can we be sure we're not being ledinto a trap? We can't. Magnan stopped short. Let's go back. All right, Retief said. Of course there may be an ambush— Magnan moved off. Let's keep going. The party emerged from the undergrowth at the edge of a greatbrush-grown mound. Slun took the lead, rounded the flank of thehillock, halted at a rectangular opening cut into the slope. You can find your way easily enough from here, he said. You'llexcuse us, I hope— Nonsense, Slun! Zubb pushed forward. I'll escort our guests to QorntHall. He twittered briefly to his fellow Verpp. Slun twittered back. I don't like it, Retief, Magnan whispered. Those fellows areplotting mischief. Threaten them with violence, Mr Magnan. They're scared of you. That's true. And the drubbing they received was well-deserved. I'm apatient man, but there are occasions— Come along, please, Zubb called. Another ten minutes' walk— See here, we have no interest in investigating this barrow, Magnanannounced. We wish you to take us direct to Tarroon to interview yourmilitary leaders regarding the ultimatum! Yes, yes, of course. Qornt Hall lies here inside the village. This is Tarroon? A modest civic center, sir, but there are those who love it. No wonder we didn't observe their works from the air, Magnanmuttered. Camouflaged. He moved hesitantly through the opening. The party moved along a wide, deserted tunnel which sloped downsteeply, then leveled off and branched. Zubb took the center branch,ducking slightly under the nine-foot ceiling lit at intervals with whatappeared to be primitive incandescent panels. Few signs of an advanced technology here, Magnan whispered. Thesecreatures must devote all their talents to warlike enterprise. Ahead, Zubb slowed. A distant susurration was audible, a sustainedhigh-pitched screeching. Softly, now. We approach Qornt Hall. Theycan be an irascible lot when disturbed at their feasting. When will the feast be over? Magnan called hoarsely. In another few weeks, I should imagine, if, as you say, they'vescheduled an invasion for next month. Look here, Zubb. Magnan shook a finger at the tall alien. How is itthat these Qornt are allowed to embark on piratical ventures of thissort without reference to the wishes of the majority? Oh, the majority of the Qornt favor the move, I imagine. These few hotheads are permitted to embroil the planet in war? Oh, they don't embroil the planet in war. They merely— Retief, this is fantastic! I've heard of iron-fisted military cliquesbefore, but this is madness! Come softly, now. Zubb beckoned, moving toward a bend in theyellow-lit corridor. Retief and Magnan moved forward. <doc-sep>The corridor debouched through a high double door into a vast ovalchamber, high-domed, gloomy, paneled in dark wood and hung withtattered banners, scarred halberds, pikes, rusted longswords, crossedspears over patinaed hauberks, pitted radiation armor, corroded powerrifles, the immense mummified heads of horned and fanged animals. Greatguttering torches in wall brackets and in stands along the lengthof the long table shed a smoky light that reflected from the mirrorpolish of the red granite floor, gleamed on polished silver bowls andpaper-thin glass, shone jewel-red and gold through dark bottles—andcast long flickering shadows behind the fifteen trolls at the board. Lesser trolls—beaked, bush-haired, great-eyed—trotted briskly,bird-kneed, bearing steaming platters, stood in groups ofthree strumming slender bottle-shaped lutes, or pranced anintricate-patterned dance, unnoticed in the shrill uproar as each ofthe magnificently draped, belted, feathered and jeweled Qornt carriedon a shouted conversation with an equally noisy fellow. A most interesting display of barbaric splendor, Magnan breathed.Now we'd better be getting back. Ah, a moment, Zubb said. Observe the Qornt—the tallest of thefeasters—he with the head-dress of crimson, purple, silver and pink. Twelve feet if he's an inch, Magnan estimated. And now we reallymust hurry along— That one is chief among these rowdies. I'm sure you'll want a wordwith him. He controls not only the Tarroonian vessels but those fromthe other Centers as well. What kind of vessels? Warships? Certainly. What other kind would the Qornt bother with? I don't suppose, Magnan said casually, that you'd know the type,tonnage, armament and manning of these vessels? And how many unitscomprise the fleet? And where they're based at present? They're fully automated twenty-thousand-ton all-purpose dreadnaughts.They mount a variety of weapons. The Qornt are fond of that sort ofthing. Each of the Qornt has his own, of course. They're virtuallyidentical, except for the personal touches each individual has givenhis ship. Great heavens, Retief! Magnan exclaimed in a whisper. It sounds asthough these brutes employ a battle armada as simpler souls might a setof toy sailboats! Retief stepped past Magnan and Zubb to study the feasting hall. I cansee that their votes would carry all the necessary weight. And now an interview with the Qorn himself, Zubb shrilled. If you'llkindly step along, gentlemen.... That won't be necessary, Magnan said hastily, I've decided to referthe matter to committee. After having come so far, Zubb said, it would be a pity to misshaving a cosy chat. There was a pause. Ah ... Retief, Magnan said. Zubb has just presented a mostcompelling argument.... <doc-sep>Retief turned. Zubb stood gripping an ornately decorated power pistolin one bony hand, a slim needler in the other. Both were pointed atMagnan's chest. I suspected you had hidden qualities, Zubb, Retief commented. See here, Zubb! We're diplomats! Magnan started. Careful, Mr. Magnan; you may goad him to a frenzy. By no means, Zubb whistled. I much prefer to observe the frenzyof the Qornt when presented with the news that two peaceful Verpphave been assaulted and kidnapped by bullying interlopers. If there'sanything that annoys the Qornt, it's Qornt-like behavior in others. Nowstep along, please. Rest assured, this will be reported! I doubt it. You'll face the wrath of Enlightened Galactic Opinion! Oh? How big a navy does Enlightened Galactic Opinion have? Stop scaring him, Mr. Magnan. He may get nervous and shoot. Retiefstepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure atthe head of the table. A trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat,staring. An inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as Retief swung past,followed by Magnan and the tall Verpp. The shrill chatter at the tablefaded. Qorn turned as Retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. Zubb steppedforward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. Qorn pushed back hischair—a low, heavily padded stool—and stared unwinking at Retief,moving his head to bring first one great round eye, then the other, tobear. There were small blue veins in the immense fleshy beak. The bushyhair, springing out in a giant halo around the grayish, porous-skinnedface, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with tufts of chartreuse fuzzsurrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes. The tall head-dressof scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and a loop ofpink pearls had slipped down above one eye. Zubb finished his speech and fell silent, breathing hard. Qorn looked Retief over in silence, then belched. Not bad, Retief said admiringly. Maybe we could get up a matchbetween you and Ambassador Sternwheeler. You've got the volume on him,but he's got timbre. So, Qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. You come from Guzzum, eh? OrSmorbrod, as I think you call it. What is it you're after? More time?A compromise? Negotiations? Peace? He slammed a bony hand against thetable. The answer is no ! Zubb twittered. Qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant. Chain thatone. He indicated Magnan. His eyes went to Retief. This one's bigger;you'd best chain him, too. Why, your Excellency— Magnan started, stepping forward. Stay back! Qorn hooted. Stand over there where I can keep an eye onyou. Your Excellency, I'm empowered— Not here, you're not! Qorn trumpeted. Want peace, do you? Well, Idon't want peace! I've had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries!I want action! Loot! Adventure! Glory! He turned to look down thetable. How about it, fellows? It's war to the knife, eh? <doc-sep>There was a momentary silence from all sides. I guess so, grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue withflame-colored plumes. Qorn's eyes bulged. He half rose. We've been all over this, hebassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. Ithought I'd made my point! Oh, sure, Qorn. You bet. I'm convinced. Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. All for one and one for all, that'sus. And you're the one, eh, Qorn? Retief commented. Magnan cleared his throat. I sense that some of you gentlemen are notconvinced of the wisdom of this move, he piped, looking along thetable at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staringeyes. Silence! Qorn hooted. No use your talking to my loyal lieutenantsanyway, he added. They do whatever I convince them they ought to do. But I'm sure that on more mature consideration— I can lick any Qornt in the house. Qorn said. That's why I'm Qorn.He belched again. A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with acrash at Magnan's feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrappedthree loops around Magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place. You next! The guns pointed at Retief's chest. He held out his arms.Four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped aroundthem. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through theends and closed it. Now, Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. There's abit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them? Let them go, the blue and flame Qornt said glumly. You can do better than that, Qorn hooted. Now here's a suggestion:we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,say—and ship them back. Good lord! Retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sendingus home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal! It wouldn't be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,Retief commented. It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up areasonable scrap, Qorn said judiciously. I have a feeling thatthey're thinking of giving up without a struggle. Oh, I doubt that, the blue-and-flame Qornt said. Why should they? Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. Take these two,he hooted. I'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender! Well, Magnan started. Hold it, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. I'll tell him. What's your proposal? Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet.A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I canassure you, it's useless. We Qornt like to fight. I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your Excellency,Retief said blandly. We didn't come to negotiate. We came to deliveran Ultimatum. What? Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered. We plan to use this planet for target practice, Retief said. A newtype hell bomb we've worked out. Have all your people off of it inseventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences. IV You have the gall, Qorn stormed, to stand here in the center ofQornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains— Oh, these, Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum linksstretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. We diplomats liketo go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn't want to misleadyou. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I— Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering. I told you they were brutes, Zubb shrilled. Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. I don't care what they are!he honked. Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships! And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcerswith a hundred megatons/second firepower each. Retief. Magnan tugged at his sleeve. Don't forget their superdrive. That's all right. They don't have one. But— We'll take you on! Qorn French-horned. We're the Qorn! We glory inbattle! We live in fame or go down in— Hogwash, the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. If it wasn't for you, Qorn,we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having toprove anything. Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here, Retief said. I think therest of the boys would listen to reason— Over my dead body! My idea exactly, Retief said. You claim you can lick any man inthe house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on thefloor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation. <doc-sep>Magnan hovered at Retief's side. Twelve feet tall, he moaned. Anddid you notice the size of those hands? Retief watched as Qorn's aides helped him out of his formal trappings.I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. Idoubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard poundshere. But that phenomenal reach— I'll peck away at him at knee level. When he bends over to swat me,I'll get a crack at him. Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort. Enough! Let me at the upstart! Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointedarms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feetclacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitorsand bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on thecombatants. Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut atRetief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. Qornbent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker tookhim just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retiefleaped clear. Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien'soff-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed tothe floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behindthe narrow back, seized Qorn's neck in a stranglehold and threw hisweight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at anawkward angle. He squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reachingin vain for Retief. Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him. Need I remind you, sir, he said icily, that this is an officialdiplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterestedparties. Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. I must ask you to hand me yourweapons, Zubb. Look here, Zubb began. I may lose my temper, Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passedthem to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turnedback to watch the encounter. Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn's left wrist, boundit to the alien's neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn'sshoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrappedit around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qornflopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around hisneck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly. If I were you, I'd relax, Retief said, rising and releasing his grip.Qorn got a leg under him; Retief kicked it. Qorn's chin hit the floorwith a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbsand gay silks. Retief turned to the watching crowd. Next? he called. The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. Maybe this would be a goodtime to elect a new leader, he said. Now, my qualifications— Sit down, Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table,seated himself in Qorn's vacated chair. A couple of you finishtrussing Qorn up for me. But we must select a leader! That won't be necessary, boys. I'm your new leader. <doc-sep>As I see it, Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wineglass, you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly liketo fight. We don't mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, asQornt, we're expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rushthings? I have a suggestion, Magnan said. Why not turn the reins ofgovernment over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group. What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there's always oneamong us who's a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to followhim. Why? Because that's the way it's done. Why not do it another way? Magnan offered. Now, I'd like to suggestcommunity singing— If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what wouldhappen? Live too long? Magnan looked puzzled. When estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. Anyway, withthe new Qornt stepping on our heels— I've lost the thread, Magnan said. Who are the new Qornt? After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they're Qornt, of course.The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosizeinto Verpp— You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will becomewarmongers like Qorn? Very likely. 'The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,' as the oldsaying goes. What do Qornt turn into? Retief asked. Hmmmm. That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood. Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways? Magnan asked. Whatabout taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance? Don't mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It's great sport tosit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashingoff to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. Butwe prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling youTerrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea whatyour strength was. But now that's all off, of course, Magnan chirped. Now that we'vehad diplomatic relations and all— Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we'reQornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action. But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won't let you! Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even ifhe orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the otherCenters—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion isdefinitely on. Why don't you go invade somebody else? Magnan suggested. I couldname some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course. Hold everything, Retief said. I think we've got the basis of a dealhere.... V At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retiefand Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDTSector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged,flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white. Curious, Magnan commented. I wonder what the significance of thewhite ensign might be? Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrementsand a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The highwhite sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes,butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather. A brave show indeed, Magnan commented approvingly. I confess theidea has merit. The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tiredwheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomatstepped out. Why, Ambassador Nitworth, Magnan glowed. This is very kind of you. Keep cool, Magnan, Nitworth said in a strained voice. We'll attemptto get you out of this. He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly atthe ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, atthe eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts. Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency, Nitworth said, blinkingup at the leading Qornt. You are Commander of the Strike Force, Iassume? Nope, the Qornt said shortly. I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuateHeadquarters, Nitworth plowed on. Mr. Ambassador. Retief said. This— Don't panic, Retief. I'll attempt to secure your release, Nitworthhissed over his shoulder. Now— You will address our leader with more respect! the tall Qornt hooted,eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up. Oh, yes indeed, sir ... your Excellency ... Commander. Now, about theinvasion— Mr. Secretary, Magnan tugged at Nitworth's sleeve. In heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace! Nitworth snapped.He rearranged his features. Now your Excellency, we've arranged toevacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested— Requested? the Qornt honked. Ah ... demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered.Instructed. And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow anyother instructions you might have. You don't quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.This isn't— Silence, confound you! Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked atRetief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffeda length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around andheld him facing Retief. If you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr.Ambassador, Retief said blandly. I think I should mention that thisisn't an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the PeaceEnforcement Corps. Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth'smouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. We felt, he said, thatthe establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structurewould provide the element of novelty the Department has requestedin our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma ofTerrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations. Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caughtthe Qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides. I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun, Retief said.Magnan edged close. What about the gag? he whispered. Let's leave it where it is for a while, Retief murmured. It may saveus a few concessions. <doc-sep>An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across hisdesk at Retief and Magnan. This entire affair, he rumbled, has made me appear to be a fool! But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just howclever you are, Magnan burbled. Nitworth purpled. You're skirting insolence, Magnan, he roared. Whywas I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at thesight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced? We tried to get through, but our wavelengths— Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle! Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking— I did not panic! Nitworth bellowed. I merely adjusted to theapparent circumstances. Now, I'm of two minds as to the advisability ofthis foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believethe wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruisein an uninhabited sector of space— The office windows rattled. What the devil! Nitworth turned, staredout at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale bluelight. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third. Nitworth whirled on Magnan. What's this! Who ordered these recruits toembark without my permission? I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,Retief said. There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltratingthe Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it. Call them back at once! I'm afraid that won't be possible. They're under orders to maintaintotal communications silence until completion of the mission. Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtfulexpression dawned. He nodded. This may work out, he said. I should call them back, but sincethe fleet is out of contact, I'm unable to do so, correct? Thus I canhardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising theGroaci. He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan. Very well, gentlemen,I'll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it theSmorbrodian public are notified they can remain where they are. Andby the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of theindetectable drive the Qornt use? No, sir. That is, yes, sir. Well? Well? There isn't any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground. Underground? Doing what? Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch. <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Magnan and Retief, and how does it shift throughout the story?

Magnan and Retief are the men selected to go to the planet where the Qornt are based in order to investigate. Although Magnan was the first person assigned to the job, he is less comfortable out in the field compared to Retief, who ends up making most of the decisions. There is a tension here as they continue their adventure, with Magnan being scared and Retief encouraging him forward, and Retief saving Magnan when he is pinned by the Verpp. Magnan is the one who is explicitly a diplomat, but Retief takes over most conversations—not only does he push the mission forward and insist on following the Verpp to the Qornt, but he eventually declares himself leader of the Qornt. Even when Ambassador Nitworth demands information from Magnan near the end, it is Retief who responds—he wants the Ambassador to know that he is the one calling the shots, even if it has been behind the scenes. It’s clear that Magnan has either not understood this, as if he were being tricked, or he is just not good at giving credit where credit is due, because he refers to the plan as his own recruiting scheme, correcting himself to say it was a group effort, even though it was all Retief’s idea. At the very end of the story, Retief complies to all of Magnan’s requests in an uncharacteristic way—the interpretation is left open, but there is a possibility Retief is hiding something and intends to return as a military leader with the Qornt and perhaps attack the Terrestrials.

Who is Magnan and how does his attitude shift throughout the story? [SEP] <s> MIGHTIEST QORN BY KEITH LAUMER Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt held all humans in contempt—except one! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff. Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt? There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn. They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect. They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system! But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory.... Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud: His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest. Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said. Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger. We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum! Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan. There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place. Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service! The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table. We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible! <doc-sep>The Military Attache pulled at his lower lip. In that case, we can'ttry conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible driveof our own. I recommend a crash project. In the meantime— I'll have my boys start in to crack this thing, the Chief of theConfidential Terrestrial Source Section spoke up. I'll fit out acouple of volunteers with plastic beaks— No cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! Long range policy will beworked out by Deep-Think teams back at the Department. Our role willbe a holding action. Now I want suggestions for a comprehensive,well rounded and decisive course for meeting this threat. Anyrecommendation? The Political Officer placed his fingertips together. What about astiff Note demanding an extra week's time? No! No begging, the Economic Officer objected. I'd say a calm,dignified, aggressive withdrawal—as soon as possible. We don't want to give them the idea we spook easily, the MilitaryAttache said. Let's delay the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow. Early tomorrow, Magnan said. Or maybe later today. Well, I see you're of a mind with me, Nitworth nodded. Our plan ofaction is clear, but it remains to be implemented. We have a populationof over fifteen million individuals to relocate. He eyed thePolitical Officer. I want five proposals for resettlement on my deskby oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. Nitworth rapped out instructions.Harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. Magnaneased toward the door. Where are you going, Magnan? Nitworth snapped. Since you're so busy, I thought I'd just slip back down to Com Inq. Itwas a most interesting orientation lecture, Mr. Ambassador. Be sure tolet us know how it works out. Kindly return to your chair, Nitworth said coldly. A number ofchores remain to be assigned. I think you, Magnan, need a little fieldexperience. I want you to get over to Roolit I and take a look at theseQornt personally. Magnan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Not afraid of a few Qornt, are you, Magnan? Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha. It's just that I'm afraid I may lose myhead and do something rash if I go. Nonsense! A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along.No dawdling, now! I want you on the way in two hours. Notify thetransport pool at once. Now get going! Magnan nodded unhappily and went into the hall. Oh, Retief, Nitworth said. Retief turned. Try to restrain Mr. Magnan from any impulsive moves—in anydirection. II Retief and Magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slopeof towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set amongflamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip ofwhite beach with the blue sea beyond. A delightful vista, Magnan said, mopping at his face. A pity wecouldn't locate the Qornt. We'll go back now and report— I'm pretty sure the settlement is off to the right, Retief said. Whydon't you head back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I canobserve. Retief, we're engaged in a serious mission. This is not a time tothink of sightseeing. I'd like to take a good look at what we're giving away. See here, Retief! One might almost receive the impression that you'requestioning Corps policy! One might, at that. The Qornt have made their play, but I think itmight be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. If I'mnot back at the boat in an hour, lift without me. You expect me to make my way back alone? It's directly down-slope— Retief broke off, listening. Magnanclutched at his arm. There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafybranch swung aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view, long, thin,green-clad legs with back-bending knees moving in quick, bird-likesteps. A pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes setamong bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. The crest bobbedas the creature cocked its head, listening. Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimeddirectly at the spot where the Terrestrials stood in the deep shade ofa giant trunk. I'll go for help, Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leapsinto the brush. A second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun,darted to the left. The first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to itsnarrow chest. Magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free,turned—and collided with the eight-foot alien, coming in fast from theright. All three went down in a tangle of limbs. Retief jumped forward, hauled Magnan free, thrust him aside andstopped, right fist cocked. The two Qornt lay groaning feebly. Nice piece of work, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. You nailed both ofthem. <doc-sep>Those undoubtedly are the most bloodthirsty, aggressive, mercilesscountenances it has ever been my misfortune to encounter, Magnan said.It hardly seems fair. Eight feet tall and faces like that! The smaller of the two captive Qornt ran long, slender fingers overa bony shin, from which he had turned back the tight-fitting greentrousers. It's not broken, he whistled nasally in passable Terrestrial, eyeingMagnan through the heavy goggles, now badly cracked. Small thanks toyou. Magnan smiled loftily. I daresay you'll think twice before interferingwith peaceable diplomats in future. Diplomats? Surely you jest. Never mind us, Retief said. It's you fellows we'd like to talkabout. How many of you are there? Only Zubb and myself. I mean altogether. How many Qornt? The alien whistled shrilly. Here, no signalling! Magnan snapped, looking around. That was merely an expression of amusement. You find the situation amusing? I assure you, sir, you are in perilousstraits at the moment. I may fly into another rage, you know. Please, restrain yourself. I was merely somewhat astonished— a smallwhistle escaped—at being taken for a Qornt. Aren't you a Qornt? I? Great snail trails, no! More stifled whistles of amusement escapedthe beaked face. Both Zubb and I are Verpp. Naturalists, as ithappens. You certainly look like Qornt. Oh, not at all—except perhaps to a Terrestrial. The Qornt aresturdily built rascals, all over ten feet in height. And, of course,they do nothing but quarrel. A drone caste, actually. A caste? You mean they're biologically the same as you? Not at all! A Verpp wouldn't think of fertilizing a Qornt. I mean to say, you are of the same basic stock—descended from acommon ancestor, perhaps. We are all Pud's creatures. What are the differences between you, then? Why, the Qornt are argumentive, boastful, lacking in appreciationfor the finer things of life. One dreads to contemplate descending to their level. Do you know anything about a Note passed to the Terrestrial Ambassadorat Smorbrod? Retief asked. <doc-sep>The beak twitched. Smorbrod? I know of no place called Smorbrod. The outer planet of this system. Oh, yes. We call it Guzzum. I had heard that some sort of creatureshad established a settlement there, but I confess I pay little note tosuch matters. We're wasting time, Retief, Magnan said. We must truss these chapsup, hurry back to the boat and make our escape. You heard what theysaid. Are there any Qornt down there at the harbor, where the boats are?Retief asked. At Tarroon, you mean? Oh, yes. Planning some adventure. That would be the invasion of Smorbrod, Magnan said. And unless wehurry, Retief, we're likely to be caught there with the last of theevacuees! How many Qornt would you say there are at Tarroon? Oh, a very large number. Perhaps fifteen or twenty. Fifteen or twenty what? Magnan looked perplexed. Fifteen or twenty Qornt. You mean that there are only fifteen or twenty individual Qornt inall? Another whistle. Not at all. I was referring to the local Qornt only.There are more at the other Centers, of course. And the Qornt are responsible for the ultimatum—unilaterally? I suppose so; it sounds like them. A truculent group, you know. Andinterplanetary relations are rather a hobby of theirs. Zubb moaned and stirred. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. He spoketo his companion in a shrill alien clatter of consonants. What did he say? Poor Zubb. He blames me for his bruises, since it was my idea togather you as specimens. You should have known better than to tackle that fierce-lookingcreature, Zubb said, pointing his beak at Magnan. How does it happen that you speak Terrestrial? Retief asked. Oh, one picks up all sorts of dialects. It's quite charming, really, Magnan said. Such a quaint, archaicaccent. Suppose we went down to Tarroon, Retief asked. What kind ofreception would we get? That depends. I wouldn't recommend interfering with the Gwil or theRheuk; it's their nest-mending time, you know. The Boog will be busymating—such a tedious business—and of course the Qornt are tied upwith their ceremonial feasting. I'm afraid no one will take any noticeof you. Do you mean to say, Magnan demanded, that these ferocious Qornt, whohave issued an ultimatum to the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—whoopenly avow their occupied world—would ignore Terrestrials in theirmidst? If at all possible. Retief got to his feet. I think our course is clear, Mr. Magnan. It's up to us to go down andattract a little attention. III I'm not at all sure we're going about this in the right way, Magnanpuffed, trotting at Retief's side. These fellows Zubb and Slun—Oh,they seem affable enough, but how can we be sure we're not being ledinto a trap? We can't. Magnan stopped short. Let's go back. All right, Retief said. Of course there may be an ambush— Magnan moved off. Let's keep going. The party emerged from the undergrowth at the edge of a greatbrush-grown mound. Slun took the lead, rounded the flank of thehillock, halted at a rectangular opening cut into the slope. You can find your way easily enough from here, he said. You'llexcuse us, I hope— Nonsense, Slun! Zubb pushed forward. I'll escort our guests to QorntHall. He twittered briefly to his fellow Verpp. Slun twittered back. I don't like it, Retief, Magnan whispered. Those fellows areplotting mischief. Threaten them with violence, Mr Magnan. They're scared of you. That's true. And the drubbing they received was well-deserved. I'm apatient man, but there are occasions— Come along, please, Zubb called. Another ten minutes' walk— See here, we have no interest in investigating this barrow, Magnanannounced. We wish you to take us direct to Tarroon to interview yourmilitary leaders regarding the ultimatum! Yes, yes, of course. Qornt Hall lies here inside the village. This is Tarroon? A modest civic center, sir, but there are those who love it. No wonder we didn't observe their works from the air, Magnanmuttered. Camouflaged. He moved hesitantly through the opening. The party moved along a wide, deserted tunnel which sloped downsteeply, then leveled off and branched. Zubb took the center branch,ducking slightly under the nine-foot ceiling lit at intervals with whatappeared to be primitive incandescent panels. Few signs of an advanced technology here, Magnan whispered. Thesecreatures must devote all their talents to warlike enterprise. Ahead, Zubb slowed. A distant susurration was audible, a sustainedhigh-pitched screeching. Softly, now. We approach Qornt Hall. Theycan be an irascible lot when disturbed at their feasting. When will the feast be over? Magnan called hoarsely. In another few weeks, I should imagine, if, as you say, they'vescheduled an invasion for next month. Look here, Zubb. Magnan shook a finger at the tall alien. How is itthat these Qornt are allowed to embark on piratical ventures of thissort without reference to the wishes of the majority? Oh, the majority of the Qornt favor the move, I imagine. These few hotheads are permitted to embroil the planet in war? Oh, they don't embroil the planet in war. They merely— Retief, this is fantastic! I've heard of iron-fisted military cliquesbefore, but this is madness! Come softly, now. Zubb beckoned, moving toward a bend in theyellow-lit corridor. Retief and Magnan moved forward. <doc-sep>The corridor debouched through a high double door into a vast ovalchamber, high-domed, gloomy, paneled in dark wood and hung withtattered banners, scarred halberds, pikes, rusted longswords, crossedspears over patinaed hauberks, pitted radiation armor, corroded powerrifles, the immense mummified heads of horned and fanged animals. Greatguttering torches in wall brackets and in stands along the lengthof the long table shed a smoky light that reflected from the mirrorpolish of the red granite floor, gleamed on polished silver bowls andpaper-thin glass, shone jewel-red and gold through dark bottles—andcast long flickering shadows behind the fifteen trolls at the board. Lesser trolls—beaked, bush-haired, great-eyed—trotted briskly,bird-kneed, bearing steaming platters, stood in groups ofthree strumming slender bottle-shaped lutes, or pranced anintricate-patterned dance, unnoticed in the shrill uproar as each ofthe magnificently draped, belted, feathered and jeweled Qornt carriedon a shouted conversation with an equally noisy fellow. A most interesting display of barbaric splendor, Magnan breathed.Now we'd better be getting back. Ah, a moment, Zubb said. Observe the Qornt—the tallest of thefeasters—he with the head-dress of crimson, purple, silver and pink. Twelve feet if he's an inch, Magnan estimated. And now we reallymust hurry along— That one is chief among these rowdies. I'm sure you'll want a wordwith him. He controls not only the Tarroonian vessels but those fromthe other Centers as well. What kind of vessels? Warships? Certainly. What other kind would the Qornt bother with? I don't suppose, Magnan said casually, that you'd know the type,tonnage, armament and manning of these vessels? And how many unitscomprise the fleet? And where they're based at present? They're fully automated twenty-thousand-ton all-purpose dreadnaughts.They mount a variety of weapons. The Qornt are fond of that sort ofthing. Each of the Qornt has his own, of course. They're virtuallyidentical, except for the personal touches each individual has givenhis ship. Great heavens, Retief! Magnan exclaimed in a whisper. It sounds asthough these brutes employ a battle armada as simpler souls might a setof toy sailboats! Retief stepped past Magnan and Zubb to study the feasting hall. I cansee that their votes would carry all the necessary weight. And now an interview with the Qorn himself, Zubb shrilled. If you'llkindly step along, gentlemen.... That won't be necessary, Magnan said hastily, I've decided to referthe matter to committee. After having come so far, Zubb said, it would be a pity to misshaving a cosy chat. There was a pause. Ah ... Retief, Magnan said. Zubb has just presented a mostcompelling argument.... <doc-sep>Retief turned. Zubb stood gripping an ornately decorated power pistolin one bony hand, a slim needler in the other. Both were pointed atMagnan's chest. I suspected you had hidden qualities, Zubb, Retief commented. See here, Zubb! We're diplomats! Magnan started. Careful, Mr. Magnan; you may goad him to a frenzy. By no means, Zubb whistled. I much prefer to observe the frenzyof the Qornt when presented with the news that two peaceful Verpphave been assaulted and kidnapped by bullying interlopers. If there'sanything that annoys the Qornt, it's Qornt-like behavior in others. Nowstep along, please. Rest assured, this will be reported! I doubt it. You'll face the wrath of Enlightened Galactic Opinion! Oh? How big a navy does Enlightened Galactic Opinion have? Stop scaring him, Mr. Magnan. He may get nervous and shoot. Retiefstepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure atthe head of the table. A trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat,staring. An inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as Retief swung past,followed by Magnan and the tall Verpp. The shrill chatter at the tablefaded. Qorn turned as Retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. Zubb steppedforward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. Qorn pushed back hischair—a low, heavily padded stool—and stared unwinking at Retief,moving his head to bring first one great round eye, then the other, tobear. There were small blue veins in the immense fleshy beak. The bushyhair, springing out in a giant halo around the grayish, porous-skinnedface, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with tufts of chartreuse fuzzsurrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes. The tall head-dressof scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and a loop ofpink pearls had slipped down above one eye. Zubb finished his speech and fell silent, breathing hard. Qorn looked Retief over in silence, then belched. Not bad, Retief said admiringly. Maybe we could get up a matchbetween you and Ambassador Sternwheeler. You've got the volume on him,but he's got timbre. So, Qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. You come from Guzzum, eh? OrSmorbrod, as I think you call it. What is it you're after? More time?A compromise? Negotiations? Peace? He slammed a bony hand against thetable. The answer is no ! Zubb twittered. Qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant. Chain thatone. He indicated Magnan. His eyes went to Retief. This one's bigger;you'd best chain him, too. Why, your Excellency— Magnan started, stepping forward. Stay back! Qorn hooted. Stand over there where I can keep an eye onyou. Your Excellency, I'm empowered— Not here, you're not! Qorn trumpeted. Want peace, do you? Well, Idon't want peace! I've had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries!I want action! Loot! Adventure! Glory! He turned to look down thetable. How about it, fellows? It's war to the knife, eh? <doc-sep>There was a momentary silence from all sides. I guess so, grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue withflame-colored plumes. Qorn's eyes bulged. He half rose. We've been all over this, hebassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. Ithought I'd made my point! Oh, sure, Qorn. You bet. I'm convinced. Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. All for one and one for all, that'sus. And you're the one, eh, Qorn? Retief commented. Magnan cleared his throat. I sense that some of you gentlemen are notconvinced of the wisdom of this move, he piped, looking along thetable at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staringeyes. Silence! Qorn hooted. No use your talking to my loyal lieutenantsanyway, he added. They do whatever I convince them they ought to do. But I'm sure that on more mature consideration— I can lick any Qornt in the house. Qorn said. That's why I'm Qorn.He belched again. A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with acrash at Magnan's feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrappedthree loops around Magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place. You next! The guns pointed at Retief's chest. He held out his arms.Four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped aroundthem. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through theends and closed it. Now, Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. There's abit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them? Let them go, the blue and flame Qornt said glumly. You can do better than that, Qorn hooted. Now here's a suggestion:we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,say—and ship them back. Good lord! Retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sendingus home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal! It wouldn't be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,Retief commented. It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up areasonable scrap, Qorn said judiciously. I have a feeling thatthey're thinking of giving up without a struggle. Oh, I doubt that, the blue-and-flame Qornt said. Why should they? Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. Take these two,he hooted. I'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender! Well, Magnan started. Hold it, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. I'll tell him. What's your proposal? Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet.A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I canassure you, it's useless. We Qornt like to fight. I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your Excellency,Retief said blandly. We didn't come to negotiate. We came to deliveran Ultimatum. What? Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered. We plan to use this planet for target practice, Retief said. A newtype hell bomb we've worked out. Have all your people off of it inseventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences. IV You have the gall, Qorn stormed, to stand here in the center ofQornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains— Oh, these, Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum linksstretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. We diplomats liketo go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn't want to misleadyou. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I— Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering. I told you they were brutes, Zubb shrilled. Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. I don't care what they are!he honked. Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships! And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcerswith a hundred megatons/second firepower each. Retief. Magnan tugged at his sleeve. Don't forget their superdrive. That's all right. They don't have one. But— We'll take you on! Qorn French-horned. We're the Qorn! We glory inbattle! We live in fame or go down in— Hogwash, the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. If it wasn't for you, Qorn,we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having toprove anything. Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here, Retief said. I think therest of the boys would listen to reason— Over my dead body! My idea exactly, Retief said. You claim you can lick any man inthe house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on thefloor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation. <doc-sep>Magnan hovered at Retief's side. Twelve feet tall, he moaned. Anddid you notice the size of those hands? Retief watched as Qorn's aides helped him out of his formal trappings.I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. Idoubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard poundshere. But that phenomenal reach— I'll peck away at him at knee level. When he bends over to swat me,I'll get a crack at him. Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort. Enough! Let me at the upstart! Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointedarms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feetclacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitorsand bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on thecombatants. Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut atRetief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. Qornbent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker tookhim just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retiefleaped clear. Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien'soff-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed tothe floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behindthe narrow back, seized Qorn's neck in a stranglehold and threw hisweight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at anawkward angle. He squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reachingin vain for Retief. Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him. Need I remind you, sir, he said icily, that this is an officialdiplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterestedparties. Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. I must ask you to hand me yourweapons, Zubb. Look here, Zubb began. I may lose my temper, Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passedthem to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turnedback to watch the encounter. Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn's left wrist, boundit to the alien's neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn'sshoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrappedit around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qornflopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around hisneck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly. If I were you, I'd relax, Retief said, rising and releasing his grip.Qorn got a leg under him; Retief kicked it. Qorn's chin hit the floorwith a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbsand gay silks. Retief turned to the watching crowd. Next? he called. The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. Maybe this would be a goodtime to elect a new leader, he said. Now, my qualifications— Sit down, Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table,seated himself in Qorn's vacated chair. A couple of you finishtrussing Qorn up for me. But we must select a leader! That won't be necessary, boys. I'm your new leader. <doc-sep>As I see it, Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wineglass, you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly liketo fight. We don't mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, asQornt, we're expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rushthings? I have a suggestion, Magnan said. Why not turn the reins ofgovernment over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group. What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there's always oneamong us who's a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to followhim. Why? Because that's the way it's done. Why not do it another way? Magnan offered. Now, I'd like to suggestcommunity singing— If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what wouldhappen? Live too long? Magnan looked puzzled. When estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. Anyway, withthe new Qornt stepping on our heels— I've lost the thread, Magnan said. Who are the new Qornt? After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they're Qornt, of course.The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosizeinto Verpp— You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will becomewarmongers like Qorn? Very likely. 'The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,' as the oldsaying goes. What do Qornt turn into? Retief asked. Hmmmm. That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood. Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways? Magnan asked. Whatabout taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance? Don't mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It's great sport tosit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashingoff to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. Butwe prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling youTerrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea whatyour strength was. But now that's all off, of course, Magnan chirped. Now that we'vehad diplomatic relations and all— Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we'reQornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action. But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won't let you! Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even ifhe orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the otherCenters—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion isdefinitely on. Why don't you go invade somebody else? Magnan suggested. I couldname some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course. Hold everything, Retief said. I think we've got the basis of a dealhere.... V At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retiefand Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDTSector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged,flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white. Curious, Magnan commented. I wonder what the significance of thewhite ensign might be? Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrementsand a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The highwhite sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes,butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather. A brave show indeed, Magnan commented approvingly. I confess theidea has merit. The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tiredwheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomatstepped out. Why, Ambassador Nitworth, Magnan glowed. This is very kind of you. Keep cool, Magnan, Nitworth said in a strained voice. We'll attemptto get you out of this. He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly atthe ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, atthe eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts. Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency, Nitworth said, blinkingup at the leading Qornt. You are Commander of the Strike Force, Iassume? Nope, the Qornt said shortly. I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuateHeadquarters, Nitworth plowed on. Mr. Ambassador. Retief said. This— Don't panic, Retief. I'll attempt to secure your release, Nitworthhissed over his shoulder. Now— You will address our leader with more respect! the tall Qornt hooted,eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up. Oh, yes indeed, sir ... your Excellency ... Commander. Now, about theinvasion— Mr. Secretary, Magnan tugged at Nitworth's sleeve. In heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace! Nitworth snapped.He rearranged his features. Now your Excellency, we've arranged toevacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested— Requested? the Qornt honked. Ah ... demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered.Instructed. And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow anyother instructions you might have. You don't quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.This isn't— Silence, confound you! Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked atRetief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffeda length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around andheld him facing Retief. If you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr.Ambassador, Retief said blandly. I think I should mention that thisisn't an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the PeaceEnforcement Corps. Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth'smouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. We felt, he said, thatthe establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structurewould provide the element of novelty the Department has requestedin our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma ofTerrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations. Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caughtthe Qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides. I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun, Retief said.Magnan edged close. What about the gag? he whispered. Let's leave it where it is for a while, Retief murmured. It may saveus a few concessions. <doc-sep>An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across hisdesk at Retief and Magnan. This entire affair, he rumbled, has made me appear to be a fool! But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just howclever you are, Magnan burbled. Nitworth purpled. You're skirting insolence, Magnan, he roared. Whywas I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at thesight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced? We tried to get through, but our wavelengths— Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle! Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking— I did not panic! Nitworth bellowed. I merely adjusted to theapparent circumstances. Now, I'm of two minds as to the advisability ofthis foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believethe wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruisein an uninhabited sector of space— The office windows rattled. What the devil! Nitworth turned, staredout at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale bluelight. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third. Nitworth whirled on Magnan. What's this! Who ordered these recruits toembark without my permission? I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,Retief said. There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltratingthe Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it. Call them back at once! I'm afraid that won't be possible. They're under orders to maintaintotal communications silence until completion of the mission. Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtfulexpression dawned. He nodded. This may work out, he said. I should call them back, but sincethe fleet is out of contact, I'm unable to do so, correct? Thus I canhardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising theGroaci. He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan. Very well, gentlemen,I'll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it theSmorbrodian public are notified they can remain where they are. Andby the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of theindetectable drive the Qornt use? No, sir. That is, yes, sir. Well? Well? There isn't any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground. Underground? Doing what? Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch. <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Magnan and how does his attitude shift throughout the story?

Second Secretary Magnan was selected by Ambassador Nitworth to travel to Roolit I to investigate the Qornt. Magnan does not have much field experience and is surprised by this assignment, and had been trying to get out of doing anything related to the Qornt issue when it was handed to him. He resigns himself to the task and Retief is assigned to go along with him. When they get to the planet, Magnan is clearly anxious—he remarks on the quality of the view and states his intent to head back to finish the mission, but Retief doesn’t let him give up so early. When the men are spotted by some creatures, and he tries to run for help, he is instead jumped by the creatures and Retief has to tear him free. This gives Magnan some confidence, and has a much more arrogant attitude towards the Verpp. He flaunts his title as diplomat and tries to assert as much dominance as he can. Once he learns that these are Verpp and not Qornt, he is preoccupied by the confusing details of the story: how many Qornt there are, and things like that. Once the group starts towards the Qornt’s village, however, he becomes nervous again, no longer with the upper hand. He is not sure if he is walking into a trap, and becomes more and more nervous until the trap is revealed. Once at gunpoint standing in front of the Qornt, however, he has enough confidence to pry at the division between the Qornt who want war and those who aren’t sold on the idea yet. Once Retief threatens the Qornt and a fight commences, Magnan still tries to talk his way out of Zubb shooting the men, gains confidence again, and insists on taking the guns. Once Qorn has been tied up, Magnan suggests putting the Verpp in charge, and asks the Qornt if there are alternatives to militaristic life that they would consider. Eventually they all make it back to where the story started, and he seems more passive again, until the Ambassador is on board with Retief’s plan, and Magnan starts ordering Retief around again, though Retief’s behavior has shifted in response.

Why are the men so convinced that the Qornt have an extreme tactical advantage? What do we know about the military mindset and tools of the group? [SEP] <s> MIGHTIEST QORN BY KEITH LAUMER Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt held all humans in contempt—except one! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff. Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt? There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn. They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect. They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system! But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory.... Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud: His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest. Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said. Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger. We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum! Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan. There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place. Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service! The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table. We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible! <doc-sep>The Military Attache pulled at his lower lip. In that case, we can'ttry conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible driveof our own. I recommend a crash project. In the meantime— I'll have my boys start in to crack this thing, the Chief of theConfidential Terrestrial Source Section spoke up. I'll fit out acouple of volunteers with plastic beaks— No cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! Long range policy will beworked out by Deep-Think teams back at the Department. Our role willbe a holding action. Now I want suggestions for a comprehensive,well rounded and decisive course for meeting this threat. Anyrecommendation? The Political Officer placed his fingertips together. What about astiff Note demanding an extra week's time? No! No begging, the Economic Officer objected. I'd say a calm,dignified, aggressive withdrawal—as soon as possible. We don't want to give them the idea we spook easily, the MilitaryAttache said. Let's delay the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow. Early tomorrow, Magnan said. Or maybe later today. Well, I see you're of a mind with me, Nitworth nodded. Our plan ofaction is clear, but it remains to be implemented. We have a populationof over fifteen million individuals to relocate. He eyed thePolitical Officer. I want five proposals for resettlement on my deskby oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. Nitworth rapped out instructions.Harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. Magnaneased toward the door. Where are you going, Magnan? Nitworth snapped. Since you're so busy, I thought I'd just slip back down to Com Inq. Itwas a most interesting orientation lecture, Mr. Ambassador. Be sure tolet us know how it works out. Kindly return to your chair, Nitworth said coldly. A number ofchores remain to be assigned. I think you, Magnan, need a little fieldexperience. I want you to get over to Roolit I and take a look at theseQornt personally. Magnan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Not afraid of a few Qornt, are you, Magnan? Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha. It's just that I'm afraid I may lose myhead and do something rash if I go. Nonsense! A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along.No dawdling, now! I want you on the way in two hours. Notify thetransport pool at once. Now get going! Magnan nodded unhappily and went into the hall. Oh, Retief, Nitworth said. Retief turned. Try to restrain Mr. Magnan from any impulsive moves—in anydirection. II Retief and Magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slopeof towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set amongflamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip ofwhite beach with the blue sea beyond. A delightful vista, Magnan said, mopping at his face. A pity wecouldn't locate the Qornt. We'll go back now and report— I'm pretty sure the settlement is off to the right, Retief said. Whydon't you head back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I canobserve. Retief, we're engaged in a serious mission. This is not a time tothink of sightseeing. I'd like to take a good look at what we're giving away. See here, Retief! One might almost receive the impression that you'requestioning Corps policy! One might, at that. The Qornt have made their play, but I think itmight be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. If I'mnot back at the boat in an hour, lift without me. You expect me to make my way back alone? It's directly down-slope— Retief broke off, listening. Magnanclutched at his arm. There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafybranch swung aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view, long, thin,green-clad legs with back-bending knees moving in quick, bird-likesteps. A pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes setamong bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. The crest bobbedas the creature cocked its head, listening. Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimeddirectly at the spot where the Terrestrials stood in the deep shade ofa giant trunk. I'll go for help, Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leapsinto the brush. A second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun,darted to the left. The first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to itsnarrow chest. Magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free,turned—and collided with the eight-foot alien, coming in fast from theright. All three went down in a tangle of limbs. Retief jumped forward, hauled Magnan free, thrust him aside andstopped, right fist cocked. The two Qornt lay groaning feebly. Nice piece of work, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. You nailed both ofthem. <doc-sep>Those undoubtedly are the most bloodthirsty, aggressive, mercilesscountenances it has ever been my misfortune to encounter, Magnan said.It hardly seems fair. Eight feet tall and faces like that! The smaller of the two captive Qornt ran long, slender fingers overa bony shin, from which he had turned back the tight-fitting greentrousers. It's not broken, he whistled nasally in passable Terrestrial, eyeingMagnan through the heavy goggles, now badly cracked. Small thanks toyou. Magnan smiled loftily. I daresay you'll think twice before interferingwith peaceable diplomats in future. Diplomats? Surely you jest. Never mind us, Retief said. It's you fellows we'd like to talkabout. How many of you are there? Only Zubb and myself. I mean altogether. How many Qornt? The alien whistled shrilly. Here, no signalling! Magnan snapped, looking around. That was merely an expression of amusement. You find the situation amusing? I assure you, sir, you are in perilousstraits at the moment. I may fly into another rage, you know. Please, restrain yourself. I was merely somewhat astonished— a smallwhistle escaped—at being taken for a Qornt. Aren't you a Qornt? I? Great snail trails, no! More stifled whistles of amusement escapedthe beaked face. Both Zubb and I are Verpp. Naturalists, as ithappens. You certainly look like Qornt. Oh, not at all—except perhaps to a Terrestrial. The Qornt aresturdily built rascals, all over ten feet in height. And, of course,they do nothing but quarrel. A drone caste, actually. A caste? You mean they're biologically the same as you? Not at all! A Verpp wouldn't think of fertilizing a Qornt. I mean to say, you are of the same basic stock—descended from acommon ancestor, perhaps. We are all Pud's creatures. What are the differences between you, then? Why, the Qornt are argumentive, boastful, lacking in appreciationfor the finer things of life. One dreads to contemplate descending to their level. Do you know anything about a Note passed to the Terrestrial Ambassadorat Smorbrod? Retief asked. <doc-sep>The beak twitched. Smorbrod? I know of no place called Smorbrod. The outer planet of this system. Oh, yes. We call it Guzzum. I had heard that some sort of creatureshad established a settlement there, but I confess I pay little note tosuch matters. We're wasting time, Retief, Magnan said. We must truss these chapsup, hurry back to the boat and make our escape. You heard what theysaid. Are there any Qornt down there at the harbor, where the boats are?Retief asked. At Tarroon, you mean? Oh, yes. Planning some adventure. That would be the invasion of Smorbrod, Magnan said. And unless wehurry, Retief, we're likely to be caught there with the last of theevacuees! How many Qornt would you say there are at Tarroon? Oh, a very large number. Perhaps fifteen or twenty. Fifteen or twenty what? Magnan looked perplexed. Fifteen or twenty Qornt. You mean that there are only fifteen or twenty individual Qornt inall? Another whistle. Not at all. I was referring to the local Qornt only.There are more at the other Centers, of course. And the Qornt are responsible for the ultimatum—unilaterally? I suppose so; it sounds like them. A truculent group, you know. Andinterplanetary relations are rather a hobby of theirs. Zubb moaned and stirred. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. He spoketo his companion in a shrill alien clatter of consonants. What did he say? Poor Zubb. He blames me for his bruises, since it was my idea togather you as specimens. You should have known better than to tackle that fierce-lookingcreature, Zubb said, pointing his beak at Magnan. How does it happen that you speak Terrestrial? Retief asked. Oh, one picks up all sorts of dialects. It's quite charming, really, Magnan said. Such a quaint, archaicaccent. Suppose we went down to Tarroon, Retief asked. What kind ofreception would we get? That depends. I wouldn't recommend interfering with the Gwil or theRheuk; it's their nest-mending time, you know. The Boog will be busymating—such a tedious business—and of course the Qornt are tied upwith their ceremonial feasting. I'm afraid no one will take any noticeof you. Do you mean to say, Magnan demanded, that these ferocious Qornt, whohave issued an ultimatum to the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—whoopenly avow their occupied world—would ignore Terrestrials in theirmidst? If at all possible. Retief got to his feet. I think our course is clear, Mr. Magnan. It's up to us to go down andattract a little attention. III I'm not at all sure we're going about this in the right way, Magnanpuffed, trotting at Retief's side. These fellows Zubb and Slun—Oh,they seem affable enough, but how can we be sure we're not being ledinto a trap? We can't. Magnan stopped short. Let's go back. All right, Retief said. Of course there may be an ambush— Magnan moved off. Let's keep going. The party emerged from the undergrowth at the edge of a greatbrush-grown mound. Slun took the lead, rounded the flank of thehillock, halted at a rectangular opening cut into the slope. You can find your way easily enough from here, he said. You'llexcuse us, I hope— Nonsense, Slun! Zubb pushed forward. I'll escort our guests to QorntHall. He twittered briefly to his fellow Verpp. Slun twittered back. I don't like it, Retief, Magnan whispered. Those fellows areplotting mischief. Threaten them with violence, Mr Magnan. They're scared of you. That's true. And the drubbing they received was well-deserved. I'm apatient man, but there are occasions— Come along, please, Zubb called. Another ten minutes' walk— See here, we have no interest in investigating this barrow, Magnanannounced. We wish you to take us direct to Tarroon to interview yourmilitary leaders regarding the ultimatum! Yes, yes, of course. Qornt Hall lies here inside the village. This is Tarroon? A modest civic center, sir, but there are those who love it. No wonder we didn't observe their works from the air, Magnanmuttered. Camouflaged. He moved hesitantly through the opening. The party moved along a wide, deserted tunnel which sloped downsteeply, then leveled off and branched. Zubb took the center branch,ducking slightly under the nine-foot ceiling lit at intervals with whatappeared to be primitive incandescent panels. Few signs of an advanced technology here, Magnan whispered. Thesecreatures must devote all their talents to warlike enterprise. Ahead, Zubb slowed. A distant susurration was audible, a sustainedhigh-pitched screeching. Softly, now. We approach Qornt Hall. Theycan be an irascible lot when disturbed at their feasting. When will the feast be over? Magnan called hoarsely. In another few weeks, I should imagine, if, as you say, they'vescheduled an invasion for next month. Look here, Zubb. Magnan shook a finger at the tall alien. How is itthat these Qornt are allowed to embark on piratical ventures of thissort without reference to the wishes of the majority? Oh, the majority of the Qornt favor the move, I imagine. These few hotheads are permitted to embroil the planet in war? Oh, they don't embroil the planet in war. They merely— Retief, this is fantastic! I've heard of iron-fisted military cliquesbefore, but this is madness! Come softly, now. Zubb beckoned, moving toward a bend in theyellow-lit corridor. Retief and Magnan moved forward. <doc-sep>The corridor debouched through a high double door into a vast ovalchamber, high-domed, gloomy, paneled in dark wood and hung withtattered banners, scarred halberds, pikes, rusted longswords, crossedspears over patinaed hauberks, pitted radiation armor, corroded powerrifles, the immense mummified heads of horned and fanged animals. Greatguttering torches in wall brackets and in stands along the lengthof the long table shed a smoky light that reflected from the mirrorpolish of the red granite floor, gleamed on polished silver bowls andpaper-thin glass, shone jewel-red and gold through dark bottles—andcast long flickering shadows behind the fifteen trolls at the board. Lesser trolls—beaked, bush-haired, great-eyed—trotted briskly,bird-kneed, bearing steaming platters, stood in groups ofthree strumming slender bottle-shaped lutes, or pranced anintricate-patterned dance, unnoticed in the shrill uproar as each ofthe magnificently draped, belted, feathered and jeweled Qornt carriedon a shouted conversation with an equally noisy fellow. A most interesting display of barbaric splendor, Magnan breathed.Now we'd better be getting back. Ah, a moment, Zubb said. Observe the Qornt—the tallest of thefeasters—he with the head-dress of crimson, purple, silver and pink. Twelve feet if he's an inch, Magnan estimated. And now we reallymust hurry along— That one is chief among these rowdies. I'm sure you'll want a wordwith him. He controls not only the Tarroonian vessels but those fromthe other Centers as well. What kind of vessels? Warships? Certainly. What other kind would the Qornt bother with? I don't suppose, Magnan said casually, that you'd know the type,tonnage, armament and manning of these vessels? And how many unitscomprise the fleet? And where they're based at present? They're fully automated twenty-thousand-ton all-purpose dreadnaughts.They mount a variety of weapons. The Qornt are fond of that sort ofthing. Each of the Qornt has his own, of course. They're virtuallyidentical, except for the personal touches each individual has givenhis ship. Great heavens, Retief! Magnan exclaimed in a whisper. It sounds asthough these brutes employ a battle armada as simpler souls might a setof toy sailboats! Retief stepped past Magnan and Zubb to study the feasting hall. I cansee that their votes would carry all the necessary weight. And now an interview with the Qorn himself, Zubb shrilled. If you'llkindly step along, gentlemen.... That won't be necessary, Magnan said hastily, I've decided to referthe matter to committee. After having come so far, Zubb said, it would be a pity to misshaving a cosy chat. There was a pause. Ah ... Retief, Magnan said. Zubb has just presented a mostcompelling argument.... <doc-sep>Retief turned. Zubb stood gripping an ornately decorated power pistolin one bony hand, a slim needler in the other. Both were pointed atMagnan's chest. I suspected you had hidden qualities, Zubb, Retief commented. See here, Zubb! We're diplomats! Magnan started. Careful, Mr. Magnan; you may goad him to a frenzy. By no means, Zubb whistled. I much prefer to observe the frenzyof the Qornt when presented with the news that two peaceful Verpphave been assaulted and kidnapped by bullying interlopers. If there'sanything that annoys the Qornt, it's Qornt-like behavior in others. Nowstep along, please. Rest assured, this will be reported! I doubt it. You'll face the wrath of Enlightened Galactic Opinion! Oh? How big a navy does Enlightened Galactic Opinion have? Stop scaring him, Mr. Magnan. He may get nervous and shoot. Retiefstepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure atthe head of the table. A trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat,staring. An inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as Retief swung past,followed by Magnan and the tall Verpp. The shrill chatter at the tablefaded. Qorn turned as Retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. Zubb steppedforward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. Qorn pushed back hischair—a low, heavily padded stool—and stared unwinking at Retief,moving his head to bring first one great round eye, then the other, tobear. There were small blue veins in the immense fleshy beak. The bushyhair, springing out in a giant halo around the grayish, porous-skinnedface, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with tufts of chartreuse fuzzsurrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes. The tall head-dressof scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and a loop ofpink pearls had slipped down above one eye. Zubb finished his speech and fell silent, breathing hard. Qorn looked Retief over in silence, then belched. Not bad, Retief said admiringly. Maybe we could get up a matchbetween you and Ambassador Sternwheeler. You've got the volume on him,but he's got timbre. So, Qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. You come from Guzzum, eh? OrSmorbrod, as I think you call it. What is it you're after? More time?A compromise? Negotiations? Peace? He slammed a bony hand against thetable. The answer is no ! Zubb twittered. Qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant. Chain thatone. He indicated Magnan. His eyes went to Retief. This one's bigger;you'd best chain him, too. Why, your Excellency— Magnan started, stepping forward. Stay back! Qorn hooted. Stand over there where I can keep an eye onyou. Your Excellency, I'm empowered— Not here, you're not! Qorn trumpeted. Want peace, do you? Well, Idon't want peace! I've had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries!I want action! Loot! Adventure! Glory! He turned to look down thetable. How about it, fellows? It's war to the knife, eh? <doc-sep>There was a momentary silence from all sides. I guess so, grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue withflame-colored plumes. Qorn's eyes bulged. He half rose. We've been all over this, hebassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. Ithought I'd made my point! Oh, sure, Qorn. You bet. I'm convinced. Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. All for one and one for all, that'sus. And you're the one, eh, Qorn? Retief commented. Magnan cleared his throat. I sense that some of you gentlemen are notconvinced of the wisdom of this move, he piped, looking along thetable at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staringeyes. Silence! Qorn hooted. No use your talking to my loyal lieutenantsanyway, he added. They do whatever I convince them they ought to do. But I'm sure that on more mature consideration— I can lick any Qornt in the house. Qorn said. That's why I'm Qorn.He belched again. A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with acrash at Magnan's feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrappedthree loops around Magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place. You next! The guns pointed at Retief's chest. He held out his arms.Four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped aroundthem. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through theends and closed it. Now, Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. There's abit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them? Let them go, the blue and flame Qornt said glumly. You can do better than that, Qorn hooted. Now here's a suggestion:we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,say—and ship them back. Good lord! Retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sendingus home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal! It wouldn't be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,Retief commented. It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up areasonable scrap, Qorn said judiciously. I have a feeling thatthey're thinking of giving up without a struggle. Oh, I doubt that, the blue-and-flame Qornt said. Why should they? Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. Take these two,he hooted. I'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender! Well, Magnan started. Hold it, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. I'll tell him. What's your proposal? Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet.A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I canassure you, it's useless. We Qornt like to fight. I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your Excellency,Retief said blandly. We didn't come to negotiate. We came to deliveran Ultimatum. What? Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered. We plan to use this planet for target practice, Retief said. A newtype hell bomb we've worked out. Have all your people off of it inseventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences. IV You have the gall, Qorn stormed, to stand here in the center ofQornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains— Oh, these, Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum linksstretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. We diplomats liketo go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn't want to misleadyou. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I— Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering. I told you they were brutes, Zubb shrilled. Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. I don't care what they are!he honked. Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships! And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcerswith a hundred megatons/second firepower each. Retief. Magnan tugged at his sleeve. Don't forget their superdrive. That's all right. They don't have one. But— We'll take you on! Qorn French-horned. We're the Qorn! We glory inbattle! We live in fame or go down in— Hogwash, the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. If it wasn't for you, Qorn,we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having toprove anything. Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here, Retief said. I think therest of the boys would listen to reason— Over my dead body! My idea exactly, Retief said. You claim you can lick any man inthe house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on thefloor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation. <doc-sep>Magnan hovered at Retief's side. Twelve feet tall, he moaned. Anddid you notice the size of those hands? Retief watched as Qorn's aides helped him out of his formal trappings.I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. Idoubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard poundshere. But that phenomenal reach— I'll peck away at him at knee level. When he bends over to swat me,I'll get a crack at him. Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort. Enough! Let me at the upstart! Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointedarms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feetclacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitorsand bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on thecombatants. Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut atRetief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. Qornbent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker tookhim just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retiefleaped clear. Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien'soff-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed tothe floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behindthe narrow back, seized Qorn's neck in a stranglehold and threw hisweight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at anawkward angle. He squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reachingin vain for Retief. Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him. Need I remind you, sir, he said icily, that this is an officialdiplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterestedparties. Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. I must ask you to hand me yourweapons, Zubb. Look here, Zubb began. I may lose my temper, Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passedthem to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turnedback to watch the encounter. Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn's left wrist, boundit to the alien's neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn'sshoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrappedit around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qornflopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around hisneck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly. If I were you, I'd relax, Retief said, rising and releasing his grip.Qorn got a leg under him; Retief kicked it. Qorn's chin hit the floorwith a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbsand gay silks. Retief turned to the watching crowd. Next? he called. The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. Maybe this would be a goodtime to elect a new leader, he said. Now, my qualifications— Sit down, Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table,seated himself in Qorn's vacated chair. A couple of you finishtrussing Qorn up for me. But we must select a leader! That won't be necessary, boys. I'm your new leader. <doc-sep>As I see it, Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wineglass, you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly liketo fight. We don't mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, asQornt, we're expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rushthings? I have a suggestion, Magnan said. Why not turn the reins ofgovernment over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group. What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there's always oneamong us who's a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to followhim. Why? Because that's the way it's done. Why not do it another way? Magnan offered. Now, I'd like to suggestcommunity singing— If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what wouldhappen? Live too long? Magnan looked puzzled. When estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. Anyway, withthe new Qornt stepping on our heels— I've lost the thread, Magnan said. Who are the new Qornt? After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they're Qornt, of course.The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosizeinto Verpp— You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will becomewarmongers like Qorn? Very likely. 'The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,' as the oldsaying goes. What do Qornt turn into? Retief asked. Hmmmm. That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood. Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways? Magnan asked. Whatabout taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance? Don't mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It's great sport tosit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashingoff to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. Butwe prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling youTerrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea whatyour strength was. But now that's all off, of course, Magnan chirped. Now that we'vehad diplomatic relations and all— Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we'reQornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action. But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won't let you! Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even ifhe orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the otherCenters—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion isdefinitely on. Why don't you go invade somebody else? Magnan suggested. I couldname some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course. Hold everything, Retief said. I think we've got the basis of a dealhere.... V At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retiefand Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDTSector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged,flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white. Curious, Magnan commented. I wonder what the significance of thewhite ensign might be? Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrementsand a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The highwhite sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes,butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather. A brave show indeed, Magnan commented approvingly. I confess theidea has merit. The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tiredwheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomatstepped out. Why, Ambassador Nitworth, Magnan glowed. This is very kind of you. Keep cool, Magnan, Nitworth said in a strained voice. We'll attemptto get you out of this. He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly atthe ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, atthe eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts. Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency, Nitworth said, blinkingup at the leading Qornt. You are Commander of the Strike Force, Iassume? Nope, the Qornt said shortly. I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuateHeadquarters, Nitworth plowed on. Mr. Ambassador. Retief said. This— Don't panic, Retief. I'll attempt to secure your release, Nitworthhissed over his shoulder. Now— You will address our leader with more respect! the tall Qornt hooted,eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up. Oh, yes indeed, sir ... your Excellency ... Commander. Now, about theinvasion— Mr. Secretary, Magnan tugged at Nitworth's sleeve. In heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace! Nitworth snapped.He rearranged his features. Now your Excellency, we've arranged toevacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested— Requested? the Qornt honked. Ah ... demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered.Instructed. And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow anyother instructions you might have. You don't quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.This isn't— Silence, confound you! Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked atRetief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffeda length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around andheld him facing Retief. If you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr.Ambassador, Retief said blandly. I think I should mention that thisisn't an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the PeaceEnforcement Corps. Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth'smouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. We felt, he said, thatthe establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structurewould provide the element of novelty the Department has requestedin our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma ofTerrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations. Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caughtthe Qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides. I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun, Retief said.Magnan edged close. What about the gag? he whispered. Let's leave it where it is for a while, Retief murmured. It may saveus a few concessions. <doc-sep>An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across hisdesk at Retief and Magnan. This entire affair, he rumbled, has made me appear to be a fool! But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just howclever you are, Magnan burbled. Nitworth purpled. You're skirting insolence, Magnan, he roared. Whywas I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at thesight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced? We tried to get through, but our wavelengths— Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle! Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking— I did not panic! Nitworth bellowed. I merely adjusted to theapparent circumstances. Now, I'm of two minds as to the advisability ofthis foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believethe wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruisein an uninhabited sector of space— The office windows rattled. What the devil! Nitworth turned, staredout at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale bluelight. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third. Nitworth whirled on Magnan. What's this! Who ordered these recruits toembark without my permission? I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,Retief said. There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltratingthe Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it. Call them back at once! I'm afraid that won't be possible. They're under orders to maintaintotal communications silence until completion of the mission. Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtfulexpression dawned. He nodded. This may work out, he said. I should call them back, but sincethe fleet is out of contact, I'm unable to do so, correct? Thus I canhardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising theGroaci. He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan. Very well, gentlemen,I'll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it theSmorbrodian public are notified they can remain where they are. Andby the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of theindetectable drive the Qornt use? No, sir. That is, yes, sir. Well? Well? There isn't any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground. Underground? Doing what? Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch. <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Why are the men so convinced that the Qornt have an extreme tactical advantage? What do we know about the military mindset and tools of the group?

Because they Qornt have been underground for two centuries while they molted from the Verpp stage of their life cycle, they have gone undetected by the Terrestrials in this time. This led the Terrestrials to believe that the Qornt possessed superior technology of some kind, as they seemed to have reappeared out of nowhere. However, this is not the case, and it was merely that the group remained dormant for a long time. There are rumors of stealth technology and superior ships, including a superdrive, but not much firsthand information until Magnan and Retief make it to the surface of Roolit I, the planet that the Qornt are currently occupying. It is true that the Verpp and Qornt are physically larger than the Terrestrials, but the systems of gravity on the different planets means that the smaller Terrestrials are actually stronger and have a kind of advantage on Roolit I. The Verpp tell Magnan that the Qornt have huge, powerful warships that have a variety of weapon types. Not only this, but each Qornt has his own ship, which means that there is a large fleet of these. It comes to Magnan as a surprise, then, that the Qornt are not worried about diplomatic negotiation, but instead just seem to have an impulse that drives them to be in battle.

Who are the Qornt and how do they relate to the other groups in the story? [SEP] <s> MIGHTIEST QORN BY KEITH LAUMER Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt held all humans in contempt—except one! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff. Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt? There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn. They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect. They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system! But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory.... Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud: His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest. Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said. Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger. We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum! Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan. There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place. Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service! The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table. We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible! <doc-sep>The Military Attache pulled at his lower lip. In that case, we can'ttry conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible driveof our own. I recommend a crash project. In the meantime— I'll have my boys start in to crack this thing, the Chief of theConfidential Terrestrial Source Section spoke up. I'll fit out acouple of volunteers with plastic beaks— No cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! Long range policy will beworked out by Deep-Think teams back at the Department. Our role willbe a holding action. Now I want suggestions for a comprehensive,well rounded and decisive course for meeting this threat. Anyrecommendation? The Political Officer placed his fingertips together. What about astiff Note demanding an extra week's time? No! No begging, the Economic Officer objected. I'd say a calm,dignified, aggressive withdrawal—as soon as possible. We don't want to give them the idea we spook easily, the MilitaryAttache said. Let's delay the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow. Early tomorrow, Magnan said. Or maybe later today. Well, I see you're of a mind with me, Nitworth nodded. Our plan ofaction is clear, but it remains to be implemented. We have a populationof over fifteen million individuals to relocate. He eyed thePolitical Officer. I want five proposals for resettlement on my deskby oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. Nitworth rapped out instructions.Harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. Magnaneased toward the door. Where are you going, Magnan? Nitworth snapped. Since you're so busy, I thought I'd just slip back down to Com Inq. Itwas a most interesting orientation lecture, Mr. Ambassador. Be sure tolet us know how it works out. Kindly return to your chair, Nitworth said coldly. A number ofchores remain to be assigned. I think you, Magnan, need a little fieldexperience. I want you to get over to Roolit I and take a look at theseQornt personally. Magnan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Not afraid of a few Qornt, are you, Magnan? Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha. It's just that I'm afraid I may lose myhead and do something rash if I go. Nonsense! A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along.No dawdling, now! I want you on the way in two hours. Notify thetransport pool at once. Now get going! Magnan nodded unhappily and went into the hall. Oh, Retief, Nitworth said. Retief turned. Try to restrain Mr. Magnan from any impulsive moves—in anydirection. II Retief and Magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slopeof towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set amongflamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip ofwhite beach with the blue sea beyond. A delightful vista, Magnan said, mopping at his face. A pity wecouldn't locate the Qornt. We'll go back now and report— I'm pretty sure the settlement is off to the right, Retief said. Whydon't you head back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I canobserve. Retief, we're engaged in a serious mission. This is not a time tothink of sightseeing. I'd like to take a good look at what we're giving away. See here, Retief! One might almost receive the impression that you'requestioning Corps policy! One might, at that. The Qornt have made their play, but I think itmight be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. If I'mnot back at the boat in an hour, lift without me. You expect me to make my way back alone? It's directly down-slope— Retief broke off, listening. Magnanclutched at his arm. There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafybranch swung aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view, long, thin,green-clad legs with back-bending knees moving in quick, bird-likesteps. A pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes setamong bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. The crest bobbedas the creature cocked its head, listening. Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimeddirectly at the spot where the Terrestrials stood in the deep shade ofa giant trunk. I'll go for help, Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leapsinto the brush. A second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun,darted to the left. The first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to itsnarrow chest. Magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free,turned—and collided with the eight-foot alien, coming in fast from theright. All three went down in a tangle of limbs. Retief jumped forward, hauled Magnan free, thrust him aside andstopped, right fist cocked. The two Qornt lay groaning feebly. Nice piece of work, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. You nailed both ofthem. <doc-sep>Those undoubtedly are the most bloodthirsty, aggressive, mercilesscountenances it has ever been my misfortune to encounter, Magnan said.It hardly seems fair. Eight feet tall and faces like that! The smaller of the two captive Qornt ran long, slender fingers overa bony shin, from which he had turned back the tight-fitting greentrousers. It's not broken, he whistled nasally in passable Terrestrial, eyeingMagnan through the heavy goggles, now badly cracked. Small thanks toyou. Magnan smiled loftily. I daresay you'll think twice before interferingwith peaceable diplomats in future. Diplomats? Surely you jest. Never mind us, Retief said. It's you fellows we'd like to talkabout. How many of you are there? Only Zubb and myself. I mean altogether. How many Qornt? The alien whistled shrilly. Here, no signalling! Magnan snapped, looking around. That was merely an expression of amusement. You find the situation amusing? I assure you, sir, you are in perilousstraits at the moment. I may fly into another rage, you know. Please, restrain yourself. I was merely somewhat astonished— a smallwhistle escaped—at being taken for a Qornt. Aren't you a Qornt? I? Great snail trails, no! More stifled whistles of amusement escapedthe beaked face. Both Zubb and I are Verpp. Naturalists, as ithappens. You certainly look like Qornt. Oh, not at all—except perhaps to a Terrestrial. The Qornt aresturdily built rascals, all over ten feet in height. And, of course,they do nothing but quarrel. A drone caste, actually. A caste? You mean they're biologically the same as you? Not at all! A Verpp wouldn't think of fertilizing a Qornt. I mean to say, you are of the same basic stock—descended from acommon ancestor, perhaps. We are all Pud's creatures. What are the differences between you, then? Why, the Qornt are argumentive, boastful, lacking in appreciationfor the finer things of life. One dreads to contemplate descending to their level. Do you know anything about a Note passed to the Terrestrial Ambassadorat Smorbrod? Retief asked. <doc-sep>The beak twitched. Smorbrod? I know of no place called Smorbrod. The outer planet of this system. Oh, yes. We call it Guzzum. I had heard that some sort of creatureshad established a settlement there, but I confess I pay little note tosuch matters. We're wasting time, Retief, Magnan said. We must truss these chapsup, hurry back to the boat and make our escape. You heard what theysaid. Are there any Qornt down there at the harbor, where the boats are?Retief asked. At Tarroon, you mean? Oh, yes. Planning some adventure. That would be the invasion of Smorbrod, Magnan said. And unless wehurry, Retief, we're likely to be caught there with the last of theevacuees! How many Qornt would you say there are at Tarroon? Oh, a very large number. Perhaps fifteen or twenty. Fifteen or twenty what? Magnan looked perplexed. Fifteen or twenty Qornt. You mean that there are only fifteen or twenty individual Qornt inall? Another whistle. Not at all. I was referring to the local Qornt only.There are more at the other Centers, of course. And the Qornt are responsible for the ultimatum—unilaterally? I suppose so; it sounds like them. A truculent group, you know. Andinterplanetary relations are rather a hobby of theirs. Zubb moaned and stirred. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. He spoketo his companion in a shrill alien clatter of consonants. What did he say? Poor Zubb. He blames me for his bruises, since it was my idea togather you as specimens. You should have known better than to tackle that fierce-lookingcreature, Zubb said, pointing his beak at Magnan. How does it happen that you speak Terrestrial? Retief asked. Oh, one picks up all sorts of dialects. It's quite charming, really, Magnan said. Such a quaint, archaicaccent. Suppose we went down to Tarroon, Retief asked. What kind ofreception would we get? That depends. I wouldn't recommend interfering with the Gwil or theRheuk; it's their nest-mending time, you know. The Boog will be busymating—such a tedious business—and of course the Qornt are tied upwith their ceremonial feasting. I'm afraid no one will take any noticeof you. Do you mean to say, Magnan demanded, that these ferocious Qornt, whohave issued an ultimatum to the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—whoopenly avow their occupied world—would ignore Terrestrials in theirmidst? If at all possible. Retief got to his feet. I think our course is clear, Mr. Magnan. It's up to us to go down andattract a little attention. III I'm not at all sure we're going about this in the right way, Magnanpuffed, trotting at Retief's side. These fellows Zubb and Slun—Oh,they seem affable enough, but how can we be sure we're not being ledinto a trap? We can't. Magnan stopped short. Let's go back. All right, Retief said. Of course there may be an ambush— Magnan moved off. Let's keep going. The party emerged from the undergrowth at the edge of a greatbrush-grown mound. Slun took the lead, rounded the flank of thehillock, halted at a rectangular opening cut into the slope. You can find your way easily enough from here, he said. You'llexcuse us, I hope— Nonsense, Slun! Zubb pushed forward. I'll escort our guests to QorntHall. He twittered briefly to his fellow Verpp. Slun twittered back. I don't like it, Retief, Magnan whispered. Those fellows areplotting mischief. Threaten them with violence, Mr Magnan. They're scared of you. That's true. And the drubbing they received was well-deserved. I'm apatient man, but there are occasions— Come along, please, Zubb called. Another ten minutes' walk— See here, we have no interest in investigating this barrow, Magnanannounced. We wish you to take us direct to Tarroon to interview yourmilitary leaders regarding the ultimatum! Yes, yes, of course. Qornt Hall lies here inside the village. This is Tarroon? A modest civic center, sir, but there are those who love it. No wonder we didn't observe their works from the air, Magnanmuttered. Camouflaged. He moved hesitantly through the opening. The party moved along a wide, deserted tunnel which sloped downsteeply, then leveled off and branched. Zubb took the center branch,ducking slightly under the nine-foot ceiling lit at intervals with whatappeared to be primitive incandescent panels. Few signs of an advanced technology here, Magnan whispered. Thesecreatures must devote all their talents to warlike enterprise. Ahead, Zubb slowed. A distant susurration was audible, a sustainedhigh-pitched screeching. Softly, now. We approach Qornt Hall. Theycan be an irascible lot when disturbed at their feasting. When will the feast be over? Magnan called hoarsely. In another few weeks, I should imagine, if, as you say, they'vescheduled an invasion for next month. Look here, Zubb. Magnan shook a finger at the tall alien. How is itthat these Qornt are allowed to embark on piratical ventures of thissort without reference to the wishes of the majority? Oh, the majority of the Qornt favor the move, I imagine. These few hotheads are permitted to embroil the planet in war? Oh, they don't embroil the planet in war. They merely— Retief, this is fantastic! I've heard of iron-fisted military cliquesbefore, but this is madness! Come softly, now. Zubb beckoned, moving toward a bend in theyellow-lit corridor. Retief and Magnan moved forward. <doc-sep>The corridor debouched through a high double door into a vast ovalchamber, high-domed, gloomy, paneled in dark wood and hung withtattered banners, scarred halberds, pikes, rusted longswords, crossedspears over patinaed hauberks, pitted radiation armor, corroded powerrifles, the immense mummified heads of horned and fanged animals. Greatguttering torches in wall brackets and in stands along the lengthof the long table shed a smoky light that reflected from the mirrorpolish of the red granite floor, gleamed on polished silver bowls andpaper-thin glass, shone jewel-red and gold through dark bottles—andcast long flickering shadows behind the fifteen trolls at the board. Lesser trolls—beaked, bush-haired, great-eyed—trotted briskly,bird-kneed, bearing steaming platters, stood in groups ofthree strumming slender bottle-shaped lutes, or pranced anintricate-patterned dance, unnoticed in the shrill uproar as each ofthe magnificently draped, belted, feathered and jeweled Qornt carriedon a shouted conversation with an equally noisy fellow. A most interesting display of barbaric splendor, Magnan breathed.Now we'd better be getting back. Ah, a moment, Zubb said. Observe the Qornt—the tallest of thefeasters—he with the head-dress of crimson, purple, silver and pink. Twelve feet if he's an inch, Magnan estimated. And now we reallymust hurry along— That one is chief among these rowdies. I'm sure you'll want a wordwith him. He controls not only the Tarroonian vessels but those fromthe other Centers as well. What kind of vessels? Warships? Certainly. What other kind would the Qornt bother with? I don't suppose, Magnan said casually, that you'd know the type,tonnage, armament and manning of these vessels? And how many unitscomprise the fleet? And where they're based at present? They're fully automated twenty-thousand-ton all-purpose dreadnaughts.They mount a variety of weapons. The Qornt are fond of that sort ofthing. Each of the Qornt has his own, of course. They're virtuallyidentical, except for the personal touches each individual has givenhis ship. Great heavens, Retief! Magnan exclaimed in a whisper. It sounds asthough these brutes employ a battle armada as simpler souls might a setof toy sailboats! Retief stepped past Magnan and Zubb to study the feasting hall. I cansee that their votes would carry all the necessary weight. And now an interview with the Qorn himself, Zubb shrilled. If you'llkindly step along, gentlemen.... That won't be necessary, Magnan said hastily, I've decided to referthe matter to committee. After having come so far, Zubb said, it would be a pity to misshaving a cosy chat. There was a pause. Ah ... Retief, Magnan said. Zubb has just presented a mostcompelling argument.... <doc-sep>Retief turned. Zubb stood gripping an ornately decorated power pistolin one bony hand, a slim needler in the other. Both were pointed atMagnan's chest. I suspected you had hidden qualities, Zubb, Retief commented. See here, Zubb! We're diplomats! Magnan started. Careful, Mr. Magnan; you may goad him to a frenzy. By no means, Zubb whistled. I much prefer to observe the frenzyof the Qornt when presented with the news that two peaceful Verpphave been assaulted and kidnapped by bullying interlopers. If there'sanything that annoys the Qornt, it's Qornt-like behavior in others. Nowstep along, please. Rest assured, this will be reported! I doubt it. You'll face the wrath of Enlightened Galactic Opinion! Oh? How big a navy does Enlightened Galactic Opinion have? Stop scaring him, Mr. Magnan. He may get nervous and shoot. Retiefstepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure atthe head of the table. A trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat,staring. An inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as Retief swung past,followed by Magnan and the tall Verpp. The shrill chatter at the tablefaded. Qorn turned as Retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. Zubb steppedforward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. Qorn pushed back hischair—a low, heavily padded stool—and stared unwinking at Retief,moving his head to bring first one great round eye, then the other, tobear. There were small blue veins in the immense fleshy beak. The bushyhair, springing out in a giant halo around the grayish, porous-skinnedface, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with tufts of chartreuse fuzzsurrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes. The tall head-dressof scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and a loop ofpink pearls had slipped down above one eye. Zubb finished his speech and fell silent, breathing hard. Qorn looked Retief over in silence, then belched. Not bad, Retief said admiringly. Maybe we could get up a matchbetween you and Ambassador Sternwheeler. You've got the volume on him,but he's got timbre. So, Qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. You come from Guzzum, eh? OrSmorbrod, as I think you call it. What is it you're after? More time?A compromise? Negotiations? Peace? He slammed a bony hand against thetable. The answer is no ! Zubb twittered. Qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant. Chain thatone. He indicated Magnan. His eyes went to Retief. This one's bigger;you'd best chain him, too. Why, your Excellency— Magnan started, stepping forward. Stay back! Qorn hooted. Stand over there where I can keep an eye onyou. Your Excellency, I'm empowered— Not here, you're not! Qorn trumpeted. Want peace, do you? Well, Idon't want peace! I've had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries!I want action! Loot! Adventure! Glory! He turned to look down thetable. How about it, fellows? It's war to the knife, eh? <doc-sep>There was a momentary silence from all sides. I guess so, grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue withflame-colored plumes. Qorn's eyes bulged. He half rose. We've been all over this, hebassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. Ithought I'd made my point! Oh, sure, Qorn. You bet. I'm convinced. Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. All for one and one for all, that'sus. And you're the one, eh, Qorn? Retief commented. Magnan cleared his throat. I sense that some of you gentlemen are notconvinced of the wisdom of this move, he piped, looking along thetable at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staringeyes. Silence! Qorn hooted. No use your talking to my loyal lieutenantsanyway, he added. They do whatever I convince them they ought to do. But I'm sure that on more mature consideration— I can lick any Qornt in the house. Qorn said. That's why I'm Qorn.He belched again. A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with acrash at Magnan's feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrappedthree loops around Magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place. You next! The guns pointed at Retief's chest. He held out his arms.Four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped aroundthem. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through theends and closed it. Now, Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. There's abit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them? Let them go, the blue and flame Qornt said glumly. You can do better than that, Qorn hooted. Now here's a suggestion:we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,say—and ship them back. Good lord! Retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sendingus home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal! It wouldn't be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,Retief commented. It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up areasonable scrap, Qorn said judiciously. I have a feeling thatthey're thinking of giving up without a struggle. Oh, I doubt that, the blue-and-flame Qornt said. Why should they? Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. Take these two,he hooted. I'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender! Well, Magnan started. Hold it, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. I'll tell him. What's your proposal? Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet.A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I canassure you, it's useless. We Qornt like to fight. I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your Excellency,Retief said blandly. We didn't come to negotiate. We came to deliveran Ultimatum. What? Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered. We plan to use this planet for target practice, Retief said. A newtype hell bomb we've worked out. Have all your people off of it inseventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences. IV You have the gall, Qorn stormed, to stand here in the center ofQornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains— Oh, these, Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum linksstretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. We diplomats liketo go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn't want to misleadyou. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I— Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering. I told you they were brutes, Zubb shrilled. Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. I don't care what they are!he honked. Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships! And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcerswith a hundred megatons/second firepower each. Retief. Magnan tugged at his sleeve. Don't forget their superdrive. That's all right. They don't have one. But— We'll take you on! Qorn French-horned. We're the Qorn! We glory inbattle! We live in fame or go down in— Hogwash, the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. If it wasn't for you, Qorn,we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having toprove anything. Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here, Retief said. I think therest of the boys would listen to reason— Over my dead body! My idea exactly, Retief said. You claim you can lick any man inthe house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on thefloor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation. <doc-sep>Magnan hovered at Retief's side. Twelve feet tall, he moaned. Anddid you notice the size of those hands? Retief watched as Qorn's aides helped him out of his formal trappings.I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. Idoubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard poundshere. But that phenomenal reach— I'll peck away at him at knee level. When he bends over to swat me,I'll get a crack at him. Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort. Enough! Let me at the upstart! Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointedarms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feetclacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitorsand bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on thecombatants. Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut atRetief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. Qornbent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker tookhim just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retiefleaped clear. Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien'soff-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed tothe floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behindthe narrow back, seized Qorn's neck in a stranglehold and threw hisweight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at anawkward angle. He squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reachingin vain for Retief. Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him. Need I remind you, sir, he said icily, that this is an officialdiplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterestedparties. Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. I must ask you to hand me yourweapons, Zubb. Look here, Zubb began. I may lose my temper, Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passedthem to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turnedback to watch the encounter. Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn's left wrist, boundit to the alien's neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn'sshoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrappedit around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qornflopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around hisneck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly. If I were you, I'd relax, Retief said, rising and releasing his grip.Qorn got a leg under him; Retief kicked it. Qorn's chin hit the floorwith a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbsand gay silks. Retief turned to the watching crowd. Next? he called. The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. Maybe this would be a goodtime to elect a new leader, he said. Now, my qualifications— Sit down, Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table,seated himself in Qorn's vacated chair. A couple of you finishtrussing Qorn up for me. But we must select a leader! That won't be necessary, boys. I'm your new leader. <doc-sep>As I see it, Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wineglass, you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly liketo fight. We don't mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, asQornt, we're expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rushthings? I have a suggestion, Magnan said. Why not turn the reins ofgovernment over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group. What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there's always oneamong us who's a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to followhim. Why? Because that's the way it's done. Why not do it another way? Magnan offered. Now, I'd like to suggestcommunity singing— If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what wouldhappen? Live too long? Magnan looked puzzled. When estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. Anyway, withthe new Qornt stepping on our heels— I've lost the thread, Magnan said. Who are the new Qornt? After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they're Qornt, of course.The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosizeinto Verpp— You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will becomewarmongers like Qorn? Very likely. 'The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,' as the oldsaying goes. What do Qornt turn into? Retief asked. Hmmmm. That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood. Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways? Magnan asked. Whatabout taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance? Don't mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It's great sport tosit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashingoff to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. Butwe prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling youTerrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea whatyour strength was. But now that's all off, of course, Magnan chirped. Now that we'vehad diplomatic relations and all— Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we'reQornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action. But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won't let you! Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even ifhe orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the otherCenters—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion isdefinitely on. Why don't you go invade somebody else? Magnan suggested. I couldname some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course. Hold everything, Retief said. I think we've got the basis of a dealhere.... V At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retiefand Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDTSector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged,flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white. Curious, Magnan commented. I wonder what the significance of thewhite ensign might be? Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrementsand a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The highwhite sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes,butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather. A brave show indeed, Magnan commented approvingly. I confess theidea has merit. The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tiredwheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomatstepped out. Why, Ambassador Nitworth, Magnan glowed. This is very kind of you. Keep cool, Magnan, Nitworth said in a strained voice. We'll attemptto get you out of this. He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly atthe ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, atthe eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts. Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency, Nitworth said, blinkingup at the leading Qornt. You are Commander of the Strike Force, Iassume? Nope, the Qornt said shortly. I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuateHeadquarters, Nitworth plowed on. Mr. Ambassador. Retief said. This— Don't panic, Retief. I'll attempt to secure your release, Nitworthhissed over his shoulder. Now— You will address our leader with more respect! the tall Qornt hooted,eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up. Oh, yes indeed, sir ... your Excellency ... Commander. Now, about theinvasion— Mr. Secretary, Magnan tugged at Nitworth's sleeve. In heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace! Nitworth snapped.He rearranged his features. Now your Excellency, we've arranged toevacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested— Requested? the Qornt honked. Ah ... demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered.Instructed. And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow anyother instructions you might have. You don't quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.This isn't— Silence, confound you! Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked atRetief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffeda length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around andheld him facing Retief. If you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr.Ambassador, Retief said blandly. I think I should mention that thisisn't an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the PeaceEnforcement Corps. Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth'smouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. We felt, he said, thatthe establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structurewould provide the element of novelty the Department has requestedin our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma ofTerrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations. Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caughtthe Qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides. I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun, Retief said.Magnan edged close. What about the gag? he whispered. Let's leave it where it is for a while, Retief murmured. It may saveus a few concessions. <doc-sep>An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across hisdesk at Retief and Magnan. This entire affair, he rumbled, has made me appear to be a fool! But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just howclever you are, Magnan burbled. Nitworth purpled. You're skirting insolence, Magnan, he roared. Whywas I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at thesight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced? We tried to get through, but our wavelengths— Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle! Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking— I did not panic! Nitworth bellowed. I merely adjusted to theapparent circumstances. Now, I'm of two minds as to the advisability ofthis foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believethe wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruisein an uninhabited sector of space— The office windows rattled. What the devil! Nitworth turned, staredout at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale bluelight. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third. Nitworth whirled on Magnan. What's this! Who ordered these recruits toembark without my permission? I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,Retief said. There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltratingthe Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it. Call them back at once! I'm afraid that won't be possible. They're under orders to maintaintotal communications silence until completion of the mission. Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtfulexpression dawned. He nodded. This may work out, he said. I should call them back, but sincethe fleet is out of contact, I'm unable to do so, correct? Thus I canhardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising theGroaci. He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan. Very well, gentlemen,I'll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it theSmorbrodian public are notified they can remain where they are. Andby the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of theindetectable drive the Qornt use? No, sir. That is, yes, sir. Well? Well? There isn't any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground. Underground? Doing what? Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch. <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who are the Qornt and how do they relate to the other groups in the story?

The Qornt is a race of aliens known for their militaristic tendencies that seemed to disappear two centuries ago. They are of particular issue because they have reappeared and written to the Terrestrials saying they would take over the planet that the Terrestrials are on. We eventually learn that the Qornt are but one stage in a longer life cycle, in which Gwil become Boog, who become Rheuk, who become Verpp, who eventually become Qornt after the two hundred year estivation period. It is only in this stage that they become antagonistic and warlike, but they do not know what happens after this stage because Qornt are expected to die in battle, and none have survived long enough to know what happens. The Qornt themselves are twelve feet tall and troll-like, with very bushy fur, huge eyes, and beaks. They are very comfortable with their militaristic traditions—when we meet them, they are in the midst of a large feast that they partake in before going to war. They boast the spoils of battle on display in their great hall, and wear intricate headdresses to show their power. After a skirmish with the men on Roolit I, in which Qorn (the lead Qornt) is replaced in power by Retief, they eventually make it to the outer planets where they have presumably been recruited into the Peace Enforcement Corps.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> DUST UNTO DUST By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister city of metal that glittered malignantly before the cautious advance of three awed space-scouters. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away. He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction. He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant. Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city. Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings. The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north. Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it? Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried? Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like? Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal. Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band. Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too. Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in. Rodney nodded. After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes? Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for. Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested. Could be, Martin said. Let's go in. The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city. Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it? Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is? Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled. A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded. Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all? I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out. Rodney said quickly, I mean outside. Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy. He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted. Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here.... Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass? The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed. Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street. Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance. Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend. Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination. Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter? The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving— Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man! Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here. ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction. Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That— Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out! <doc-sep>Rodney mumbled something, and Martin told him to shut up. Wass said, more quietly, Remember that metal band? It's all clear now,and glittering, as far as I can see. I can't get across it; it's like aglass wall. We're trapped, we're trapped, they are— Shut up, Rodney! Wass, I'm only two sections from the edge. I'll checkhere. Martin clapped a hand on Rodney's shoulder again, starting him moving,toward the city's edge, past the black, silent buildings. The glittering band was here, too, like a halo around a silhouette. No go, Martin said to Wass. He bit at his lower lip. I think it mustbe all around us. He was silent for a time, exploring the consequencesof this. Then—We'll meet you in the middle of the city, where weseparated. Walking with Rodney, Martin heard Wass' voice, flat and metallicthrough the radio receiver against his ear. What do you suppose causedthis? He shook his head angrily, saying, Judging by reports of the rest ofthe planet, it must have been horribly radioactive at one time. All ofit. Man-made radiation, you mean. Martin grinned faintly. Wass, too, had an active imagination. Well,alien-made, anyhow. Perhaps they had a war. Wass' voice sounded startled. Anti-radiation screen? Rodney interrupted, There hasn't been enough radiation around here forhundreds of thousands of years to activate such a screen. Wass said coldly, He's right, Martin. Martin crossed an intersection, Rodney slightly behind him. You'reboth wrong, he said. We landed here today. Rodney stopped in the middle of the metal street and stared down atMartin. The wind—? Why not? That would explain why it stopped so suddenly, then. Rodney stoodstraighter. When he walked again, his steps were firmer. They reached the center of the city, ahead of the small, slight Wass,and stood watching him labor along the metal toward them. Wass' face, Martin saw, was sober. I tried to call the ship. No luck. The shield? Wass nodded. What else? I don't know— If we went to the roof of the tallest building, Rodney offered, wemight— Martin shook his head. No. To be effective, the shield would have tocover the city. Wass stared down at the metal street, as if he could look through it.I wonder where it gets its power? Down below, probably. If there is a down below. Martin hesitated. Wemay have to.... What? Rodney prompted. Martin shrugged. Let's look. He led the way through a shoulder-high arch in one of the tallbuildings surrounding the square. The corridor inside was dim andplain, and he switched on his flashlight, the other two immediatelyfollowing his example. The walls and the rounded ceiling of thecorridor were of the same dull metal as the buildings' facades, andthe streets. There were a multitude of doors and arches set intoeither side of the corridor. It was rather like ... entering a gigantic metal beehive. Martin chose an arch, with beyond it a metal ramp, which tilteddownward, gleaming in the pale circle of his torch. A call from Rodney halted him. Back here, the tall man repeated. Itlooks like a switchboard. The three advanced to the end of the central corridor, pausing before agreat arch, outlined in the too-careful geometrical figures Martin hadcome to associate with the city builders. The three torches, shiningthrough the arch, picked out a bank of buttons, handles ... and a thickrope of cables which ran upward to vanish unexpectedly in the metalroof. Is this it, Wass murmured, or an auxiliary? Martin shrugged. The whole city's no more than a machine, apparently. Another assumption, Wass said. We have done nothing but makeassumptions ever since we got here. What would you suggest, instead? Martin asked calmly. Rodney furtively, extended one hand toward a switch. No! Martin said, sharply. That was one assumption they dared not make. Rodney turned. But— No. Wass, how much time have we? The ship leaves in eleven hours. Eleven hours, Rodney repeated. Eleven hours! He reached out for theswitch again. Martin swore, stepped forward, pulled him back roughly. He directed his flashlight at Rodney's thin, pale face. What do youthink you're doing? We have to find out what all this stuff's for! Going at it blindly, we'd probably execute ourselves. We've got to— No! Then, more quietly—We still have eleven hours to find a wayout. Ten hours and forty-five minutes, Wass disagreed softly. Minus thetime it takes us to get to the lifeboat, fly to the ship, land, stowit, get ourselves aboard, and get the big ship away from the planet.And Captain Morgan can't wait for us, Martin. You too, Wass? Up to the point of accuracy, yes. Martin said, Not necessarily. You go the way the wind does, alwaysthinking of your own tender hide, of course. Rodney cursed. And every second we stand here doing nothing gives usthat much less time to find a way out. Martin— Make one move toward that switchboard and I'll stop you where youstand! <doc-sep>Wass moved silently through the darkness beyond the torches. We allhave guns, Martin. I'm holding mine. Martin waited. After a moment, Wass switched his flashlight back on. He said quietly,He's right, Rodney. It would be sure death to monkey around in here. Well.... Rodney turned quickly toward the black arch. Let's get outof here, then! Martin hung back waiting for the others to go ahead of him down themetal hall. At the other arch, where the ramp led downward, he called ahalt. If the dome, or whatever it is, is a radiation screen there mustbe at least half-a-dozen emergency exits around the city. Rodney said, To search every building next to the dome clean aroundthe city would take years. Martin nodded. But there must be central roads beneath this main levelleading to them. Up here there are too many roads. Wass laughed rudely. Have you a better idea? Wass ignored that, as Martin hoped he would. He said slowly, Thatleads to another idea. If the band around the city is responsible forthe dome, does it project down into the ground as well? You mean dig out? Martin asked. Sure. Why not? We're wearing heavy suits and bulky breathing units. We have noequipment. That shouldn't be hard to come by. Martin smiled, banishing Wass' idea. Rodney said, They may have had their digging equipment built right into themselves. Anyway, Martin decided, we can take a look down below. In the pitch dark, Wass added. Martin adjusted his torch, began to lead the way down the metal ramp.The incline was gentle, apparently constructed for legs shorter, feetperhaps less broad than their own. The metal, without mark of any sort,gleamed under the combined light of the torches, unrolling out of thedarkness before the men. At length the incline melted smoothly into the next level of the city. Martin shined his light upward, and the others followed his example.Metal as smooth and featureless as that on which they stood shone downon them. Wass turned his light parallel with the floor, and then moved slowly ina circle. No supports. No supports anywhere. What keeps all that upthere? I don't know. I have no idea. Martin gestured toward the ramp withhis light. Does all this, this whole place, look at all familiar toyou? Rodney's gulp was clearly audible through the radio receivers. Here? No, no, Martin answered impatiently, not just here. I mean the wholecity. Yes, Wass said dryly, it does. I'm sure this is where all mynightmares stay when they're not on shift. Martin turned on his heel and started down a metal avenue which, hethought, paralleled the street above. And Rodney and Wass followed himsilently. They moved along the metal, past unfamiliar shapes made moreso by gloom and moving shadows, past doors dancing grotesquely in thethree lights, past openings in the occasional high metal partitions,past something which was perhaps a conveyor belt, past anothersomething which could have been anything at all. The metal street ended eventually in a blank metal wall. The edge of the city—the city which was a dome of force above and abowl of metal below. After a long time, Wass sighed. Well, skipper...? We go back, I guess, Martin said. Rodney turned swiftly to face him. Martin thought the tall man washolding his gun. To the switchboard, Martin? Unless someone has a better idea, Martin conceded. He waited. ButRodney was holding the gun ... and Wass was.... Then—I can't think ofanything else. They began to retrace their steps along the metal street, back pastthe same dancing shapes of metal, the partitions, the odd windows, alllooking different now in the new angles of illumination. Martin was in the lead. Wass followed him silently. Rodney, tall,matchstick thin, even in his cumbersome suit, swayed with jauntytriumph in the rear. Martin looked at the metal street lined with its metal objects and hesighed. He remembered how the dark buildings of the city looked atsurface level, how the city itself looked when they were landing, andthen when they were walking toward it. The dream was gone again fornow. Idealism died in him, again and again, yet it was always reborn.But—The only city, so far as anyone knew, on the first planet they'dever explored. And it had to be like this. Nightmares, Wass said, andMartin thought perhaps the city was built by a race of beings who atsome point twisted away from their evolutionary spiral, plagued by asort of racial insanity. No, Martin thought, shaking his head. No, that couldn't be.Viewpoint ... his viewpoint. It was the haunting sense of familiarity,a faint strain through all this broad jumble, the junkpile of alienmetal, which was making him theorize so wildly. Then Wass touched his elbow. Look there, Martin. Left of the ramp. Light from their torches was reflected, as from glass. All right, Rodney said belligerently into his radio. What's holdingup the procession? Martin was silent. Wass undertook to explain. Why not, after all? Martin asked himself. Itwas in Wass' own interest. In a moment, all three were standing beforea bank of glass cases which stretched off into the distance as far asthe combined light of their torches would reach. Seeds! Wass exclaimed, his faceplate pressed against the glass. Martin blinked. He thought how little time they had. He wet his lips. Wass' gloved hands fumbled awkwardly at a catch in the nearest sectionof the bank. Martin thought of the dark, convoluted land outside the city. If theywouldn't grow there.... Or had they, once? Don't, Wass! Torchlight reflected from Wass' faceplate as he turned his head. Whynot? They were like children.... We don't know, released, what they'll do. Skipper, Wass said carefully, if we don't get out of this place bythe deadline we may be eating these. Martin raised his arm tensely. Opening a seed bank doesn't help usfind a way out of here. He started up the ramp. Besides, we've nowater. Rodney came last up the ramp, less jaunty now, but still holding thegun. His mind, too, was taken up with childhood's imaginings. Fora plant to grow in this environment, it wouldn't need much water.Maybe— he had a vision of evil plants attacking them, growing withsuper-swiftness at the air valves and joints of their suits —only thelittle moisture in the atmosphere. <doc-sep>They stood before the switchboard again. Martin and Wass side by side,Rodney, still holding his gun, slightly to the rear. Rodney moved forward a little toward the switches. His breathing wasloud and rather uneven in the radio receivers. Martin made a final effort. Rodney, it's still almost nine hours totake off. Let's search awhile first. Let this be a last resort. Rodney jerked his head negatively. No. Now, I know you, Martin.Postpone and postpone until it's too late, and the ship leaves withoutus and we're stranded here to eat seeds and gradually dehydrateourselves and God only knows what else and— He reached out convulsively and yanked a switch. Martin leaped, knocking him to the floor. Rodney's gun skittered awaysilently, like a live thing, out of the range of the torches. The radio receivers impersonally recorded the grating sounds ofRodney's sobs. Sorry, Martin said, without feeling. He turned quickly. Wass? The slight, blond man stood unmoving. I'm with you, Martin, but, asa last resort it might be better to be blown sky high than to diegradually— Martin was watching Rodney, struggling to get up. I agree. As a lastresort. We still have a little time. Rodney's tall, spare figure looked bowed and tired in the torchlight,now that he was up again. Martin, I— Martin turned his back. Skip it, Rodney, he said gently. Water, Wass said thoughtfully. There must be reservoirs under thiscity somewhere. Rodney said, How does water help us get out? Martin glanced at Wass, then started out of the switchboard room, notlooking back. It got in and out of the city some way. Perhaps we canleave the same way. Down the ramp again. There's another ramp, Wass murmured. Rodney looked down it. I wonder how many there are, all told. Martin placed one foot on the metal incline. He angled his torch down,picking out shadowy, geometrical shapes, duplicates of the ones on thepresent level. We'll find out, he said, how many there are. Eleven levels later Rodney asked, How much time have we now? Seven hours, Wass said quietly, until take-off. One more level, Martin said, ignoring the reference to time. I ...think it's the last. They walked down the ramp and stood together, silent in a dim pool ofartificial light on the bottom level of the alien city. Rodney played his torch about the metal figures carefully placed aboutthe floor. Martin, what if there are no reservoirs? What if there arecemeteries instead? Or cold storage units? Maybe the switch I pulled— Rodney! Stop it! Rodney swallowed audibly. This place scares me.... The first time I was ever in a rocket, it scared me. I was thirteen. This is different, Wass said. Built-in traps— They had a war, Martin said. Wass agreed. And the survivors retired here. Why? Martin said, They wanted to rebuild. Or maybe this was already builtbefore the war as a retreat. He turned impatiently. How should Iknow? Wass turned, too, persistent. But the planet was through with them. In a minute, Martin said, too irritably, we'll have a sentientplanet. From the corner of his eye he saw Rodney start at that. Knockit off, Wass. We're looking for reservoirs, you know. They moved slowly down the metal avenue, between the twisted shadowshapes, looking carefully about them. Rodney paused. We might not recognize one. Martin urged him on. You know what a man-hole cover looks like. Headded dryly, Use your imagination. They reached the metal wall at the end of the avenue and paused again,uncertain. Martin swung his flashlight, illuminating the distorted metal shapes. Wass said, All this had a purpose, once.... We'll disperse and search carefully, Martin said. I wonder what the pattern was. ... The reservoirs, Wass. The pattern will still be here for laterexpeditions to study. So will we if we don't find a way to get out. Their radios recorded Rodney's gasp. Then—Martin! Martin! I thinkI've found something! Martin began to run. After a moment's hesitation, Wass swung in behindhim. Here, Rodney said, as they came up to him, out of breath. Here. See?Right here. Three flashlights centered on a dark, metal disk raised a foot or morefrom the floor. Well, they had hands. With his torch Wass indicated a small wheel ofthe same metal as everything else in the city, set beside the disk. From its design Martin assumed that the disk was meant to be graspedand turned. He wondered what precisely they were standing over. Well, Skipper, are you going to do the honors? Martin kneeled, grasped the wheel. It turned easily—almost tooeasily—rotating the disk as it turned. Suddenly, without a sound, the disk rose, like a hatch, on a concealedhinge. The three men, clad in their suits and helmets, grouped around thesix-foot opening, shining their torches down into the thing thatdrifted and eddied directly beneath them. Rodney's sudden grip on Martin's wrist nearly shattered the bone.Martin! It's all alive! It's moving! Martin hesitated long enough for a coil to move sinuously up toward theopening. Then he spun the wheel and the hatch slammed down. He was shaking. <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it. Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then? Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself. Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again. Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun. The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches. For a little while he was alone. Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects. Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals. Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself. How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance. We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered. Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it. The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff. Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens? Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees. He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts. Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney. All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust. Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine. Wass! There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening. The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves. Are we going straight? Rodney asked. Of course, Martin growled. There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number. Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney? Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed. A grate. Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out! Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I— There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate. The grate groaned upward and stopped. Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream. Martin switched off his radio, sick. He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well? I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer? We couldn't do anything for him. Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us. So he did, Martin said, very quietly. Rodney said nothing. Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end? Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—! Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap. An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it. Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them. Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story opens with Rodney, Martin and Wass landing on a foreign planet and overlooking an abandoned metal city where the inhabitants supposedly died more than a million years ago. They had thirteen hours to explore before they must return to their mother ship.They notice a metal rim at the perimeter of the city that they must step over to enter, and continue in to explore. Wass must return to their “lifeboat” spaceship to get a camera, but is unable to exit the city as the metal band they noticed coming in has turned into a dome-shaped shield over the entire city. They suspect it may be a radiation shield, and are suspicious that the wind they saw when landing and their inability to contact their home ship may indicate a tragedy took place as they arrived. They find a control center of sorts with lots of knobs and levers, but do not engage with it for fear of not knowing what might happen. They all find the city somewhat familiar, but have no idea why. They begin looking for where the water of the city comes from, since they may be able to find a way out of the city through its transport corridors. They all begin to start frightening each other with stories and seeing dust and objects move around in the dark. Rodney and Martin enter an underground tunnel through a hatch in the ground and Wass chooses not to follow them and instead leaves to return to the switchboard.As Rodney and Martin discover a grate in the tunnel it begins to open for them. Wass delivers the message on the radio that he was able to do that from the control room, and then something attacks and kills him. Rodney and Martin escape to the outside of the dome to where others from their crew have come to their rescue. It is unclear whether Rodney and Martin ultimately live after they exit the tunnel.

What happens to Wass through the story? [SEP] <s> DUST UNTO DUST By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister city of metal that glittered malignantly before the cautious advance of three awed space-scouters. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away. He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction. He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant. Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city. Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings. The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north. Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it? Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried? Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like? Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal. Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band. Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too. Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in. Rodney nodded. After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes? Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for. Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested. Could be, Martin said. Let's go in. The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city. Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it? Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is? Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled. A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded. Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all? I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out. Rodney said quickly, I mean outside. Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy. He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted. Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here.... Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass? The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed. Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street. Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance. Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend. Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination. Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter? The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving— Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man! Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here. ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction. Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That— Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out! <doc-sep>Rodney mumbled something, and Martin told him to shut up. Wass said, more quietly, Remember that metal band? It's all clear now,and glittering, as far as I can see. I can't get across it; it's like aglass wall. We're trapped, we're trapped, they are— Shut up, Rodney! Wass, I'm only two sections from the edge. I'll checkhere. Martin clapped a hand on Rodney's shoulder again, starting him moving,toward the city's edge, past the black, silent buildings. The glittering band was here, too, like a halo around a silhouette. No go, Martin said to Wass. He bit at his lower lip. I think it mustbe all around us. He was silent for a time, exploring the consequencesof this. Then—We'll meet you in the middle of the city, where weseparated. Walking with Rodney, Martin heard Wass' voice, flat and metallicthrough the radio receiver against his ear. What do you suppose causedthis? He shook his head angrily, saying, Judging by reports of the rest ofthe planet, it must have been horribly radioactive at one time. All ofit. Man-made radiation, you mean. Martin grinned faintly. Wass, too, had an active imagination. Well,alien-made, anyhow. Perhaps they had a war. Wass' voice sounded startled. Anti-radiation screen? Rodney interrupted, There hasn't been enough radiation around here forhundreds of thousands of years to activate such a screen. Wass said coldly, He's right, Martin. Martin crossed an intersection, Rodney slightly behind him. You'reboth wrong, he said. We landed here today. Rodney stopped in the middle of the metal street and stared down atMartin. The wind—? Why not? That would explain why it stopped so suddenly, then. Rodney stoodstraighter. When he walked again, his steps were firmer. They reached the center of the city, ahead of the small, slight Wass,and stood watching him labor along the metal toward them. Wass' face, Martin saw, was sober. I tried to call the ship. No luck. The shield? Wass nodded. What else? I don't know— If we went to the roof of the tallest building, Rodney offered, wemight— Martin shook his head. No. To be effective, the shield would have tocover the city. Wass stared down at the metal street, as if he could look through it.I wonder where it gets its power? Down below, probably. If there is a down below. Martin hesitated. Wemay have to.... What? Rodney prompted. Martin shrugged. Let's look. He led the way through a shoulder-high arch in one of the tallbuildings surrounding the square. The corridor inside was dim andplain, and he switched on his flashlight, the other two immediatelyfollowing his example. The walls and the rounded ceiling of thecorridor were of the same dull metal as the buildings' facades, andthe streets. There were a multitude of doors and arches set intoeither side of the corridor. It was rather like ... entering a gigantic metal beehive. Martin chose an arch, with beyond it a metal ramp, which tilteddownward, gleaming in the pale circle of his torch. A call from Rodney halted him. Back here, the tall man repeated. Itlooks like a switchboard. The three advanced to the end of the central corridor, pausing before agreat arch, outlined in the too-careful geometrical figures Martin hadcome to associate with the city builders. The three torches, shiningthrough the arch, picked out a bank of buttons, handles ... and a thickrope of cables which ran upward to vanish unexpectedly in the metalroof. Is this it, Wass murmured, or an auxiliary? Martin shrugged. The whole city's no more than a machine, apparently. Another assumption, Wass said. We have done nothing but makeassumptions ever since we got here. What would you suggest, instead? Martin asked calmly. Rodney furtively, extended one hand toward a switch. No! Martin said, sharply. That was one assumption they dared not make. Rodney turned. But— No. Wass, how much time have we? The ship leaves in eleven hours. Eleven hours, Rodney repeated. Eleven hours! He reached out for theswitch again. Martin swore, stepped forward, pulled him back roughly. He directed his flashlight at Rodney's thin, pale face. What do youthink you're doing? We have to find out what all this stuff's for! Going at it blindly, we'd probably execute ourselves. We've got to— No! Then, more quietly—We still have eleven hours to find a wayout. Ten hours and forty-five minutes, Wass disagreed softly. Minus thetime it takes us to get to the lifeboat, fly to the ship, land, stowit, get ourselves aboard, and get the big ship away from the planet.And Captain Morgan can't wait for us, Martin. You too, Wass? Up to the point of accuracy, yes. Martin said, Not necessarily. You go the way the wind does, alwaysthinking of your own tender hide, of course. Rodney cursed. And every second we stand here doing nothing gives usthat much less time to find a way out. Martin— Make one move toward that switchboard and I'll stop you where youstand! <doc-sep>Wass moved silently through the darkness beyond the torches. We allhave guns, Martin. I'm holding mine. Martin waited. After a moment, Wass switched his flashlight back on. He said quietly,He's right, Rodney. It would be sure death to monkey around in here. Well.... Rodney turned quickly toward the black arch. Let's get outof here, then! Martin hung back waiting for the others to go ahead of him down themetal hall. At the other arch, where the ramp led downward, he called ahalt. If the dome, or whatever it is, is a radiation screen there mustbe at least half-a-dozen emergency exits around the city. Rodney said, To search every building next to the dome clean aroundthe city would take years. Martin nodded. But there must be central roads beneath this main levelleading to them. Up here there are too many roads. Wass laughed rudely. Have you a better idea? Wass ignored that, as Martin hoped he would. He said slowly, Thatleads to another idea. If the band around the city is responsible forthe dome, does it project down into the ground as well? You mean dig out? Martin asked. Sure. Why not? We're wearing heavy suits and bulky breathing units. We have noequipment. That shouldn't be hard to come by. Martin smiled, banishing Wass' idea. Rodney said, They may have had their digging equipment built right into themselves. Anyway, Martin decided, we can take a look down below. In the pitch dark, Wass added. Martin adjusted his torch, began to lead the way down the metal ramp.The incline was gentle, apparently constructed for legs shorter, feetperhaps less broad than their own. The metal, without mark of any sort,gleamed under the combined light of the torches, unrolling out of thedarkness before the men. At length the incline melted smoothly into the next level of the city. Martin shined his light upward, and the others followed his example.Metal as smooth and featureless as that on which they stood shone downon them. Wass turned his light parallel with the floor, and then moved slowly ina circle. No supports. No supports anywhere. What keeps all that upthere? I don't know. I have no idea. Martin gestured toward the ramp withhis light. Does all this, this whole place, look at all familiar toyou? Rodney's gulp was clearly audible through the radio receivers. Here? No, no, Martin answered impatiently, not just here. I mean the wholecity. Yes, Wass said dryly, it does. I'm sure this is where all mynightmares stay when they're not on shift. Martin turned on his heel and started down a metal avenue which, hethought, paralleled the street above. And Rodney and Wass followed himsilently. They moved along the metal, past unfamiliar shapes made moreso by gloom and moving shadows, past doors dancing grotesquely in thethree lights, past openings in the occasional high metal partitions,past something which was perhaps a conveyor belt, past anothersomething which could have been anything at all. The metal street ended eventually in a blank metal wall. The edge of the city—the city which was a dome of force above and abowl of metal below. After a long time, Wass sighed. Well, skipper...? We go back, I guess, Martin said. Rodney turned swiftly to face him. Martin thought the tall man washolding his gun. To the switchboard, Martin? Unless someone has a better idea, Martin conceded. He waited. ButRodney was holding the gun ... and Wass was.... Then—I can't think ofanything else. They began to retrace their steps along the metal street, back pastthe same dancing shapes of metal, the partitions, the odd windows, alllooking different now in the new angles of illumination. Martin was in the lead. Wass followed him silently. Rodney, tall,matchstick thin, even in his cumbersome suit, swayed with jauntytriumph in the rear. Martin looked at the metal street lined with its metal objects and hesighed. He remembered how the dark buildings of the city looked atsurface level, how the city itself looked when they were landing, andthen when they were walking toward it. The dream was gone again fornow. Idealism died in him, again and again, yet it was always reborn.But—The only city, so far as anyone knew, on the first planet they'dever explored. And it had to be like this. Nightmares, Wass said, andMartin thought perhaps the city was built by a race of beings who atsome point twisted away from their evolutionary spiral, plagued by asort of racial insanity. No, Martin thought, shaking his head. No, that couldn't be.Viewpoint ... his viewpoint. It was the haunting sense of familiarity,a faint strain through all this broad jumble, the junkpile of alienmetal, which was making him theorize so wildly. Then Wass touched his elbow. Look there, Martin. Left of the ramp. Light from their torches was reflected, as from glass. All right, Rodney said belligerently into his radio. What's holdingup the procession? Martin was silent. Wass undertook to explain. Why not, after all? Martin asked himself. Itwas in Wass' own interest. In a moment, all three were standing beforea bank of glass cases which stretched off into the distance as far asthe combined light of their torches would reach. Seeds! Wass exclaimed, his faceplate pressed against the glass. Martin blinked. He thought how little time they had. He wet his lips. Wass' gloved hands fumbled awkwardly at a catch in the nearest sectionof the bank. Martin thought of the dark, convoluted land outside the city. If theywouldn't grow there.... Or had they, once? Don't, Wass! Torchlight reflected from Wass' faceplate as he turned his head. Whynot? They were like children.... We don't know, released, what they'll do. Skipper, Wass said carefully, if we don't get out of this place bythe deadline we may be eating these. Martin raised his arm tensely. Opening a seed bank doesn't help usfind a way out of here. He started up the ramp. Besides, we've nowater. Rodney came last up the ramp, less jaunty now, but still holding thegun. His mind, too, was taken up with childhood's imaginings. Fora plant to grow in this environment, it wouldn't need much water.Maybe— he had a vision of evil plants attacking them, growing withsuper-swiftness at the air valves and joints of their suits —only thelittle moisture in the atmosphere. <doc-sep>They stood before the switchboard again. Martin and Wass side by side,Rodney, still holding his gun, slightly to the rear. Rodney moved forward a little toward the switches. His breathing wasloud and rather uneven in the radio receivers. Martin made a final effort. Rodney, it's still almost nine hours totake off. Let's search awhile first. Let this be a last resort. Rodney jerked his head negatively. No. Now, I know you, Martin.Postpone and postpone until it's too late, and the ship leaves withoutus and we're stranded here to eat seeds and gradually dehydrateourselves and God only knows what else and— He reached out convulsively and yanked a switch. Martin leaped, knocking him to the floor. Rodney's gun skittered awaysilently, like a live thing, out of the range of the torches. The radio receivers impersonally recorded the grating sounds ofRodney's sobs. Sorry, Martin said, without feeling. He turned quickly. Wass? The slight, blond man stood unmoving. I'm with you, Martin, but, asa last resort it might be better to be blown sky high than to diegradually— Martin was watching Rodney, struggling to get up. I agree. As a lastresort. We still have a little time. Rodney's tall, spare figure looked bowed and tired in the torchlight,now that he was up again. Martin, I— Martin turned his back. Skip it, Rodney, he said gently. Water, Wass said thoughtfully. There must be reservoirs under thiscity somewhere. Rodney said, How does water help us get out? Martin glanced at Wass, then started out of the switchboard room, notlooking back. It got in and out of the city some way. Perhaps we canleave the same way. Down the ramp again. There's another ramp, Wass murmured. Rodney looked down it. I wonder how many there are, all told. Martin placed one foot on the metal incline. He angled his torch down,picking out shadowy, geometrical shapes, duplicates of the ones on thepresent level. We'll find out, he said, how many there are. Eleven levels later Rodney asked, How much time have we now? Seven hours, Wass said quietly, until take-off. One more level, Martin said, ignoring the reference to time. I ...think it's the last. They walked down the ramp and stood together, silent in a dim pool ofartificial light on the bottom level of the alien city. Rodney played his torch about the metal figures carefully placed aboutthe floor. Martin, what if there are no reservoirs? What if there arecemeteries instead? Or cold storage units? Maybe the switch I pulled— Rodney! Stop it! Rodney swallowed audibly. This place scares me.... The first time I was ever in a rocket, it scared me. I was thirteen. This is different, Wass said. Built-in traps— They had a war, Martin said. Wass agreed. And the survivors retired here. Why? Martin said, They wanted to rebuild. Or maybe this was already builtbefore the war as a retreat. He turned impatiently. How should Iknow? Wass turned, too, persistent. But the planet was through with them. In a minute, Martin said, too irritably, we'll have a sentientplanet. From the corner of his eye he saw Rodney start at that. Knockit off, Wass. We're looking for reservoirs, you know. They moved slowly down the metal avenue, between the twisted shadowshapes, looking carefully about them. Rodney paused. We might not recognize one. Martin urged him on. You know what a man-hole cover looks like. Headded dryly, Use your imagination. They reached the metal wall at the end of the avenue and paused again,uncertain. Martin swung his flashlight, illuminating the distorted metal shapes. Wass said, All this had a purpose, once.... We'll disperse and search carefully, Martin said. I wonder what the pattern was. ... The reservoirs, Wass. The pattern will still be here for laterexpeditions to study. So will we if we don't find a way to get out. Their radios recorded Rodney's gasp. Then—Martin! Martin! I thinkI've found something! Martin began to run. After a moment's hesitation, Wass swung in behindhim. Here, Rodney said, as they came up to him, out of breath. Here. See?Right here. Three flashlights centered on a dark, metal disk raised a foot or morefrom the floor. Well, they had hands. With his torch Wass indicated a small wheel ofthe same metal as everything else in the city, set beside the disk. From its design Martin assumed that the disk was meant to be graspedand turned. He wondered what precisely they were standing over. Well, Skipper, are you going to do the honors? Martin kneeled, grasped the wheel. It turned easily—almost tooeasily—rotating the disk as it turned. Suddenly, without a sound, the disk rose, like a hatch, on a concealedhinge. The three men, clad in their suits and helmets, grouped around thesix-foot opening, shining their torches down into the thing thatdrifted and eddied directly beneath them. Rodney's sudden grip on Martin's wrist nearly shattered the bone.Martin! It's all alive! It's moving! Martin hesitated long enough for a coil to move sinuously up toward theopening. Then he spun the wheel and the hatch slammed down. He was shaking. <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it. Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then? Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself. Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again. Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun. The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches. For a little while he was alone. Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects. Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals. Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself. How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance. We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered. Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it. The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff. Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens? Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees. He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts. Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney. All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust. Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine. Wass! There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening. The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves. Are we going straight? Rodney asked. Of course, Martin growled. There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number. Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney? Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed. A grate. Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out! Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I— There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate. The grate groaned upward and stopped. Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream. Martin switched off his radio, sick. He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well? I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer? We couldn't do anything for him. Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us. So he did, Martin said, very quietly. Rodney said nothing. Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end? Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—! Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap. An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it. Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them. Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What happens to Wass through the story?

Wass is an equal part of the exploration party with Rodney and Martin until he has had enough and parts ways with them when they enter an underground passageway filled with dust. Wass instead returns to the switchboard and pulls a series of levers that allows Rodney and Martin to escape from the city through the underground tunnels - saving their lives. Wass ultimately dies at the switchboard, though it is not clear what kills him.

Where does the story take place? [SEP] <s> DUST UNTO DUST By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister city of metal that glittered malignantly before the cautious advance of three awed space-scouters. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away. He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction. He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant. Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city. Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings. The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north. Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it? Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried? Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like? Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal. Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band. Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too. Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in. Rodney nodded. After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes? Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for. Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested. Could be, Martin said. Let's go in. The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city. Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it? Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is? Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled. A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded. Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all? I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out. Rodney said quickly, I mean outside. Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy. He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted. Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here.... Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass? The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed. Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street. Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance. Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend. Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination. Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter? The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving— Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man! Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here. ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction. Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That— Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out! <doc-sep>Rodney mumbled something, and Martin told him to shut up. Wass said, more quietly, Remember that metal band? It's all clear now,and glittering, as far as I can see. I can't get across it; it's like aglass wall. We're trapped, we're trapped, they are— Shut up, Rodney! Wass, I'm only two sections from the edge. I'll checkhere. Martin clapped a hand on Rodney's shoulder again, starting him moving,toward the city's edge, past the black, silent buildings. The glittering band was here, too, like a halo around a silhouette. No go, Martin said to Wass. He bit at his lower lip. I think it mustbe all around us. He was silent for a time, exploring the consequencesof this. Then—We'll meet you in the middle of the city, where weseparated. Walking with Rodney, Martin heard Wass' voice, flat and metallicthrough the radio receiver against his ear. What do you suppose causedthis? He shook his head angrily, saying, Judging by reports of the rest ofthe planet, it must have been horribly radioactive at one time. All ofit. Man-made radiation, you mean. Martin grinned faintly. Wass, too, had an active imagination. Well,alien-made, anyhow. Perhaps they had a war. Wass' voice sounded startled. Anti-radiation screen? Rodney interrupted, There hasn't been enough radiation around here forhundreds of thousands of years to activate such a screen. Wass said coldly, He's right, Martin. Martin crossed an intersection, Rodney slightly behind him. You'reboth wrong, he said. We landed here today. Rodney stopped in the middle of the metal street and stared down atMartin. The wind—? Why not? That would explain why it stopped so suddenly, then. Rodney stoodstraighter. When he walked again, his steps were firmer. They reached the center of the city, ahead of the small, slight Wass,and stood watching him labor along the metal toward them. Wass' face, Martin saw, was sober. I tried to call the ship. No luck. The shield? Wass nodded. What else? I don't know— If we went to the roof of the tallest building, Rodney offered, wemight— Martin shook his head. No. To be effective, the shield would have tocover the city. Wass stared down at the metal street, as if he could look through it.I wonder where it gets its power? Down below, probably. If there is a down below. Martin hesitated. Wemay have to.... What? Rodney prompted. Martin shrugged. Let's look. He led the way through a shoulder-high arch in one of the tallbuildings surrounding the square. The corridor inside was dim andplain, and he switched on his flashlight, the other two immediatelyfollowing his example. The walls and the rounded ceiling of thecorridor were of the same dull metal as the buildings' facades, andthe streets. There were a multitude of doors and arches set intoeither side of the corridor. It was rather like ... entering a gigantic metal beehive. Martin chose an arch, with beyond it a metal ramp, which tilteddownward, gleaming in the pale circle of his torch. A call from Rodney halted him. Back here, the tall man repeated. Itlooks like a switchboard. The three advanced to the end of the central corridor, pausing before agreat arch, outlined in the too-careful geometrical figures Martin hadcome to associate with the city builders. The three torches, shiningthrough the arch, picked out a bank of buttons, handles ... and a thickrope of cables which ran upward to vanish unexpectedly in the metalroof. Is this it, Wass murmured, or an auxiliary? Martin shrugged. The whole city's no more than a machine, apparently. Another assumption, Wass said. We have done nothing but makeassumptions ever since we got here. What would you suggest, instead? Martin asked calmly. Rodney furtively, extended one hand toward a switch. No! Martin said, sharply. That was one assumption they dared not make. Rodney turned. But— No. Wass, how much time have we? The ship leaves in eleven hours. Eleven hours, Rodney repeated. Eleven hours! He reached out for theswitch again. Martin swore, stepped forward, pulled him back roughly. He directed his flashlight at Rodney's thin, pale face. What do youthink you're doing? We have to find out what all this stuff's for! Going at it blindly, we'd probably execute ourselves. We've got to— No! Then, more quietly—We still have eleven hours to find a wayout. Ten hours and forty-five minutes, Wass disagreed softly. Minus thetime it takes us to get to the lifeboat, fly to the ship, land, stowit, get ourselves aboard, and get the big ship away from the planet.And Captain Morgan can't wait for us, Martin. You too, Wass? Up to the point of accuracy, yes. Martin said, Not necessarily. You go the way the wind does, alwaysthinking of your own tender hide, of course. Rodney cursed. And every second we stand here doing nothing gives usthat much less time to find a way out. Martin— Make one move toward that switchboard and I'll stop you where youstand! <doc-sep>Wass moved silently through the darkness beyond the torches. We allhave guns, Martin. I'm holding mine. Martin waited. After a moment, Wass switched his flashlight back on. He said quietly,He's right, Rodney. It would be sure death to monkey around in here. Well.... Rodney turned quickly toward the black arch. Let's get outof here, then! Martin hung back waiting for the others to go ahead of him down themetal hall. At the other arch, where the ramp led downward, he called ahalt. If the dome, or whatever it is, is a radiation screen there mustbe at least half-a-dozen emergency exits around the city. Rodney said, To search every building next to the dome clean aroundthe city would take years. Martin nodded. But there must be central roads beneath this main levelleading to them. Up here there are too many roads. Wass laughed rudely. Have you a better idea? Wass ignored that, as Martin hoped he would. He said slowly, Thatleads to another idea. If the band around the city is responsible forthe dome, does it project down into the ground as well? You mean dig out? Martin asked. Sure. Why not? We're wearing heavy suits and bulky breathing units. We have noequipment. That shouldn't be hard to come by. Martin smiled, banishing Wass' idea. Rodney said, They may have had their digging equipment built right into themselves. Anyway, Martin decided, we can take a look down below. In the pitch dark, Wass added. Martin adjusted his torch, began to lead the way down the metal ramp.The incline was gentle, apparently constructed for legs shorter, feetperhaps less broad than their own. The metal, without mark of any sort,gleamed under the combined light of the torches, unrolling out of thedarkness before the men. At length the incline melted smoothly into the next level of the city. Martin shined his light upward, and the others followed his example.Metal as smooth and featureless as that on which they stood shone downon them. Wass turned his light parallel with the floor, and then moved slowly ina circle. No supports. No supports anywhere. What keeps all that upthere? I don't know. I have no idea. Martin gestured toward the ramp withhis light. Does all this, this whole place, look at all familiar toyou? Rodney's gulp was clearly audible through the radio receivers. Here? No, no, Martin answered impatiently, not just here. I mean the wholecity. Yes, Wass said dryly, it does. I'm sure this is where all mynightmares stay when they're not on shift. Martin turned on his heel and started down a metal avenue which, hethought, paralleled the street above. And Rodney and Wass followed himsilently. They moved along the metal, past unfamiliar shapes made moreso by gloom and moving shadows, past doors dancing grotesquely in thethree lights, past openings in the occasional high metal partitions,past something which was perhaps a conveyor belt, past anothersomething which could have been anything at all. The metal street ended eventually in a blank metal wall. The edge of the city—the city which was a dome of force above and abowl of metal below. After a long time, Wass sighed. Well, skipper...? We go back, I guess, Martin said. Rodney turned swiftly to face him. Martin thought the tall man washolding his gun. To the switchboard, Martin? Unless someone has a better idea, Martin conceded. He waited. ButRodney was holding the gun ... and Wass was.... Then—I can't think ofanything else. They began to retrace their steps along the metal street, back pastthe same dancing shapes of metal, the partitions, the odd windows, alllooking different now in the new angles of illumination. Martin was in the lead. Wass followed him silently. Rodney, tall,matchstick thin, even in his cumbersome suit, swayed with jauntytriumph in the rear. Martin looked at the metal street lined with its metal objects and hesighed. He remembered how the dark buildings of the city looked atsurface level, how the city itself looked when they were landing, andthen when they were walking toward it. The dream was gone again fornow. Idealism died in him, again and again, yet it was always reborn.But—The only city, so far as anyone knew, on the first planet they'dever explored. And it had to be like this. Nightmares, Wass said, andMartin thought perhaps the city was built by a race of beings who atsome point twisted away from their evolutionary spiral, plagued by asort of racial insanity. No, Martin thought, shaking his head. No, that couldn't be.Viewpoint ... his viewpoint. It was the haunting sense of familiarity,a faint strain through all this broad jumble, the junkpile of alienmetal, which was making him theorize so wildly. Then Wass touched his elbow. Look there, Martin. Left of the ramp. Light from their torches was reflected, as from glass. All right, Rodney said belligerently into his radio. What's holdingup the procession? Martin was silent. Wass undertook to explain. Why not, after all? Martin asked himself. Itwas in Wass' own interest. In a moment, all three were standing beforea bank of glass cases which stretched off into the distance as far asthe combined light of their torches would reach. Seeds! Wass exclaimed, his faceplate pressed against the glass. Martin blinked. He thought how little time they had. He wet his lips. Wass' gloved hands fumbled awkwardly at a catch in the nearest sectionof the bank. Martin thought of the dark, convoluted land outside the city. If theywouldn't grow there.... Or had they, once? Don't, Wass! Torchlight reflected from Wass' faceplate as he turned his head. Whynot? They were like children.... We don't know, released, what they'll do. Skipper, Wass said carefully, if we don't get out of this place bythe deadline we may be eating these. Martin raised his arm tensely. Opening a seed bank doesn't help usfind a way out of here. He started up the ramp. Besides, we've nowater. Rodney came last up the ramp, less jaunty now, but still holding thegun. His mind, too, was taken up with childhood's imaginings. Fora plant to grow in this environment, it wouldn't need much water.Maybe— he had a vision of evil plants attacking them, growing withsuper-swiftness at the air valves and joints of their suits —only thelittle moisture in the atmosphere. <doc-sep>They stood before the switchboard again. Martin and Wass side by side,Rodney, still holding his gun, slightly to the rear. Rodney moved forward a little toward the switches. His breathing wasloud and rather uneven in the radio receivers. Martin made a final effort. Rodney, it's still almost nine hours totake off. Let's search awhile first. Let this be a last resort. Rodney jerked his head negatively. No. Now, I know you, Martin.Postpone and postpone until it's too late, and the ship leaves withoutus and we're stranded here to eat seeds and gradually dehydrateourselves and God only knows what else and— He reached out convulsively and yanked a switch. Martin leaped, knocking him to the floor. Rodney's gun skittered awaysilently, like a live thing, out of the range of the torches. The radio receivers impersonally recorded the grating sounds ofRodney's sobs. Sorry, Martin said, without feeling. He turned quickly. Wass? The slight, blond man stood unmoving. I'm with you, Martin, but, asa last resort it might be better to be blown sky high than to diegradually— Martin was watching Rodney, struggling to get up. I agree. As a lastresort. We still have a little time. Rodney's tall, spare figure looked bowed and tired in the torchlight,now that he was up again. Martin, I— Martin turned his back. Skip it, Rodney, he said gently. Water, Wass said thoughtfully. There must be reservoirs under thiscity somewhere. Rodney said, How does water help us get out? Martin glanced at Wass, then started out of the switchboard room, notlooking back. It got in and out of the city some way. Perhaps we canleave the same way. Down the ramp again. There's another ramp, Wass murmured. Rodney looked down it. I wonder how many there are, all told. Martin placed one foot on the metal incline. He angled his torch down,picking out shadowy, geometrical shapes, duplicates of the ones on thepresent level. We'll find out, he said, how many there are. Eleven levels later Rodney asked, How much time have we now? Seven hours, Wass said quietly, until take-off. One more level, Martin said, ignoring the reference to time. I ...think it's the last. They walked down the ramp and stood together, silent in a dim pool ofartificial light on the bottom level of the alien city. Rodney played his torch about the metal figures carefully placed aboutthe floor. Martin, what if there are no reservoirs? What if there arecemeteries instead? Or cold storage units? Maybe the switch I pulled— Rodney! Stop it! Rodney swallowed audibly. This place scares me.... The first time I was ever in a rocket, it scared me. I was thirteen. This is different, Wass said. Built-in traps— They had a war, Martin said. Wass agreed. And the survivors retired here. Why? Martin said, They wanted to rebuild. Or maybe this was already builtbefore the war as a retreat. He turned impatiently. How should Iknow? Wass turned, too, persistent. But the planet was through with them. In a minute, Martin said, too irritably, we'll have a sentientplanet. From the corner of his eye he saw Rodney start at that. Knockit off, Wass. We're looking for reservoirs, you know. They moved slowly down the metal avenue, between the twisted shadowshapes, looking carefully about them. Rodney paused. We might not recognize one. Martin urged him on. You know what a man-hole cover looks like. Headded dryly, Use your imagination. They reached the metal wall at the end of the avenue and paused again,uncertain. Martin swung his flashlight, illuminating the distorted metal shapes. Wass said, All this had a purpose, once.... We'll disperse and search carefully, Martin said. I wonder what the pattern was. ... The reservoirs, Wass. The pattern will still be here for laterexpeditions to study. So will we if we don't find a way to get out. Their radios recorded Rodney's gasp. Then—Martin! Martin! I thinkI've found something! Martin began to run. After a moment's hesitation, Wass swung in behindhim. Here, Rodney said, as they came up to him, out of breath. Here. See?Right here. Three flashlights centered on a dark, metal disk raised a foot or morefrom the floor. Well, they had hands. With his torch Wass indicated a small wheel ofthe same metal as everything else in the city, set beside the disk. From its design Martin assumed that the disk was meant to be graspedand turned. He wondered what precisely they were standing over. Well, Skipper, are you going to do the honors? Martin kneeled, grasped the wheel. It turned easily—almost tooeasily—rotating the disk as it turned. Suddenly, without a sound, the disk rose, like a hatch, on a concealedhinge. The three men, clad in their suits and helmets, grouped around thesix-foot opening, shining their torches down into the thing thatdrifted and eddied directly beneath them. Rodney's sudden grip on Martin's wrist nearly shattered the bone.Martin! It's all alive! It's moving! Martin hesitated long enough for a coil to move sinuously up toward theopening. Then he spun the wheel and the hatch slammed down. He was shaking. <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it. Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then? Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself. Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again. Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun. The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches. For a little while he was alone. Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects. Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals. Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself. How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance. We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered. Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it. The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff. Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens? Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees. He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts. Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney. All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust. Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine. Wass! There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening. The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves. Are we going straight? Rodney asked. Of course, Martin growled. There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number. Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney? Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed. A grate. Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out! Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I— There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate. The grate groaned upward and stopped. Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream. Martin switched off his radio, sick. He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well? I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer? We couldn't do anything for him. Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us. So he did, Martin said, very quietly. Rodney said nothing. Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end? Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—! Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap. An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it. Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them. Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Where does the story take place?

The story takes place on the surface of a planet that has an abandoned city made of metal. The city is spooky and the inhabitants supposedly died over a million years ago. However, they see things moving strangely while they are in the city suggesting it is inhabited, and something kills Wass within the city during the story.They explore the metal streets of the city, a room with a large switchboard, and seven levels underground. Rodney and Martin explore an underground tunnel that eventually leads them out of the city and to the safety of their fellow crew.

What is the relationship like between Rodney, Martin, and Wass? [SEP] <s> DUST UNTO DUST By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister city of metal that glittered malignantly before the cautious advance of three awed space-scouters. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away. He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction. He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant. Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city. Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings. The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north. Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it? Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried? Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like? Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal. Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band. Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too. Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in. Rodney nodded. After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes? Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for. Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested. Could be, Martin said. Let's go in. The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city. Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it? Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is? Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled. A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded. Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all? I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out. Rodney said quickly, I mean outside. Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy. He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted. Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here.... Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass? The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed. Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street. Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance. Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend. Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination. Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter? The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving— Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man! Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here. ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction. Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That— Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out! <doc-sep>Rodney mumbled something, and Martin told him to shut up. Wass said, more quietly, Remember that metal band? It's all clear now,and glittering, as far as I can see. I can't get across it; it's like aglass wall. We're trapped, we're trapped, they are— Shut up, Rodney! Wass, I'm only two sections from the edge. I'll checkhere. Martin clapped a hand on Rodney's shoulder again, starting him moving,toward the city's edge, past the black, silent buildings. The glittering band was here, too, like a halo around a silhouette. No go, Martin said to Wass. He bit at his lower lip. I think it mustbe all around us. He was silent for a time, exploring the consequencesof this. Then—We'll meet you in the middle of the city, where weseparated. Walking with Rodney, Martin heard Wass' voice, flat and metallicthrough the radio receiver against his ear. What do you suppose causedthis? He shook his head angrily, saying, Judging by reports of the rest ofthe planet, it must have been horribly radioactive at one time. All ofit. Man-made radiation, you mean. Martin grinned faintly. Wass, too, had an active imagination. Well,alien-made, anyhow. Perhaps they had a war. Wass' voice sounded startled. Anti-radiation screen? Rodney interrupted, There hasn't been enough radiation around here forhundreds of thousands of years to activate such a screen. Wass said coldly, He's right, Martin. Martin crossed an intersection, Rodney slightly behind him. You'reboth wrong, he said. We landed here today. Rodney stopped in the middle of the metal street and stared down atMartin. The wind—? Why not? That would explain why it stopped so suddenly, then. Rodney stoodstraighter. When he walked again, his steps were firmer. They reached the center of the city, ahead of the small, slight Wass,and stood watching him labor along the metal toward them. Wass' face, Martin saw, was sober. I tried to call the ship. No luck. The shield? Wass nodded. What else? I don't know— If we went to the roof of the tallest building, Rodney offered, wemight— Martin shook his head. No. To be effective, the shield would have tocover the city. Wass stared down at the metal street, as if he could look through it.I wonder where it gets its power? Down below, probably. If there is a down below. Martin hesitated. Wemay have to.... What? Rodney prompted. Martin shrugged. Let's look. He led the way through a shoulder-high arch in one of the tallbuildings surrounding the square. The corridor inside was dim andplain, and he switched on his flashlight, the other two immediatelyfollowing his example. The walls and the rounded ceiling of thecorridor were of the same dull metal as the buildings' facades, andthe streets. There were a multitude of doors and arches set intoeither side of the corridor. It was rather like ... entering a gigantic metal beehive. Martin chose an arch, with beyond it a metal ramp, which tilteddownward, gleaming in the pale circle of his torch. A call from Rodney halted him. Back here, the tall man repeated. Itlooks like a switchboard. The three advanced to the end of the central corridor, pausing before agreat arch, outlined in the too-careful geometrical figures Martin hadcome to associate with the city builders. The three torches, shiningthrough the arch, picked out a bank of buttons, handles ... and a thickrope of cables which ran upward to vanish unexpectedly in the metalroof. Is this it, Wass murmured, or an auxiliary? Martin shrugged. The whole city's no more than a machine, apparently. Another assumption, Wass said. We have done nothing but makeassumptions ever since we got here. What would you suggest, instead? Martin asked calmly. Rodney furtively, extended one hand toward a switch. No! Martin said, sharply. That was one assumption they dared not make. Rodney turned. But— No. Wass, how much time have we? The ship leaves in eleven hours. Eleven hours, Rodney repeated. Eleven hours! He reached out for theswitch again. Martin swore, stepped forward, pulled him back roughly. He directed his flashlight at Rodney's thin, pale face. What do youthink you're doing? We have to find out what all this stuff's for! Going at it blindly, we'd probably execute ourselves. We've got to— No! Then, more quietly—We still have eleven hours to find a wayout. Ten hours and forty-five minutes, Wass disagreed softly. Minus thetime it takes us to get to the lifeboat, fly to the ship, land, stowit, get ourselves aboard, and get the big ship away from the planet.And Captain Morgan can't wait for us, Martin. You too, Wass? Up to the point of accuracy, yes. Martin said, Not necessarily. You go the way the wind does, alwaysthinking of your own tender hide, of course. Rodney cursed. And every second we stand here doing nothing gives usthat much less time to find a way out. Martin— Make one move toward that switchboard and I'll stop you where youstand! <doc-sep>Wass moved silently through the darkness beyond the torches. We allhave guns, Martin. I'm holding mine. Martin waited. After a moment, Wass switched his flashlight back on. He said quietly,He's right, Rodney. It would be sure death to monkey around in here. Well.... Rodney turned quickly toward the black arch. Let's get outof here, then! Martin hung back waiting for the others to go ahead of him down themetal hall. At the other arch, where the ramp led downward, he called ahalt. If the dome, or whatever it is, is a radiation screen there mustbe at least half-a-dozen emergency exits around the city. Rodney said, To search every building next to the dome clean aroundthe city would take years. Martin nodded. But there must be central roads beneath this main levelleading to them. Up here there are too many roads. Wass laughed rudely. Have you a better idea? Wass ignored that, as Martin hoped he would. He said slowly, Thatleads to another idea. If the band around the city is responsible forthe dome, does it project down into the ground as well? You mean dig out? Martin asked. Sure. Why not? We're wearing heavy suits and bulky breathing units. We have noequipment. That shouldn't be hard to come by. Martin smiled, banishing Wass' idea. Rodney said, They may have had their digging equipment built right into themselves. Anyway, Martin decided, we can take a look down below. In the pitch dark, Wass added. Martin adjusted his torch, began to lead the way down the metal ramp.The incline was gentle, apparently constructed for legs shorter, feetperhaps less broad than their own. The metal, without mark of any sort,gleamed under the combined light of the torches, unrolling out of thedarkness before the men. At length the incline melted smoothly into the next level of the city. Martin shined his light upward, and the others followed his example.Metal as smooth and featureless as that on which they stood shone downon them. Wass turned his light parallel with the floor, and then moved slowly ina circle. No supports. No supports anywhere. What keeps all that upthere? I don't know. I have no idea. Martin gestured toward the ramp withhis light. Does all this, this whole place, look at all familiar toyou? Rodney's gulp was clearly audible through the radio receivers. Here? No, no, Martin answered impatiently, not just here. I mean the wholecity. Yes, Wass said dryly, it does. I'm sure this is where all mynightmares stay when they're not on shift. Martin turned on his heel and started down a metal avenue which, hethought, paralleled the street above. And Rodney and Wass followed himsilently. They moved along the metal, past unfamiliar shapes made moreso by gloom and moving shadows, past doors dancing grotesquely in thethree lights, past openings in the occasional high metal partitions,past something which was perhaps a conveyor belt, past anothersomething which could have been anything at all. The metal street ended eventually in a blank metal wall. The edge of the city—the city which was a dome of force above and abowl of metal below. After a long time, Wass sighed. Well, skipper...? We go back, I guess, Martin said. Rodney turned swiftly to face him. Martin thought the tall man washolding his gun. To the switchboard, Martin? Unless someone has a better idea, Martin conceded. He waited. ButRodney was holding the gun ... and Wass was.... Then—I can't think ofanything else. They began to retrace their steps along the metal street, back pastthe same dancing shapes of metal, the partitions, the odd windows, alllooking different now in the new angles of illumination. Martin was in the lead. Wass followed him silently. Rodney, tall,matchstick thin, even in his cumbersome suit, swayed with jauntytriumph in the rear. Martin looked at the metal street lined with its metal objects and hesighed. He remembered how the dark buildings of the city looked atsurface level, how the city itself looked when they were landing, andthen when they were walking toward it. The dream was gone again fornow. Idealism died in him, again and again, yet it was always reborn.But—The only city, so far as anyone knew, on the first planet they'dever explored. And it had to be like this. Nightmares, Wass said, andMartin thought perhaps the city was built by a race of beings who atsome point twisted away from their evolutionary spiral, plagued by asort of racial insanity. No, Martin thought, shaking his head. No, that couldn't be.Viewpoint ... his viewpoint. It was the haunting sense of familiarity,a faint strain through all this broad jumble, the junkpile of alienmetal, which was making him theorize so wildly. Then Wass touched his elbow. Look there, Martin. Left of the ramp. Light from their torches was reflected, as from glass. All right, Rodney said belligerently into his radio. What's holdingup the procession? Martin was silent. Wass undertook to explain. Why not, after all? Martin asked himself. Itwas in Wass' own interest. In a moment, all three were standing beforea bank of glass cases which stretched off into the distance as far asthe combined light of their torches would reach. Seeds! Wass exclaimed, his faceplate pressed against the glass. Martin blinked. He thought how little time they had. He wet his lips. Wass' gloved hands fumbled awkwardly at a catch in the nearest sectionof the bank. Martin thought of the dark, convoluted land outside the city. If theywouldn't grow there.... Or had they, once? Don't, Wass! Torchlight reflected from Wass' faceplate as he turned his head. Whynot? They were like children.... We don't know, released, what they'll do. Skipper, Wass said carefully, if we don't get out of this place bythe deadline we may be eating these. Martin raised his arm tensely. Opening a seed bank doesn't help usfind a way out of here. He started up the ramp. Besides, we've nowater. Rodney came last up the ramp, less jaunty now, but still holding thegun. His mind, too, was taken up with childhood's imaginings. Fora plant to grow in this environment, it wouldn't need much water.Maybe— he had a vision of evil plants attacking them, growing withsuper-swiftness at the air valves and joints of their suits —only thelittle moisture in the atmosphere. <doc-sep>They stood before the switchboard again. Martin and Wass side by side,Rodney, still holding his gun, slightly to the rear. Rodney moved forward a little toward the switches. His breathing wasloud and rather uneven in the radio receivers. Martin made a final effort. Rodney, it's still almost nine hours totake off. Let's search awhile first. Let this be a last resort. Rodney jerked his head negatively. No. Now, I know you, Martin.Postpone and postpone until it's too late, and the ship leaves withoutus and we're stranded here to eat seeds and gradually dehydrateourselves and God only knows what else and— He reached out convulsively and yanked a switch. Martin leaped, knocking him to the floor. Rodney's gun skittered awaysilently, like a live thing, out of the range of the torches. The radio receivers impersonally recorded the grating sounds ofRodney's sobs. Sorry, Martin said, without feeling. He turned quickly. Wass? The slight, blond man stood unmoving. I'm with you, Martin, but, asa last resort it might be better to be blown sky high than to diegradually— Martin was watching Rodney, struggling to get up. I agree. As a lastresort. We still have a little time. Rodney's tall, spare figure looked bowed and tired in the torchlight,now that he was up again. Martin, I— Martin turned his back. Skip it, Rodney, he said gently. Water, Wass said thoughtfully. There must be reservoirs under thiscity somewhere. Rodney said, How does water help us get out? Martin glanced at Wass, then started out of the switchboard room, notlooking back. It got in and out of the city some way. Perhaps we canleave the same way. Down the ramp again. There's another ramp, Wass murmured. Rodney looked down it. I wonder how many there are, all told. Martin placed one foot on the metal incline. He angled his torch down,picking out shadowy, geometrical shapes, duplicates of the ones on thepresent level. We'll find out, he said, how many there are. Eleven levels later Rodney asked, How much time have we now? Seven hours, Wass said quietly, until take-off. One more level, Martin said, ignoring the reference to time. I ...think it's the last. They walked down the ramp and stood together, silent in a dim pool ofartificial light on the bottom level of the alien city. Rodney played his torch about the metal figures carefully placed aboutthe floor. Martin, what if there are no reservoirs? What if there arecemeteries instead? Or cold storage units? Maybe the switch I pulled— Rodney! Stop it! Rodney swallowed audibly. This place scares me.... The first time I was ever in a rocket, it scared me. I was thirteen. This is different, Wass said. Built-in traps— They had a war, Martin said. Wass agreed. And the survivors retired here. Why? Martin said, They wanted to rebuild. Or maybe this was already builtbefore the war as a retreat. He turned impatiently. How should Iknow? Wass turned, too, persistent. But the planet was through with them. In a minute, Martin said, too irritably, we'll have a sentientplanet. From the corner of his eye he saw Rodney start at that. Knockit off, Wass. We're looking for reservoirs, you know. They moved slowly down the metal avenue, between the twisted shadowshapes, looking carefully about them. Rodney paused. We might not recognize one. Martin urged him on. You know what a man-hole cover looks like. Headded dryly, Use your imagination. They reached the metal wall at the end of the avenue and paused again,uncertain. Martin swung his flashlight, illuminating the distorted metal shapes. Wass said, All this had a purpose, once.... We'll disperse and search carefully, Martin said. I wonder what the pattern was. ... The reservoirs, Wass. The pattern will still be here for laterexpeditions to study. So will we if we don't find a way to get out. Their radios recorded Rodney's gasp. Then—Martin! Martin! I thinkI've found something! Martin began to run. After a moment's hesitation, Wass swung in behindhim. Here, Rodney said, as they came up to him, out of breath. Here. See?Right here. Three flashlights centered on a dark, metal disk raised a foot or morefrom the floor. Well, they had hands. With his torch Wass indicated a small wheel ofthe same metal as everything else in the city, set beside the disk. From its design Martin assumed that the disk was meant to be graspedand turned. He wondered what precisely they were standing over. Well, Skipper, are you going to do the honors? Martin kneeled, grasped the wheel. It turned easily—almost tooeasily—rotating the disk as it turned. Suddenly, without a sound, the disk rose, like a hatch, on a concealedhinge. The three men, clad in their suits and helmets, grouped around thesix-foot opening, shining their torches down into the thing thatdrifted and eddied directly beneath them. Rodney's sudden grip on Martin's wrist nearly shattered the bone.Martin! It's all alive! It's moving! Martin hesitated long enough for a coil to move sinuously up toward theopening. Then he spun the wheel and the hatch slammed down. He was shaking. <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it. Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then? Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself. Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again. Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun. The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches. For a little while he was alone. Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects. Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals. Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself. How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance. We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered. Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it. The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff. Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens? Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees. He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts. Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney. All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust. Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine. Wass! There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening. The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves. Are we going straight? Rodney asked. Of course, Martin growled. There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number. Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney? Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed. A grate. Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out! Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I— There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate. The grate groaned upward and stopped. Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream. Martin switched off his radio, sick. He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well? I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer? We couldn't do anything for him. Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us. So he did, Martin said, very quietly. Rodney said nothing. Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end? Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—! Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap. An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it. Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them. Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship like between Rodney, Martin, and Wass?

They are bound by a sense of duty to the mission. However, when they are put in the predicament of being trapped under the dome, their bond begins to fray and they start fighting with each other about the best means of escape.Rodney and Martin squabble, but both stick together in exploring an underground tunnel filled with dust while Wass elects to go his own way. Wass ultimately appears to sacrifice his life to save Rodney and Martin by returning to the switchboard and opening a grate that allows them to escape from the city.

What was the key to their escape? [SEP] <s> DUST UNTO DUST By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister city of metal that glittered malignantly before the cautious advance of three awed space-scouters. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away. He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction. He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant. Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city. Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings. The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north. Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it? Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried? Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like? Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal. Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band. Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too. Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in. Rodney nodded. After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes? Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for. Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested. Could be, Martin said. Let's go in. The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city. Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it? Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is? Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled. A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded. Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all? I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out. Rodney said quickly, I mean outside. Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy. He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted. Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here.... Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass? The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed. Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street. Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance. Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend. Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination. Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter? The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving— Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man! Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here. ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction. Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That— Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out! <doc-sep>Rodney mumbled something, and Martin told him to shut up. Wass said, more quietly, Remember that metal band? It's all clear now,and glittering, as far as I can see. I can't get across it; it's like aglass wall. We're trapped, we're trapped, they are— Shut up, Rodney! Wass, I'm only two sections from the edge. I'll checkhere. Martin clapped a hand on Rodney's shoulder again, starting him moving,toward the city's edge, past the black, silent buildings. The glittering band was here, too, like a halo around a silhouette. No go, Martin said to Wass. He bit at his lower lip. I think it mustbe all around us. He was silent for a time, exploring the consequencesof this. Then—We'll meet you in the middle of the city, where weseparated. Walking with Rodney, Martin heard Wass' voice, flat and metallicthrough the radio receiver against his ear. What do you suppose causedthis? He shook his head angrily, saying, Judging by reports of the rest ofthe planet, it must have been horribly radioactive at one time. All ofit. Man-made radiation, you mean. Martin grinned faintly. Wass, too, had an active imagination. Well,alien-made, anyhow. Perhaps they had a war. Wass' voice sounded startled. Anti-radiation screen? Rodney interrupted, There hasn't been enough radiation around here forhundreds of thousands of years to activate such a screen. Wass said coldly, He's right, Martin. Martin crossed an intersection, Rodney slightly behind him. You'reboth wrong, he said. We landed here today. Rodney stopped in the middle of the metal street and stared down atMartin. The wind—? Why not? That would explain why it stopped so suddenly, then. Rodney stoodstraighter. When he walked again, his steps were firmer. They reached the center of the city, ahead of the small, slight Wass,and stood watching him labor along the metal toward them. Wass' face, Martin saw, was sober. I tried to call the ship. No luck. The shield? Wass nodded. What else? I don't know— If we went to the roof of the tallest building, Rodney offered, wemight— Martin shook his head. No. To be effective, the shield would have tocover the city. Wass stared down at the metal street, as if he could look through it.I wonder where it gets its power? Down below, probably. If there is a down below. Martin hesitated. Wemay have to.... What? Rodney prompted. Martin shrugged. Let's look. He led the way through a shoulder-high arch in one of the tallbuildings surrounding the square. The corridor inside was dim andplain, and he switched on his flashlight, the other two immediatelyfollowing his example. The walls and the rounded ceiling of thecorridor were of the same dull metal as the buildings' facades, andthe streets. There were a multitude of doors and arches set intoeither side of the corridor. It was rather like ... entering a gigantic metal beehive. Martin chose an arch, with beyond it a metal ramp, which tilteddownward, gleaming in the pale circle of his torch. A call from Rodney halted him. Back here, the tall man repeated. Itlooks like a switchboard. The three advanced to the end of the central corridor, pausing before agreat arch, outlined in the too-careful geometrical figures Martin hadcome to associate with the city builders. The three torches, shiningthrough the arch, picked out a bank of buttons, handles ... and a thickrope of cables which ran upward to vanish unexpectedly in the metalroof. Is this it, Wass murmured, or an auxiliary? Martin shrugged. The whole city's no more than a machine, apparently. Another assumption, Wass said. We have done nothing but makeassumptions ever since we got here. What would you suggest, instead? Martin asked calmly. Rodney furtively, extended one hand toward a switch. No! Martin said, sharply. That was one assumption they dared not make. Rodney turned. But— No. Wass, how much time have we? The ship leaves in eleven hours. Eleven hours, Rodney repeated. Eleven hours! He reached out for theswitch again. Martin swore, stepped forward, pulled him back roughly. He directed his flashlight at Rodney's thin, pale face. What do youthink you're doing? We have to find out what all this stuff's for! Going at it blindly, we'd probably execute ourselves. We've got to— No! Then, more quietly—We still have eleven hours to find a wayout. Ten hours and forty-five minutes, Wass disagreed softly. Minus thetime it takes us to get to the lifeboat, fly to the ship, land, stowit, get ourselves aboard, and get the big ship away from the planet.And Captain Morgan can't wait for us, Martin. You too, Wass? Up to the point of accuracy, yes. Martin said, Not necessarily. You go the way the wind does, alwaysthinking of your own tender hide, of course. Rodney cursed. And every second we stand here doing nothing gives usthat much less time to find a way out. Martin— Make one move toward that switchboard and I'll stop you where youstand! <doc-sep>Wass moved silently through the darkness beyond the torches. We allhave guns, Martin. I'm holding mine. Martin waited. After a moment, Wass switched his flashlight back on. He said quietly,He's right, Rodney. It would be sure death to monkey around in here. Well.... Rodney turned quickly toward the black arch. Let's get outof here, then! Martin hung back waiting for the others to go ahead of him down themetal hall. At the other arch, where the ramp led downward, he called ahalt. If the dome, or whatever it is, is a radiation screen there mustbe at least half-a-dozen emergency exits around the city. Rodney said, To search every building next to the dome clean aroundthe city would take years. Martin nodded. But there must be central roads beneath this main levelleading to them. Up here there are too many roads. Wass laughed rudely. Have you a better idea? Wass ignored that, as Martin hoped he would. He said slowly, Thatleads to another idea. If the band around the city is responsible forthe dome, does it project down into the ground as well? You mean dig out? Martin asked. Sure. Why not? We're wearing heavy suits and bulky breathing units. We have noequipment. That shouldn't be hard to come by. Martin smiled, banishing Wass' idea. Rodney said, They may have had their digging equipment built right into themselves. Anyway, Martin decided, we can take a look down below. In the pitch dark, Wass added. Martin adjusted his torch, began to lead the way down the metal ramp.The incline was gentle, apparently constructed for legs shorter, feetperhaps less broad than their own. The metal, without mark of any sort,gleamed under the combined light of the torches, unrolling out of thedarkness before the men. At length the incline melted smoothly into the next level of the city. Martin shined his light upward, and the others followed his example.Metal as smooth and featureless as that on which they stood shone downon them. Wass turned his light parallel with the floor, and then moved slowly ina circle. No supports. No supports anywhere. What keeps all that upthere? I don't know. I have no idea. Martin gestured toward the ramp withhis light. Does all this, this whole place, look at all familiar toyou? Rodney's gulp was clearly audible through the radio receivers. Here? No, no, Martin answered impatiently, not just here. I mean the wholecity. Yes, Wass said dryly, it does. I'm sure this is where all mynightmares stay when they're not on shift. Martin turned on his heel and started down a metal avenue which, hethought, paralleled the street above. And Rodney and Wass followed himsilently. They moved along the metal, past unfamiliar shapes made moreso by gloom and moving shadows, past doors dancing grotesquely in thethree lights, past openings in the occasional high metal partitions,past something which was perhaps a conveyor belt, past anothersomething which could have been anything at all. The metal street ended eventually in a blank metal wall. The edge of the city—the city which was a dome of force above and abowl of metal below. After a long time, Wass sighed. Well, skipper...? We go back, I guess, Martin said. Rodney turned swiftly to face him. Martin thought the tall man washolding his gun. To the switchboard, Martin? Unless someone has a better idea, Martin conceded. He waited. ButRodney was holding the gun ... and Wass was.... Then—I can't think ofanything else. They began to retrace their steps along the metal street, back pastthe same dancing shapes of metal, the partitions, the odd windows, alllooking different now in the new angles of illumination. Martin was in the lead. Wass followed him silently. Rodney, tall,matchstick thin, even in his cumbersome suit, swayed with jauntytriumph in the rear. Martin looked at the metal street lined with its metal objects and hesighed. He remembered how the dark buildings of the city looked atsurface level, how the city itself looked when they were landing, andthen when they were walking toward it. The dream was gone again fornow. Idealism died in him, again and again, yet it was always reborn.But—The only city, so far as anyone knew, on the first planet they'dever explored. And it had to be like this. Nightmares, Wass said, andMartin thought perhaps the city was built by a race of beings who atsome point twisted away from their evolutionary spiral, plagued by asort of racial insanity. No, Martin thought, shaking his head. No, that couldn't be.Viewpoint ... his viewpoint. It was the haunting sense of familiarity,a faint strain through all this broad jumble, the junkpile of alienmetal, which was making him theorize so wildly. Then Wass touched his elbow. Look there, Martin. Left of the ramp. Light from their torches was reflected, as from glass. All right, Rodney said belligerently into his radio. What's holdingup the procession? Martin was silent. Wass undertook to explain. Why not, after all? Martin asked himself. Itwas in Wass' own interest. In a moment, all three were standing beforea bank of glass cases which stretched off into the distance as far asthe combined light of their torches would reach. Seeds! Wass exclaimed, his faceplate pressed against the glass. Martin blinked. He thought how little time they had. He wet his lips. Wass' gloved hands fumbled awkwardly at a catch in the nearest sectionof the bank. Martin thought of the dark, convoluted land outside the city. If theywouldn't grow there.... Or had they, once? Don't, Wass! Torchlight reflected from Wass' faceplate as he turned his head. Whynot? They were like children.... We don't know, released, what they'll do. Skipper, Wass said carefully, if we don't get out of this place bythe deadline we may be eating these. Martin raised his arm tensely. Opening a seed bank doesn't help usfind a way out of here. He started up the ramp. Besides, we've nowater. Rodney came last up the ramp, less jaunty now, but still holding thegun. His mind, too, was taken up with childhood's imaginings. Fora plant to grow in this environment, it wouldn't need much water.Maybe— he had a vision of evil plants attacking them, growing withsuper-swiftness at the air valves and joints of their suits —only thelittle moisture in the atmosphere. <doc-sep>They stood before the switchboard again. Martin and Wass side by side,Rodney, still holding his gun, slightly to the rear. Rodney moved forward a little toward the switches. His breathing wasloud and rather uneven in the radio receivers. Martin made a final effort. Rodney, it's still almost nine hours totake off. Let's search awhile first. Let this be a last resort. Rodney jerked his head negatively. No. Now, I know you, Martin.Postpone and postpone until it's too late, and the ship leaves withoutus and we're stranded here to eat seeds and gradually dehydrateourselves and God only knows what else and— He reached out convulsively and yanked a switch. Martin leaped, knocking him to the floor. Rodney's gun skittered awaysilently, like a live thing, out of the range of the torches. The radio receivers impersonally recorded the grating sounds ofRodney's sobs. Sorry, Martin said, without feeling. He turned quickly. Wass? The slight, blond man stood unmoving. I'm with you, Martin, but, asa last resort it might be better to be blown sky high than to diegradually— Martin was watching Rodney, struggling to get up. I agree. As a lastresort. We still have a little time. Rodney's tall, spare figure looked bowed and tired in the torchlight,now that he was up again. Martin, I— Martin turned his back. Skip it, Rodney, he said gently. Water, Wass said thoughtfully. There must be reservoirs under thiscity somewhere. Rodney said, How does water help us get out? Martin glanced at Wass, then started out of the switchboard room, notlooking back. It got in and out of the city some way. Perhaps we canleave the same way. Down the ramp again. There's another ramp, Wass murmured. Rodney looked down it. I wonder how many there are, all told. Martin placed one foot on the metal incline. He angled his torch down,picking out shadowy, geometrical shapes, duplicates of the ones on thepresent level. We'll find out, he said, how many there are. Eleven levels later Rodney asked, How much time have we now? Seven hours, Wass said quietly, until take-off. One more level, Martin said, ignoring the reference to time. I ...think it's the last. They walked down the ramp and stood together, silent in a dim pool ofartificial light on the bottom level of the alien city. Rodney played his torch about the metal figures carefully placed aboutthe floor. Martin, what if there are no reservoirs? What if there arecemeteries instead? Or cold storage units? Maybe the switch I pulled— Rodney! Stop it! Rodney swallowed audibly. This place scares me.... The first time I was ever in a rocket, it scared me. I was thirteen. This is different, Wass said. Built-in traps— They had a war, Martin said. Wass agreed. And the survivors retired here. Why? Martin said, They wanted to rebuild. Or maybe this was already builtbefore the war as a retreat. He turned impatiently. How should Iknow? Wass turned, too, persistent. But the planet was through with them. In a minute, Martin said, too irritably, we'll have a sentientplanet. From the corner of his eye he saw Rodney start at that. Knockit off, Wass. We're looking for reservoirs, you know. They moved slowly down the metal avenue, between the twisted shadowshapes, looking carefully about them. Rodney paused. We might not recognize one. Martin urged him on. You know what a man-hole cover looks like. Headded dryly, Use your imagination. They reached the metal wall at the end of the avenue and paused again,uncertain. Martin swung his flashlight, illuminating the distorted metal shapes. Wass said, All this had a purpose, once.... We'll disperse and search carefully, Martin said. I wonder what the pattern was. ... The reservoirs, Wass. The pattern will still be here for laterexpeditions to study. So will we if we don't find a way to get out. Their radios recorded Rodney's gasp. Then—Martin! Martin! I thinkI've found something! Martin began to run. After a moment's hesitation, Wass swung in behindhim. Here, Rodney said, as they came up to him, out of breath. Here. See?Right here. Three flashlights centered on a dark, metal disk raised a foot or morefrom the floor. Well, they had hands. With his torch Wass indicated a small wheel ofthe same metal as everything else in the city, set beside the disk. From its design Martin assumed that the disk was meant to be graspedand turned. He wondered what precisely they were standing over. Well, Skipper, are you going to do the honors? Martin kneeled, grasped the wheel. It turned easily—almost tooeasily—rotating the disk as it turned. Suddenly, without a sound, the disk rose, like a hatch, on a concealedhinge. The three men, clad in their suits and helmets, grouped around thesix-foot opening, shining their torches down into the thing thatdrifted and eddied directly beneath them. Rodney's sudden grip on Martin's wrist nearly shattered the bone.Martin! It's all alive! It's moving! Martin hesitated long enough for a coil to move sinuously up toward theopening. Then he spun the wheel and the hatch slammed down. He was shaking. <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it. Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then? Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself. Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again. Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun. The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches. For a little while he was alone. Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects. Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals. Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself. How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance. We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered. Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it. The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff. Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens? Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees. He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts. Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney. All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust. Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine. Wass! There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening. The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves. Are we going straight? Rodney asked. Of course, Martin growled. There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number. Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney? Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed. A grate. Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out! Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I— There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate. The grate groaned upward and stopped. Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream. Martin switched off his radio, sick. He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well? I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer? We couldn't do anything for him. Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us. So he did, Martin said, very quietly. Rodney said nothing. Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end? Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—! Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap. An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it. Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them. Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What was the key to their escape?

Choosing to search underground for where water might enter and exit the city was an important step for them to find the tunnel that led to their escape. However, Wass’ pulling levers at the switchboard was critical to opening the grate inside the tunnel that actually allowed them to leave. Otherwise, they did not have tools with them that would have likely allowed them to escape in time.If Martin had not forced the team to join together when they were fighting over the control panel the first time, they likely may have never escaped as well.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> MUCK MAN BY FREMONT DODGE The work wasn't hard, but there were some sacrifices. You had to give up hope and freedom—and being human! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched thebailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her asold Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in agirl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certifiedcriminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as ifshe had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts. Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa feltcertain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him forthe charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in hislaboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out ofthe courtroom and down the corridor back to jail. Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put backbehind bars. Guilty, Jumpy said. Asa glared at him. I know, I know, Jumpy said hastily. You were framed. But what's therap? Five or one. Take the five, Jumpy advised. Learn basket-weaving in a niceair-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem alot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it. Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there brieflywith his head bent and turned to face Jumpy. Nope, Asa said softly. I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm goingto be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and huntSlider eggs. Smuggling? It won't work. Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him becausehe had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. TheHazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five yearsof so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan'sPlanet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretchedworld, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory couldduplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne. His only problem would be staying alive for a year. <doc-sep>An interview with a doctor from the Conversion Corps was requiredfor all persons who elected changeling status. The law stated thatpotential changelings must be fully informed of the rights and hazardsof altered shape before they signed a release. The requirement heldwhether or not the individual, like Asa, was already experienced. By the time humanity traveled to the stars, medical biology had madeit possible to regenerate damaged or deficient organs of the body.Regeneration was limited only by advanced age. Sometime after a man'stwo hundredth year his body lost the ability to be coaxed into growingnew cells. A fifth set of teeth was usually one's last. As long assenescence could be staved off, however, any man could have bulgingbiceps and a pencil waist, if he could pay for the treatment. Until the medical associations declared such treatments unethical therewas even a short fad of deliberate deformities, with horns at thetemples particularly popular. From regeneration it was a short step to specialized regrowth. Thetechniques were perfected to adapt humans to the dozen barely habitableworlds man had discovered. Even on Mars, the only planet outside Earthin the solar system where the human anatomy was remotely suitable, aman could work more efficiently with redesigned lungs and temperaturecontrols than he could inside a pressure suit. On more bizarre planetsa few light-years away the advantages of changeling bodies weregreater. Unfortunately for planetary development companies, hardly anyonewanted to become a changeling. High pay lured few. So a law was passedpermitting a convicted criminal to earn his freedom by putting in oneyear as a changeling for every five years he would otherwise have hadto spend in rehabilitation. What types of changelings do you have orders for right now, doctor?Asa asked the man assigned to his case. It would look suspicious if heasked for Jordan's Planet without some preliminary questions. Four, answered the doctor. Squiffs for New Arcady. Adapted for climbing the skycraper trees andwith the arm structure modified into pseudo-wings or gliding. Then weneed spiderinos for Von Neumann Two. If you want the nearest thing wehave to Earth, there's Caesar's Moon, where we'd just have to doubleyour tolerance for carbon monoxide and make you a bigger and bettergorilla than the natives. Last, of course, there's always a need formuck men on Jordan's Planet. The doctor shrugged, as if naturally no one could be expected tochoose Jordan's Planet. Asa frowned in apparent consideration of thealternatives. What's the pay range? he asked. Ten dollars a day on Caesar's Moon. Fifteen on New Arcady or VonNeumann Two. Twenty-five on Jordan's. Asa raised his eyebrows. Why such a difference? Everyone knows about muck men living in themud while they hunt Slider eggs. But don't your conversions make thechangeling comfortable in his new environment? Sure they do, said the doctor. We can make you think mud feelsbetter than chinchilla fur and we can have you jumping like agrasshopper despite the double gravity. But we can't make you like thesight of yourself. And we can't guarantee that a Slider won't kill you. Still, Asa mused aloud, it would mean a nice bankroll waiting at theend of the year. He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form. <doc-sep>Since it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig specialenvironments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversionchambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth AsaGraybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guardto bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner. Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and onceone of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served onspaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, hedecided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for allhe learned about space travel. Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, orcellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. Moreimportant, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before andhad wanted to return. It's the Slider eggs, explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. Theones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begunto die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first togo crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had ninethousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg thatflashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught. Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He couldunderstand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, whilethe albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organicfilaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads playedtiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, butthe phenomenon remained a mystery. Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered toquestion its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be onlyrandom, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation oflight, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance. It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity andfading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world hadever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would havemade him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly. You know what I think? Kershaw asked. I think those flashes arethe egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds whenyou scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comesswooping out of nowhere at you. I've been meaning to ask you, Asa said. How do you handle theSliders? Kershaw grinned. First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leapingfor home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws inthe mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its backand hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'coptercomes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live totell the tale. II Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough tolearn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed anotherphysical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart waspounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but thedoctor had apparently learned to make allowances. Swallow this, said the doctor after making a series of tests. Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginningto lose consciousness. This is it! he thought in panic. He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Beforeconsciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chanceto back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to theconversion tank right now. When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But fora long time he was afraid to open his eyes. Come on, Graybar, said a deep, booming voice. Let's test our wings. It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened hiseyes. Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having onestand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except thathis head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, hislower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forwardso that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick aroundas an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, withbroad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-likeclaws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread ofhair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head. This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself. It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strongtraces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardlyemerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, underthose horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes couldstill weep. He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed. Come to daddy, babykins, Kershaw said, holding out his hands. Onlytry hopping this time. And take it easy. Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerveand muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as highas Kershaw's head. That's the way, Kershaw said approvingly. Now get this on and we'llgo outside. Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps offabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed asKershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the roomwhere they had been left to revive from conversion. <doc-sep>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men. From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife. Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion. Kershaw. I'm back, Furston. I'm Graybar. Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard. Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one. Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited. Furston laughed. That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat. Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof. He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look. Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr. The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent. At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here. The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich. Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations. III Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside. In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck. Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw. Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud. Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting. At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it. Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck. We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing. Kershaw took a long look around. No trouble in sight. We dig. They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong. Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch. A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it. A SLIDER EGG The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around. Jump! he shouted. At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward. Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand. Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry! Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up? We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back. On the way. Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge. Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain. Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still. <doc-sep>Asa took a deep breath and looked around. Kershaw! he called. Where are you? Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him. Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted. The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this? Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you. Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg. Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained. Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual. The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out. I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg. Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg. While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here. Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded. Are you going to have room for me too? he asked. Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg. Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly. You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr. Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it. Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa. Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky. <doc-sep>A round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twentyminutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement. After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would returnfor the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the eggapproximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for theegg any time with some other muck man to dig for it. Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio. This is Graybar, calling the helicopter, he said. When are youcoming? There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave. If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack himall along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with anegg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so hewould be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course fromwhich he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find hisway. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if theylost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help. What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept atnight. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger inthis strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone.... A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm. Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessedhelicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, comingback alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for thecarcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it. No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The bigmachine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt tohover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopterflipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep intothe mud. Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safepassage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have theextra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the noseof the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from thecontrols to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne. IV Are you hurt? Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steadyherself as she climbed out of the machine. I guess not, she said. But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye prettysoon. What happened? I made a fool of myself. She made a face back in the direction ofthe settlement. Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyonewho talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders. She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter. They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind, she said.The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam. Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. Heeyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fortit would make. Anyway, Harriet said, I told him he couldn't just leave you hereand we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought meto Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I washere was to check up for my father on the way he was running things andthere seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could runthings to suit myself and he walked off. She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things. And you took the helicopter by yourself, Asa said, as if he couldhardly believe it yet. Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't usedto this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand upstraight? Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids ofthe plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk inthe mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud heldit with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up. We fight off the Sliders, then, she said, as matter of factly as ifthat problem was settled. If it's any comfort, I know how to handlethe machine-gun. Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us beforewe could see them. We've got to try to get back. He stood in thoughtwhile she stared at him patiently. What happened to the other muck menwho went out today? he asked. They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some ofthem may not have got back yet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Asa Graybar is a biological engineer who studies keeping Slider eggs alive and he is accused of a crime at the opening of the story. He thinks he was framed by Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne’s general manager.He was offered one year as a “changeling” on another planet or 5 years in rehabilitation on Earth. He elects to do the one year, and thinks that he will get into smuggling Slider eggs on Jordan’s planet. Being a changeling is not a highly sought after line of work, but it pays well, and the people who do it have organs and body parts regenerated to better suit specialized tasks.Asa travels to Jordan’s planet on a spaceship with a cellmate, Kershaw, who got caught stealing a Slider egg and is returning to serve more time. When they arrive they are both “converted” into muck men, with the forms of frogs and scaly, pink skin. Their task is to collect Slider eggs and bring them back to the base which is watched over by a warden, Furston.Asa and Kershaw go out together for the first time into the mud so Kershaw can teach Asa how to find Slider eggs. They find one, and are immediately attacked by a Slider that disables one of Kershaw’s legs. Kershaw calls for helicopters to come get them. Tom Dorr is operating the helicopter that comes to collect Kershaw in the field, and demands that Asa also give him the egg they found. Asa refuses to ensure his own safety that they would come back to get him as soon as they dropped off Kershaw.Back at the base Tom Dorr refuses to go back into the field to rescue Asa and gets into an argument with Harriet Hazeltyne (taking over charge of all operations for her father), and storms off. Harriet goes into the field to save Asa herself, but accidentally crashes the helicopter because she is not used to the double force of gravity. Asa is unable to right the helicopter, and they think it is unlikely they will be able to use its machine guns to keep them safe while the Sliders come to feed on the dead Slider they are near to in the night. They must get back to the base somehow, and the story ends with them contemplating how they might do this.

What settings does the story take place in? [SEP] <s> MUCK MAN BY FREMONT DODGE The work wasn't hard, but there were some sacrifices. You had to give up hope and freedom—and being human! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched thebailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her asold Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in agirl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certifiedcriminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as ifshe had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts. Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa feltcertain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him forthe charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in hislaboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out ofthe courtroom and down the corridor back to jail. Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put backbehind bars. Guilty, Jumpy said. Asa glared at him. I know, I know, Jumpy said hastily. You were framed. But what's therap? Five or one. Take the five, Jumpy advised. Learn basket-weaving in a niceair-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem alot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it. Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there brieflywith his head bent and turned to face Jumpy. Nope, Asa said softly. I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm goingto be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and huntSlider eggs. Smuggling? It won't work. Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him becausehe had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. TheHazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five yearsof so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan'sPlanet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretchedworld, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory couldduplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne. His only problem would be staying alive for a year. <doc-sep>An interview with a doctor from the Conversion Corps was requiredfor all persons who elected changeling status. The law stated thatpotential changelings must be fully informed of the rights and hazardsof altered shape before they signed a release. The requirement heldwhether or not the individual, like Asa, was already experienced. By the time humanity traveled to the stars, medical biology had madeit possible to regenerate damaged or deficient organs of the body.Regeneration was limited only by advanced age. Sometime after a man'stwo hundredth year his body lost the ability to be coaxed into growingnew cells. A fifth set of teeth was usually one's last. As long assenescence could be staved off, however, any man could have bulgingbiceps and a pencil waist, if he could pay for the treatment. Until the medical associations declared such treatments unethical therewas even a short fad of deliberate deformities, with horns at thetemples particularly popular. From regeneration it was a short step to specialized regrowth. Thetechniques were perfected to adapt humans to the dozen barely habitableworlds man had discovered. Even on Mars, the only planet outside Earthin the solar system where the human anatomy was remotely suitable, aman could work more efficiently with redesigned lungs and temperaturecontrols than he could inside a pressure suit. On more bizarre planetsa few light-years away the advantages of changeling bodies weregreater. Unfortunately for planetary development companies, hardly anyonewanted to become a changeling. High pay lured few. So a law was passedpermitting a convicted criminal to earn his freedom by putting in oneyear as a changeling for every five years he would otherwise have hadto spend in rehabilitation. What types of changelings do you have orders for right now, doctor?Asa asked the man assigned to his case. It would look suspicious if heasked for Jordan's Planet without some preliminary questions. Four, answered the doctor. Squiffs for New Arcady. Adapted for climbing the skycraper trees andwith the arm structure modified into pseudo-wings or gliding. Then weneed spiderinos for Von Neumann Two. If you want the nearest thing wehave to Earth, there's Caesar's Moon, where we'd just have to doubleyour tolerance for carbon monoxide and make you a bigger and bettergorilla than the natives. Last, of course, there's always a need formuck men on Jordan's Planet. The doctor shrugged, as if naturally no one could be expected tochoose Jordan's Planet. Asa frowned in apparent consideration of thealternatives. What's the pay range? he asked. Ten dollars a day on Caesar's Moon. Fifteen on New Arcady or VonNeumann Two. Twenty-five on Jordan's. Asa raised his eyebrows. Why such a difference? Everyone knows about muck men living in themud while they hunt Slider eggs. But don't your conversions make thechangeling comfortable in his new environment? Sure they do, said the doctor. We can make you think mud feelsbetter than chinchilla fur and we can have you jumping like agrasshopper despite the double gravity. But we can't make you like thesight of yourself. And we can't guarantee that a Slider won't kill you. Still, Asa mused aloud, it would mean a nice bankroll waiting at theend of the year. He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form. <doc-sep>Since it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig specialenvironments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversionchambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth AsaGraybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guardto bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner. Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and onceone of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served onspaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, hedecided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for allhe learned about space travel. Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, orcellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. Moreimportant, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before andhad wanted to return. It's the Slider eggs, explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. Theones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begunto die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first togo crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had ninethousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg thatflashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught. Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He couldunderstand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, whilethe albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organicfilaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads playedtiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, butthe phenomenon remained a mystery. Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered toquestion its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be onlyrandom, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation oflight, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance. It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity andfading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world hadever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would havemade him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly. You know what I think? Kershaw asked. I think those flashes arethe egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds whenyou scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comesswooping out of nowhere at you. I've been meaning to ask you, Asa said. How do you handle theSliders? Kershaw grinned. First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leapingfor home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws inthe mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its backand hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'coptercomes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live totell the tale. II Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough tolearn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed anotherphysical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart waspounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but thedoctor had apparently learned to make allowances. Swallow this, said the doctor after making a series of tests. Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginningto lose consciousness. This is it! he thought in panic. He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Beforeconsciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chanceto back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to theconversion tank right now. When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But fora long time he was afraid to open his eyes. Come on, Graybar, said a deep, booming voice. Let's test our wings. It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened hiseyes. Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having onestand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except thathis head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, hislower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forwardso that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick aroundas an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, withbroad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-likeclaws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread ofhair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head. This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself. It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strongtraces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardlyemerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, underthose horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes couldstill weep. He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed. Come to daddy, babykins, Kershaw said, holding out his hands. Onlytry hopping this time. And take it easy. Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerveand muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as highas Kershaw's head. That's the way, Kershaw said approvingly. Now get this on and we'llgo outside. Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps offabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed asKershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the roomwhere they had been left to revive from conversion. <doc-sep>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men. From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife. Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion. Kershaw. I'm back, Furston. I'm Graybar. Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard. Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one. Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited. Furston laughed. That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat. Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof. He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look. Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr. The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent. At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here. The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich. Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations. III Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside. In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck. Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw. Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud. Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting. At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it. Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck. We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing. Kershaw took a long look around. No trouble in sight. We dig. They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong. Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch. A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it. A SLIDER EGG The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around. Jump! he shouted. At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward. Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand. Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry! Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up? We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back. On the way. Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge. Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain. Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still. <doc-sep>Asa took a deep breath and looked around. Kershaw! he called. Where are you? Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him. Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted. The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this? Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you. Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg. Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained. Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual. The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out. I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg. Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg. While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here. Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded. Are you going to have room for me too? he asked. Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg. Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly. You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr. Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it. Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa. Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky. <doc-sep>A round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twentyminutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement. After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would returnfor the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the eggapproximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for theegg any time with some other muck man to dig for it. Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio. This is Graybar, calling the helicopter, he said. When are youcoming? There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave. If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack himall along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with anegg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so hewould be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course fromwhich he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find hisway. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if theylost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help. What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept atnight. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger inthis strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone.... A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm. Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessedhelicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, comingback alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for thecarcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it. No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The bigmachine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt tohover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopterflipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep intothe mud. Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safepassage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have theextra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the noseof the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from thecontrols to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne. IV Are you hurt? Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steadyherself as she climbed out of the machine. I guess not, she said. But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye prettysoon. What happened? I made a fool of myself. She made a face back in the direction ofthe settlement. Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyonewho talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders. She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter. They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind, she said.The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam. Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. Heeyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fortit would make. Anyway, Harriet said, I told him he couldn't just leave you hereand we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought meto Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I washere was to check up for my father on the way he was running things andthere seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could runthings to suit myself and he walked off. She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things. And you took the helicopter by yourself, Asa said, as if he couldhardly believe it yet. Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't usedto this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand upstraight? Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids ofthe plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk inthe mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud heldit with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up. We fight off the Sliders, then, she said, as matter of factly as ifthat problem was settled. If it's any comfort, I know how to handlethe machine-gun. Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us beforewe could see them. We've got to try to get back. He stood in thoughtwhile she stared at him patiently. What happened to the other muck menwho went out today? he asked. They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some ofthem may not have got back yet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What settings does the story take place in?

The story opens on Earth and then travels to Jordan’s planet.Jordan’s planet is the place where Asa goes as a changeling to be a muck man. There is a base on Jordan's planet which has a laboratory for converting prisoners into muck men, living quarters and kitchen, and a courtyard with high walls to keep the Sliders out. The surface of the planet is mud and the force of gravity is twice that on Earth. Asa's conversion into a frog-like person is necessary to survive there.

What happens to Tom Dorr in the story? [SEP] <s> MUCK MAN BY FREMONT DODGE The work wasn't hard, but there were some sacrifices. You had to give up hope and freedom—and being human! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched thebailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her asold Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in agirl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certifiedcriminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as ifshe had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts. Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa feltcertain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him forthe charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in hislaboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out ofthe courtroom and down the corridor back to jail. Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put backbehind bars. Guilty, Jumpy said. Asa glared at him. I know, I know, Jumpy said hastily. You were framed. But what's therap? Five or one. Take the five, Jumpy advised. Learn basket-weaving in a niceair-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem alot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it. Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there brieflywith his head bent and turned to face Jumpy. Nope, Asa said softly. I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm goingto be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and huntSlider eggs. Smuggling? It won't work. Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him becausehe had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. TheHazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five yearsof so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan'sPlanet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretchedworld, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory couldduplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne. His only problem would be staying alive for a year. <doc-sep>An interview with a doctor from the Conversion Corps was requiredfor all persons who elected changeling status. The law stated thatpotential changelings must be fully informed of the rights and hazardsof altered shape before they signed a release. The requirement heldwhether or not the individual, like Asa, was already experienced. By the time humanity traveled to the stars, medical biology had madeit possible to regenerate damaged or deficient organs of the body.Regeneration was limited only by advanced age. Sometime after a man'stwo hundredth year his body lost the ability to be coaxed into growingnew cells. A fifth set of teeth was usually one's last. As long assenescence could be staved off, however, any man could have bulgingbiceps and a pencil waist, if he could pay for the treatment. Until the medical associations declared such treatments unethical therewas even a short fad of deliberate deformities, with horns at thetemples particularly popular. From regeneration it was a short step to specialized regrowth. Thetechniques were perfected to adapt humans to the dozen barely habitableworlds man had discovered. Even on Mars, the only planet outside Earthin the solar system where the human anatomy was remotely suitable, aman could work more efficiently with redesigned lungs and temperaturecontrols than he could inside a pressure suit. On more bizarre planetsa few light-years away the advantages of changeling bodies weregreater. Unfortunately for planetary development companies, hardly anyonewanted to become a changeling. High pay lured few. So a law was passedpermitting a convicted criminal to earn his freedom by putting in oneyear as a changeling for every five years he would otherwise have hadto spend in rehabilitation. What types of changelings do you have orders for right now, doctor?Asa asked the man assigned to his case. It would look suspicious if heasked for Jordan's Planet without some preliminary questions. Four, answered the doctor. Squiffs for New Arcady. Adapted for climbing the skycraper trees andwith the arm structure modified into pseudo-wings or gliding. Then weneed spiderinos for Von Neumann Two. If you want the nearest thing wehave to Earth, there's Caesar's Moon, where we'd just have to doubleyour tolerance for carbon monoxide and make you a bigger and bettergorilla than the natives. Last, of course, there's always a need formuck men on Jordan's Planet. The doctor shrugged, as if naturally no one could be expected tochoose Jordan's Planet. Asa frowned in apparent consideration of thealternatives. What's the pay range? he asked. Ten dollars a day on Caesar's Moon. Fifteen on New Arcady or VonNeumann Two. Twenty-five on Jordan's. Asa raised his eyebrows. Why such a difference? Everyone knows about muck men living in themud while they hunt Slider eggs. But don't your conversions make thechangeling comfortable in his new environment? Sure they do, said the doctor. We can make you think mud feelsbetter than chinchilla fur and we can have you jumping like agrasshopper despite the double gravity. But we can't make you like thesight of yourself. And we can't guarantee that a Slider won't kill you. Still, Asa mused aloud, it would mean a nice bankroll waiting at theend of the year. He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form. <doc-sep>Since it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig specialenvironments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversionchambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth AsaGraybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guardto bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner. Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and onceone of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served onspaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, hedecided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for allhe learned about space travel. Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, orcellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. Moreimportant, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before andhad wanted to return. It's the Slider eggs, explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. Theones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begunto die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first togo crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had ninethousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg thatflashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught. Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He couldunderstand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, whilethe albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organicfilaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads playedtiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, butthe phenomenon remained a mystery. Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered toquestion its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be onlyrandom, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation oflight, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance. It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity andfading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world hadever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would havemade him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly. You know what I think? Kershaw asked. I think those flashes arethe egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds whenyou scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comesswooping out of nowhere at you. I've been meaning to ask you, Asa said. How do you handle theSliders? Kershaw grinned. First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leapingfor home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws inthe mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its backand hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'coptercomes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live totell the tale. II Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough tolearn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed anotherphysical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart waspounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but thedoctor had apparently learned to make allowances. Swallow this, said the doctor after making a series of tests. Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginningto lose consciousness. This is it! he thought in panic. He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Beforeconsciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chanceto back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to theconversion tank right now. When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But fora long time he was afraid to open his eyes. Come on, Graybar, said a deep, booming voice. Let's test our wings. It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened hiseyes. Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having onestand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except thathis head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, hislower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forwardso that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick aroundas an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, withbroad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-likeclaws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread ofhair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head. This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself. It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strongtraces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardlyemerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, underthose horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes couldstill weep. He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed. Come to daddy, babykins, Kershaw said, holding out his hands. Onlytry hopping this time. And take it easy. Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerveand muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as highas Kershaw's head. That's the way, Kershaw said approvingly. Now get this on and we'llgo outside. Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps offabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed asKershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the roomwhere they had been left to revive from conversion. <doc-sep>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men. From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife. Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion. Kershaw. I'm back, Furston. I'm Graybar. Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard. Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one. Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited. Furston laughed. That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat. Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof. He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look. Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr. The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent. At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here. The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich. Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations. III Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside. In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck. Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw. Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud. Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting. At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it. Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck. We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing. Kershaw took a long look around. No trouble in sight. We dig. They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong. Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch. A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it. A SLIDER EGG The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around. Jump! he shouted. At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward. Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand. Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry! Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up? We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back. On the way. Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge. Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain. Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still. <doc-sep>Asa took a deep breath and looked around. Kershaw! he called. Where are you? Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him. Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted. The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this? Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you. Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg. Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained. Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual. The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out. I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg. Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg. While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here. Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded. Are you going to have room for me too? he asked. Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg. Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly. You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr. Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it. Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa. Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky. <doc-sep>A round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twentyminutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement. After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would returnfor the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the eggapproximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for theegg any time with some other muck man to dig for it. Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio. This is Graybar, calling the helicopter, he said. When are youcoming? There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave. If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack himall along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with anegg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so hewould be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course fromwhich he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find hisway. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if theylost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help. What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept atnight. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger inthis strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone.... A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm. Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessedhelicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, comingback alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for thecarcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it. No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The bigmachine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt tohover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopterflipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep intothe mud. Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safepassage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have theextra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the noseof the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from thecontrols to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne. IV Are you hurt? Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steadyherself as she climbed out of the machine. I guess not, she said. But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye prettysoon. What happened? I made a fool of myself. She made a face back in the direction ofthe settlement. Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyonewho talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders. She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter. They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind, she said.The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam. Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. Heeyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fortit would make. Anyway, Harriet said, I told him he couldn't just leave you hereand we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought meto Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I washere was to check up for my father on the way he was running things andthere seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could runthings to suit myself and he walked off. She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things. And you took the helicopter by yourself, Asa said, as if he couldhardly believe it yet. Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't usedto this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand upstraight? Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids ofthe plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk inthe mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud heldit with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up. We fight off the Sliders, then, she said, as matter of factly as ifthat problem was settled. If it's any comfort, I know how to handlethe machine-gun. Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us beforewe could see them. We've got to try to get back. He stood in thoughtwhile she stared at him patiently. What happened to the other muck menwho went out today? he asked. They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some ofthem may not have got back yet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What happens to Tom Dorr in the story?

Asa thinks Tom framed him for the crime at the opening of the story. Tom is present on Jordan’s planet when Asa arrives to begin his one year term as a muck man. Tom is providing a tour of Jordan’s planet to Harriet Hazeltyne, who is taking over her father’s operations and wants to investigate how Toms is running things. Tom and Harriet get into an argument on Jordan’s planet and Tom leaves in anger. It is unclear what his final fate is after leaving, though it is likely he will be removed from his post.

What is the relationship like between Asa and Kershaw? [SEP] <s> MUCK MAN BY FREMONT DODGE The work wasn't hard, but there were some sacrifices. You had to give up hope and freedom—and being human! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched thebailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her asold Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in agirl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certifiedcriminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as ifshe had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts. Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa feltcertain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him forthe charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in hislaboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out ofthe courtroom and down the corridor back to jail. Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put backbehind bars. Guilty, Jumpy said. Asa glared at him. I know, I know, Jumpy said hastily. You were framed. But what's therap? Five or one. Take the five, Jumpy advised. Learn basket-weaving in a niceair-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem alot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it. Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there brieflywith his head bent and turned to face Jumpy. Nope, Asa said softly. I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm goingto be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and huntSlider eggs. Smuggling? It won't work. Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him becausehe had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. TheHazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five yearsof so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan'sPlanet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretchedworld, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory couldduplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne. His only problem would be staying alive for a year. <doc-sep>An interview with a doctor from the Conversion Corps was requiredfor all persons who elected changeling status. The law stated thatpotential changelings must be fully informed of the rights and hazardsof altered shape before they signed a release. The requirement heldwhether or not the individual, like Asa, was already experienced. By the time humanity traveled to the stars, medical biology had madeit possible to regenerate damaged or deficient organs of the body.Regeneration was limited only by advanced age. Sometime after a man'stwo hundredth year his body lost the ability to be coaxed into growingnew cells. A fifth set of teeth was usually one's last. As long assenescence could be staved off, however, any man could have bulgingbiceps and a pencil waist, if he could pay for the treatment. Until the medical associations declared such treatments unethical therewas even a short fad of deliberate deformities, with horns at thetemples particularly popular. From regeneration it was a short step to specialized regrowth. Thetechniques were perfected to adapt humans to the dozen barely habitableworlds man had discovered. Even on Mars, the only planet outside Earthin the solar system where the human anatomy was remotely suitable, aman could work more efficiently with redesigned lungs and temperaturecontrols than he could inside a pressure suit. On more bizarre planetsa few light-years away the advantages of changeling bodies weregreater. Unfortunately for planetary development companies, hardly anyonewanted to become a changeling. High pay lured few. So a law was passedpermitting a convicted criminal to earn his freedom by putting in oneyear as a changeling for every five years he would otherwise have hadto spend in rehabilitation. What types of changelings do you have orders for right now, doctor?Asa asked the man assigned to his case. It would look suspicious if heasked for Jordan's Planet without some preliminary questions. Four, answered the doctor. Squiffs for New Arcady. Adapted for climbing the skycraper trees andwith the arm structure modified into pseudo-wings or gliding. Then weneed spiderinos for Von Neumann Two. If you want the nearest thing wehave to Earth, there's Caesar's Moon, where we'd just have to doubleyour tolerance for carbon monoxide and make you a bigger and bettergorilla than the natives. Last, of course, there's always a need formuck men on Jordan's Planet. The doctor shrugged, as if naturally no one could be expected tochoose Jordan's Planet. Asa frowned in apparent consideration of thealternatives. What's the pay range? he asked. Ten dollars a day on Caesar's Moon. Fifteen on New Arcady or VonNeumann Two. Twenty-five on Jordan's. Asa raised his eyebrows. Why such a difference? Everyone knows about muck men living in themud while they hunt Slider eggs. But don't your conversions make thechangeling comfortable in his new environment? Sure they do, said the doctor. We can make you think mud feelsbetter than chinchilla fur and we can have you jumping like agrasshopper despite the double gravity. But we can't make you like thesight of yourself. And we can't guarantee that a Slider won't kill you. Still, Asa mused aloud, it would mean a nice bankroll waiting at theend of the year. He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form. <doc-sep>Since it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig specialenvironments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversionchambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth AsaGraybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guardto bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner. Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and onceone of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served onspaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, hedecided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for allhe learned about space travel. Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, orcellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. Moreimportant, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before andhad wanted to return. It's the Slider eggs, explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. Theones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begunto die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first togo crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had ninethousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg thatflashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught. Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He couldunderstand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, whilethe albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organicfilaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads playedtiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, butthe phenomenon remained a mystery. Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered toquestion its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be onlyrandom, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation oflight, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance. It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity andfading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world hadever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would havemade him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly. You know what I think? Kershaw asked. I think those flashes arethe egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds whenyou scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comesswooping out of nowhere at you. I've been meaning to ask you, Asa said. How do you handle theSliders? Kershaw grinned. First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leapingfor home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws inthe mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its backand hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'coptercomes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live totell the tale. II Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough tolearn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed anotherphysical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart waspounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but thedoctor had apparently learned to make allowances. Swallow this, said the doctor after making a series of tests. Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginningto lose consciousness. This is it! he thought in panic. He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Beforeconsciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chanceto back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to theconversion tank right now. When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But fora long time he was afraid to open his eyes. Come on, Graybar, said a deep, booming voice. Let's test our wings. It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened hiseyes. Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having onestand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except thathis head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, hislower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forwardso that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick aroundas an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, withbroad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-likeclaws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread ofhair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head. This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself. It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strongtraces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardlyemerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, underthose horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes couldstill weep. He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed. Come to daddy, babykins, Kershaw said, holding out his hands. Onlytry hopping this time. And take it easy. Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerveand muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as highas Kershaw's head. That's the way, Kershaw said approvingly. Now get this on and we'llgo outside. Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps offabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed asKershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the roomwhere they had been left to revive from conversion. <doc-sep>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men. From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife. Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion. Kershaw. I'm back, Furston. I'm Graybar. Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard. Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one. Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited. Furston laughed. That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat. Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof. He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look. Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr. The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent. At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here. The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich. Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations. III Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside. In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck. Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw. Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud. Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting. At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it. Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck. We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing. Kershaw took a long look around. No trouble in sight. We dig. They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong. Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch. A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it. A SLIDER EGG The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around. Jump! he shouted. At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward. Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand. Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry! Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up? We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back. On the way. Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge. Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain. Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still. <doc-sep>Asa took a deep breath and looked around. Kershaw! he called. Where are you? Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him. Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted. The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this? Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you. Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg. Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained. Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual. The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out. I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg. Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg. While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here. Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded. Are you going to have room for me too? he asked. Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg. Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly. You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr. Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it. Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa. Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky. <doc-sep>A round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twentyminutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement. After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would returnfor the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the eggapproximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for theegg any time with some other muck man to dig for it. Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio. This is Graybar, calling the helicopter, he said. When are youcoming? There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave. If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack himall along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with anegg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so hewould be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course fromwhich he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find hisway. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if theylost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help. What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept atnight. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger inthis strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone.... A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm. Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessedhelicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, comingback alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for thecarcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it. No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The bigmachine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt tohover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopterflipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep intothe mud. Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safepassage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have theextra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the noseof the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from thecontrols to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne. IV Are you hurt? Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steadyherself as she climbed out of the machine. I guess not, she said. But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye prettysoon. What happened? I made a fool of myself. She made a face back in the direction ofthe settlement. Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyonewho talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders. She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter. They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind, she said.The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam. Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. Heeyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fortit would make. Anyway, Harriet said, I told him he couldn't just leave you hereand we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought meto Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I washere was to check up for my father on the way he was running things andthere seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could runthings to suit myself and he walked off. She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things. And you took the helicopter by yourself, Asa said, as if he couldhardly believe it yet. Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't usedto this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand upstraight? Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids ofthe plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk inthe mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud heldit with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up. We fight off the Sliders, then, she said, as matter of factly as ifthat problem was settled. If it's any comfort, I know how to handlethe machine-gun. Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us beforewe could see them. We've got to try to get back. He stood in thoughtwhile she stared at him patiently. What happened to the other muck menwho went out today? he asked. They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some ofthem may not have got back yet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship like between Asa and Kershaw?

They meet as cellmates on their way to Jordan’s planet to convert to muck men. They convert into frog-like forms together. Kershaw is assigned to pick up where he left off as a return prisoner and Asa is taught how to operate in his new body.Kershaw teaches Asa the ropes of how to collect slider eggs as a muck man. One muck man is killed for about every 6 Slider eggs that are found, and it is extremely dangerous. During their first time out they have to fight a Slider and Kershaw breaks his leg, relying on Asa to save him. This task bonds them together as they must trust each other with their lives.

What is the significance of the egg to the story? [SEP] <s> MUCK MAN BY FREMONT DODGE The work wasn't hard, but there were some sacrifices. You had to give up hope and freedom—and being human! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched thebailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her asold Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in agirl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certifiedcriminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as ifshe had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts. Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa feltcertain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him forthe charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in hislaboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out ofthe courtroom and down the corridor back to jail. Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put backbehind bars. Guilty, Jumpy said. Asa glared at him. I know, I know, Jumpy said hastily. You were framed. But what's therap? Five or one. Take the five, Jumpy advised. Learn basket-weaving in a niceair-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem alot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it. Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there brieflywith his head bent and turned to face Jumpy. Nope, Asa said softly. I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm goingto be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and huntSlider eggs. Smuggling? It won't work. Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him becausehe had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. TheHazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five yearsof so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan'sPlanet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretchedworld, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory couldduplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne. His only problem would be staying alive for a year. <doc-sep>An interview with a doctor from the Conversion Corps was requiredfor all persons who elected changeling status. The law stated thatpotential changelings must be fully informed of the rights and hazardsof altered shape before they signed a release. The requirement heldwhether or not the individual, like Asa, was already experienced. By the time humanity traveled to the stars, medical biology had madeit possible to regenerate damaged or deficient organs of the body.Regeneration was limited only by advanced age. Sometime after a man'stwo hundredth year his body lost the ability to be coaxed into growingnew cells. A fifth set of teeth was usually one's last. As long assenescence could be staved off, however, any man could have bulgingbiceps and a pencil waist, if he could pay for the treatment. Until the medical associations declared such treatments unethical therewas even a short fad of deliberate deformities, with horns at thetemples particularly popular. From regeneration it was a short step to specialized regrowth. Thetechniques were perfected to adapt humans to the dozen barely habitableworlds man had discovered. Even on Mars, the only planet outside Earthin the solar system where the human anatomy was remotely suitable, aman could work more efficiently with redesigned lungs and temperaturecontrols than he could inside a pressure suit. On more bizarre planetsa few light-years away the advantages of changeling bodies weregreater. Unfortunately for planetary development companies, hardly anyonewanted to become a changeling. High pay lured few. So a law was passedpermitting a convicted criminal to earn his freedom by putting in oneyear as a changeling for every five years he would otherwise have hadto spend in rehabilitation. What types of changelings do you have orders for right now, doctor?Asa asked the man assigned to his case. It would look suspicious if heasked for Jordan's Planet without some preliminary questions. Four, answered the doctor. Squiffs for New Arcady. Adapted for climbing the skycraper trees andwith the arm structure modified into pseudo-wings or gliding. Then weneed spiderinos for Von Neumann Two. If you want the nearest thing wehave to Earth, there's Caesar's Moon, where we'd just have to doubleyour tolerance for carbon monoxide and make you a bigger and bettergorilla than the natives. Last, of course, there's always a need formuck men on Jordan's Planet. The doctor shrugged, as if naturally no one could be expected tochoose Jordan's Planet. Asa frowned in apparent consideration of thealternatives. What's the pay range? he asked. Ten dollars a day on Caesar's Moon. Fifteen on New Arcady or VonNeumann Two. Twenty-five on Jordan's. Asa raised his eyebrows. Why such a difference? Everyone knows about muck men living in themud while they hunt Slider eggs. But don't your conversions make thechangeling comfortable in his new environment? Sure they do, said the doctor. We can make you think mud feelsbetter than chinchilla fur and we can have you jumping like agrasshopper despite the double gravity. But we can't make you like thesight of yourself. And we can't guarantee that a Slider won't kill you. Still, Asa mused aloud, it would mean a nice bankroll waiting at theend of the year. He leaned forward to fill in the necessary form. <doc-sep>Since it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig specialenvironments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversionchambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth AsaGraybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guardto bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner. Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and onceone of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served onspaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, hedecided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for allhe learned about space travel. Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, orcellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. Moreimportant, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before andhad wanted to return. It's the Slider eggs, explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. Theones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begunto die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first togo crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had ninethousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg thatflashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught. Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He couldunderstand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, whilethe albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organicfilaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads playedtiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, butthe phenomenon remained a mystery. Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered toquestion its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be onlyrandom, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation oflight, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance. It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity andfading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world hadever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would havemade him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly. You know what I think? Kershaw asked. I think those flashes arethe egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds whenyou scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comesswooping out of nowhere at you. I've been meaning to ask you, Asa said. How do you handle theSliders? Kershaw grinned. First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leapingfor home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws inthe mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its backand hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'coptercomes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live totell the tale. II Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough tolearn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed anotherphysical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart waspounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but thedoctor had apparently learned to make allowances. Swallow this, said the doctor after making a series of tests. Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginningto lose consciousness. This is it! he thought in panic. He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Beforeconsciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chanceto back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to theconversion tank right now. When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But fora long time he was afraid to open his eyes. Come on, Graybar, said a deep, booming voice. Let's test our wings. It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened hiseyes. Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having onestand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except thathis head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, hislower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forwardso that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick aroundas an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, withbroad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-likeclaws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread ofhair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head. This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself. It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strongtraces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardlyemerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, underthose horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes couldstill weep. He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed. Come to daddy, babykins, Kershaw said, holding out his hands. Onlytry hopping this time. And take it easy. Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerveand muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as highas Kershaw's head. That's the way, Kershaw said approvingly. Now get this on and we'llgo outside. Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps offabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed asKershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the roomwhere they had been left to revive from conversion. <doc-sep>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men. From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife. Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion. Kershaw. I'm back, Furston. I'm Graybar. Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard. Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one. Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited. Furston laughed. That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat. Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof. He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look. Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr. The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent. At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here. The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich. Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations. III Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside. In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck. Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw. Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud. Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting. At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it. Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck. We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing. Kershaw took a long look around. No trouble in sight. We dig. They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong. Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch. A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it. A SLIDER EGG The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around. Jump! he shouted. At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward. Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand. Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry! Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up? We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back. On the way. Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge. Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain. Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still. <doc-sep>Asa took a deep breath and looked around. Kershaw! he called. Where are you? Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him. Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted. The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this? Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you. Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg. Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained. Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual. The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out. I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg. Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg. While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here. Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded. Are you going to have room for me too? he asked. Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg. Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly. You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr. Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it. Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa. Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky. <doc-sep>A round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twentyminutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement. After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would returnfor the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the eggapproximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for theegg any time with some other muck man to dig for it. Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio. This is Graybar, calling the helicopter, he said. When are youcoming? There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave. If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack himall along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with anegg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so hewould be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course fromwhich he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find hisway. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if theylost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help. What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept atnight. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger inthis strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone.... A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm. Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessedhelicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, comingback alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for thecarcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it. No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The bigmachine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt tohover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopterflipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep intothe mud. Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safepassage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have theextra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the noseof the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from thecontrols to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne. IV Are you hurt? Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steadyherself as she climbed out of the machine. I guess not, she said. But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye prettysoon. What happened? I made a fool of myself. She made a face back in the direction ofthe settlement. Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyonewho talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders. She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter. They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind, she said.The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam. Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. Heeyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fortit would make. Anyway, Harriet said, I told him he couldn't just leave you hereand we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought meto Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I washere was to check up for my father on the way he was running things andthere seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could runthings to suit myself and he walked off. She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things. And you took the helicopter by yourself, Asa said, as if he couldhardly believe it yet. Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't usedto this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand upstraight? Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids ofthe plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk inthe mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud heldit with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up. We fight off the Sliders, then, she said, as matter of factly as ifthat problem was settled. If it's any comfort, I know how to handlethe machine-gun. Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us beforewe could see them. We've got to try to get back. He stood in thoughtwhile she stared at him patiently. What happened to the other muck menwho went out today? he asked. They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some ofthem may not have got back yet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the egg to the story?

The Slider egg is a captivating object that has a clear shell, and light of various colors flash inside it. They are laid by Sliders on Jordan’s planet and are collected by prisoners that are stationed there. The eggs only live for about 4 years, which makes them in demand. If they could be stabilized to live longer they would be even more valuable.Their use is never discussed and the people in the story do not reveal why they are so valuable. Asa is working on a method to keep the eggs alive for longer at the opening of the story, but does not continue in that task during the plot.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE DESERT AND THE STARS BY KEITH LAUMER The Aga Kaga wanted peace—a piece of everything in sight! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I'm not at all sure, Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, that I fullyunderstand the necessity for your ... ah ... absenting yourself fromyour post of duty, Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealtwith in the usual way—assuming any action is necessary. I had a sharp attack of writer's cramp, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.So I thought I'd better come along in person—just to be sure I waspositive of making my point. Eh? Why, ah, there were a number of dispatches, Deputy Under-SecretaryMagnan put in. Unfortunately, this being end-of-the-fiscal-year time,we found ourselves quite inundated with reports. Reports, reports,reports— Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan? theUnder-Secretary barked. Gracious, no, Magnan said. I love reports. It seems nobody's told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years, Retiefsaid. They're going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing onFlamme. So far, I've persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for theCorps, and not to take matters into their own hands. The Under-Secretary nodded. Quite right. Carry on along the samelines. Now, if there's nothing further— Thank you, Mr. Secretary, Magnan said, rising. We certainlyappreciate your guidance. There is a little something further, said Retief, sitting solidly inhis chair. What's the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans? The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. As Ministerto Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomaticrepresentative is merely to ... what shall I say...? String them along? Magnan suggested. An unfortunate choice of phrase, the Under-Secretary said. However,it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics. The Corps mustconcern itself with matters of broad policy. Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to settleFlamme, Retief said. They were assured of Corps support. I don't believe you'll find that in writing, said the Under-Secretaryblandly. In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time afoothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Nowthe situation has changed. The Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme, Retief said.They've cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set outforests. They've just about reached the point where they can begin toenjoy it. The Aga Kagans have picked this as a good time to move in.They've landed thirty detachments of 'fishermen'—complete with armoredtrawlers mounting 40 mm infinite repeaters—and another two dozenparties of 'homesteaders'—all male and toting rocket launchers. Surely there's land enough on the world to afford space to bothgroups, the Under-Secretary said. A spirit of co-operation— <doc-sep>The Boyars needed some co-operation sixty years ago, Retief said.They tried to get the Aga Kagans to join in and help them beatback some of the saurian wild life that liked to graze on people.The Corps didn't like the idea. They wanted to see an undisputedanti-Concordiatist enclave. The Aga Kagans didn't want to play, either.But now that the world is tamed, they're moving in. The exigencies of diplomacy require a flexible policy— I want a firm assurance of Corps support to take back to Flamme,Retief said. The Boyars are a little naive. They don't understanddiplomatic triple-speak. They just want to hold onto the homes they'vemade out of a wasteland. I'm warning you, Retief! the Under-Secretary snapped, leaningforward, wattles quivering. Corps policy with regard to Flammeincludes no inflammatory actions based on outmoded concepts. The Boyarswill have to accommodate themselves to the situation! That's what I'm afraid of, Retief said. They're not going to sitstill and watch it happen. If I don't take back concrete evidence ofCorps backing, we're going to have a nice hot little shooting war onour hands. The Under-Secretary pushed out his lips and drummed his fingers on thedesk. Confounded hot-heads, he muttered. Very well, Retief. I'll go alongto the extent of a Note; but positively no further. A Note? I was thinking of something more like a squadron of CorpsPeace Enforcers running through a few routine maneuvers off Flamme. Out of the question. A stiffly worded Protest Note is the best I cando. That's final. Back in the corridor, Magnan turned to Retief. When will you learnnot to argue with Under-Secretaries? One would think you activelydisliked the idea of ever receiving a promotion. I was astonishedat the Under-Secretary's restraint. Frankly, I was stunned when heactually agreed to a Note. I, of course, will have to draft it. Magnanpulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. Now, I wonder, should I viewwith deep concern an act of open aggression, or merely point out anapparent violation of technicalities.... Don't bother, Retief said. I have a draft all ready to go. But how—? I had a feeling I'd get paper instead of action, Retief said. Ithought I'd save a little time all around. At times, your cynicism borders on impudence. At other times, it borders on disgust. Now, if you'll run the Notethrough for signature, I'll try to catch the six o'clock shuttle. Leaving so soon? There's an important reception tonight. Some of ourbiggest names will be there. An excellent opportunity for you to joinin the diplomatic give-and-take. No, thanks. I want to get back to Flamme and join in something mild,like a dinosaur hunt. When you get there, said Magnan, I hope you'll make it quite clearthat this matter is to be settled without violence. Don't worry. I'll keep the peace, if I have to start a war to do it. <doc-sep>On the broad verandah at Government House, Retief settled himselfcomfortably in a lounge chair. He accepted a tall glass from awhite-jacketed waiter and regarded the flamboyant Flamme sunset, agorgeous blaze of vermillion and purple that reflected from a stilllake, tinged the broad lawn with color, silhouetted tall poplars amongflower beds. You've done great things here in sixty years, Georges, said Retief.Not that natural geological processes wouldn't have produced the sameresults, given a couple of hundred million years. Don't belabor the point, the Boyar Chef d'Regime said. Since we seemto be on the verge of losing it. You're forgetting the Note. A Note, Georges said, waving his cigar. What the purple pollutedhell is a Note supposed to do? I've got Aga Kagan claim-jumpers campedin the middle of what used to be a fine stand of barley, cookingsheep's brains over dung fires not ten miles from Government House—andupwind at that. Say, if that's the same barley you distill your whiskey from, I'dcall that a first-class atrocity. Retief, on your say-so, I've kept my boys on a short leash. They'veput up with plenty. Last week, while you were away, these barbarianssailed that flotilla of armor-plated junks right through the middle ofone of our best oyster breeding beds. It was all I could do to keep abunch of our men from going out in private helis and blasting 'em outof the water. That wouldn't have been good for the oysters, either. That's what I told 'em. I also said you'd be back here in a few dayswith something from Corps HQ. When I tell 'em all we've got is a pieceof paper, that'll be the end. There's a strong vigilante organizationhere that's been outfitting for the last four weeks. If I hadn't heldthem back with assurances that the CDT would step in and take care ofthis invasion, they would have hit them before now. <doc-sep>That would have been a mistake, said Retief. The Aga Kagans aretough customers. They're active on half a dozen worlds at the moment.They've been building up for this push for the last five years. Ashow of resistance by you Boyars without Corps backing would be aninvitation to slaughter—with the excuse that you started it. So what are we going to do? Sit here and watch these goat-herders takeover our farms and fisheries? Those goat-herders aren't all they seem. They've got a first-classmodern navy. I've seen 'em. They camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around onanimal-back, wear dresses down to their ankles— The 'goat-skin' tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in the samefactory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes youmention. The animals are just for show. Back home they use helis andground cars of the most modern design. The Chef d'Regime chewed his cigar. Why the masquerade? Something to do with internal policies, I suppose. So we sit tight and watch 'em take our world away from us. That's whatI get for playing along with you, Retief. We should have clobberedthese monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world. Slow down, I haven't finished yet. There's still the Note. I've got plenty of paper already. Rolls and rolls of it. Give diplomatic processes a chance, said Retief. The Note hasn'teven been delivered yet. Who knows? We may get surprising results. If you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you're out ofluck. From what I hear, he's likely to come back with his ears stuffedin his hip pocket. I'll deliver the Note personally, Retief said. I could use a coupleof escorts—preferably strong-arm lads. The Chef d'Regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. I wasn't kiddingabout these Aga Kagans, he said. I hear they have some nasty habits.I don't want to see you operated on with the same knives they use toskin out the goats. I'd be against that myself. Still, the mail must go through. Strong-arm lads, eh? What have you got in mind, Retief? A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic custom, Retiefsaid. The Chef d'Regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. I used to be apretty fair elbow-wrestler myself, he said. Suppose I go along...? That, said Retief, should lend just the right note of solidarity toour little delegation. He hitched his chair closer. Now, depending onwhat we run into, here's how we'll play it.... II Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the capital, ablack-painted official air-car flying the twin flags of Chief of Stateand Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road.Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d'Regime waved his cigarglumly at the surrounding hills. Fifty years ago this was bare rock, he said. We've bred specialstrains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and wefollowed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We plannedto put the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like thegoats will get it. Will that scrubland support a crop? Retief said, eyeing thelichen-covered knolls. Sure. We start with legumes and follow up with cereals. Wait until yousee this next section. It's an old flood plain, came into productionthirty years ago. One of our finest— The air-car topped a rise. The Chef dropped his cigar and half rose,with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among astand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar'sarm. Keep calm, Georges, he said. Remember, we're on a diplomaticmission. It wouldn't do to come to the conference table smelling ofgoats. Let me at 'em! Georges roared. I'll throttle 'em with my bare hands! A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working. Look atthat long-nosed son! The goat gave a derisive bleat and took anothermouthful of ripe grain. Did you see that? Georges yelled. They've trained the son of a— Chin up, Georges, Retief said. We'll take up the goat problem alongwith the rest. I'll murder 'em! Hold it, Georges. Look over there. A hundred yards away, a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise,paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then gallopeddown the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaksbillowing out behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-goldengrain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep fromthe ridge to the air-car where Retief and the Chef d'Regime hovered,waiting. Georges scrambled for the side of the car. Just wait 'til I get myhands on him! Retief pulled him back. Sit tight and look pleased, Georges. Nevergive the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you're a goatlover—and hand me one of your cigars. The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a clatter ofpebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust. Retiefpeeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed, at it and thumbed it alight. Hedrew at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke and glanced casually at thetrio of Aga Kagan cavaliers. Peace be with you, he intoned in accent-free Kagan. May your shadowsnever grow less. <doc-sep>The leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard,unlimbered his rifle. He fingered it, frowning ferociously. Have no fear, Retief said, smiling graciously. He who comes as aguest enjoys perfect safety. A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath and leveled hisrifle at Retief. Youth is the steed of folly, Retief said. Take care that thebeardless one does not disgrace his house. The leader whirled on the youth and snarled an order. He lowered therifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief. Begone, interlopers, he said. You disturb the goats. Provision is not taken to the houses of the generous, Retief said.May the creatures dine well ere they move on. Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga Kaga.The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. We welcome nointruders on our lands. To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appearfoolish, Retief said. These are the lands of the Boyars. But enoughof these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler. You may address me as 'Exalted One', the leader said. Now dismountfrom that steed of Shaitan. It is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him 'sir',Retief said. I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Nowyou may conduct us to your headquarters. Enough of your insolence! The bearded man cocked his rifle. I couldblow your heads off! The hen has feathers, but it does not fly, Retief said. We haveasked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man,a hint is enough. You mock me, pale one. I warn you— Only love makes me weep, Retief said. I laugh at hatred. Get out of the car! Retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the Aga Kagan cheerfully. The youthin the rear moved forward, teeth bared. Never give in to the fool, lest he say, 'He fears me,' Retief said. I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults, the bearded AgaKagan roared. These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as well! When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings, Retief said.Distress in misfortune is another misfortune. The bearded man's face grew purple. Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car. Now I think we'd better be getting on, he said briskly. I've enjoyedour chat, but we do have business to attend to. The bearded leader laughed shortly. Does the condemned man beg for theaxe? he enquired rhetorically. You shall visit the Aga Kaga, then.Move on! And make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you abrief farewell. The horsemen glowered, then, at a word from the leader, took positionsaround the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following theleading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh. That was close, he said. I was about out of proverbs. You sound as though you'd brought off a coup, Georges said. From theexpression on the whiskery one's face, we're in for trouble. What washe saying? Just a routine exchange of bluffs, Retief said. Now when we getthere, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and yourinsults sound like flattery, and you'll be all right. These birds are armed. And they don't like strangers, Georges said.Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined thisexpedition. Just stick to the plan, Retief said. And remember: a handful of luckis better than a camel-load of learning. <doc-sep>The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry river bedand across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand to a greenoasis set with canopies. The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense tent ofglistening black. Before the tent armed men lounged under a pennantbearing a lion couchant in crimson on a field verte. Get out, Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, theirdrawn sabers catching sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from thecar onto rich rugs spread on the grass. They followed the ferociousgesture of the bearded man through the opening into a perfumed interiorof luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in the air, and thestrumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of sound behindthe decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end ofthe room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently cladman with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape intohis mouth. He wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offeredby a handmaiden, belched loudly and looked the callers over. Blackbeard cleared his throat. Down on your faces in the presence ofthe Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of East and West. Sorry, Retief said firmly. My hay-fever, you know. The reclining giant waved a hand languidly. Never mind the formalities, he said. Approach. Retief and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew towardthem. The reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on anothersilken scarf and held up a hand. Night and the horses and the desert know me, he said in resonanttones. Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen— Hepaused, wrinkled his nose and sneezed again. Turn off that damnedair-conditioner, he snapped. He settled himself and motioned the bearded man to him. The twoexchanged muted remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked hishead and withdrew to the rear. Excellency, Retief said, I have the honor to present M. GeorgesDuror, Chef d'Regime of the Planetary government. Planetary government? The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the rug. Mymen have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they're indistress, I'll see about a distribution of goat-meat. It is the punishment of the envious to grieve at anothers' plenty,Retief said. No goat-meat will be required. Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben Abdallah KatibJelebi, the Aga Kaga said. I know a few old sayings myself. Forexample, 'A Bedouin is only cheated once.' We have no such intentions, Excellency, Retief said. Is it notwritten, 'Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you'? I've had some unhappy experiences with strangers, the Aga Kaga said.It is written in the sands that all strangers are kin. Still, he whovisits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated. III Handmaidens brought cushions, giggled and fled. Retief and Georgessettled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence. We have come to bear tidings from the Corps DiplomatiqueTerrestrienne, Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offeredgrapes. Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge, the Aga Kagasaid. What brings the CDT into the picture? The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern, Retief said.Whereas the words of kings.... Very well, I concede the point. The Aga Kaga waved a hand at theserving maids. Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph.These are mere diplomats. They are men of words, not deeds. The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after him. Now, the Aga Kaga said. Let's drop the wisdom of the ages andget down to the issues. Not that I don't admire your repertoire ofplatitudes. How do you remember them all? Diplomats and other liars require good memories, said Retief. Butas you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I'm here to effect asettlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetaryauthorities. I have here a Note, which I'm conveying on behalf of theSector Under-Secretary. With your permission, I'll read it. Go ahead. The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the floor,eased a bottle from under the couch and reached for glasses. The Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to hisExcellency, the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, HereditarySheik, Emir of the— Yes, yes. Skip the titles. Retief flipped over two pages. ... and with reference to the recent relocation of persons under thejurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor to point out that theterritories now under settlement comprise a portion of that area,hereinafter designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms ofthe Agreement entered into by his Excellency's predecessor, and asreferenced in Sector Ministry's Notes numbers G-175846573957-b andX-7584736 c-1, with particular pertinence to that body designated inthe Revised Galactic Catalogue, Tenth Edition, as amended, VolumeNine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise referred to hereinafter asFlamme— Come to the point, the Aga Kaga cut in. You're here to lodge acomplaint that I'm invading territories to which someone else laysclaim, is that it? He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks and lit one.Well, I've been expecting a call. After all, it's what you gentlemenare paid for. Cheers. Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things, Retief said. Call me Stanley, the Aga Kaga said. The other routine is just toplease some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative membersof my government. They're still gnawing their beards and kickingthemselves because their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemyand got themselves stranded in a cultural dead end. This charade issupposed to prove they were right all along. However, I've no timeto waste in neurotic compensations. I have places to go and deeds toaccomplish. At first glance, Retief said, it looks as though the places arealready occupied, and the deeds are illegal. <doc-sep>The Aga Kaga guffawed. For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief. Haveanother drink. He poured, eyeing Georges. What of M. Duror? How doeshe feel about it? Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. Not bad, he said. Butnot quite good enough to cover the odor of goats. The Aga Kaga snorted. I thought the goats were overdoing it a bitmyself, he said. Still, the graybeards insisted. And I need theirsupport. Also, Georges said distinctly, I think you're soft. You lie aroundletting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honestday's work. The Aga Kaga looked startled. Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron baras big as your thumb. He popped a grape into his mouth. As for therest, your pious views about the virtues of hard labor are as childishas my advisors' faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. As formyself, I am a realist. If two monkeys want the same banana, in the endone will have it, and the other will cry morality. The days of my yearsare numbered, praise be to God. While they last, I hope to eat well,hunt well, fight well and take my share of pleasure. I leave to othersthe arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions. You admit you're here to grab our land, then, Georges said. That'sthe damnedest piece of bare-faced aggression— Ah, ah! The Aga Kaga held up a hand. Watch your vocabulary, mydear sir. I'm sure that 'justifiable yearnings for territorialself-realization' would be more appropriate to the situation. Orpossibly 'legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerlyexploited peoples' might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition,an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle ofColonial Imperialism. Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most notoriousplanet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you— Call me Stanley. The Aga Kaga munched a grape. I merely face therealities of popular folk-lore. Let's be pragmatic; it's a matter ofhistorical association. Some people can grab land and pass it offlightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely forholding onto their own. Unfair, you say. But that's life, my friends.And I shall continue to take every advantage of it. We'll fight you! Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of whiskeyand slammed the glass down. You won't take this world without astruggle! Another? the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges glowered ashis glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light. Excellent color, don't you agree? He turned his eyes on Georges. It's pointless to resist, he said. We have you outgunned andoutmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we'reprepared to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we donot immediately require until such time as you're able to make otherarrangements. And by the time we've got a crop growing out of what was bare rock,you'll be ready to move in, the Boyar Chef d'Regime snapped. Butyou'll find that we aren't alone! <doc-sep>Quite alone, the Aga said. He nodded sagely. Yes, one need but readthe lesson of history. The Corps Diplomatique will make expostulatorynoises, but it will accept the fait accompli . You, my dear sir, arebut a very small nibble. We won't make the mistake of excessive greed.We shall inch our way to empire—and those who stand in our way shallbe dubbed warmongers. I see you're quite a student of history, Stanley, Retief said. Iwonder if you recall the eventual fate of most of the would-be empirenibblers of the past? Ah, but they grew incautious. They went too far, too fast. The confounded impudence, Georges rasped. Tells us to our face whathe has in mind! An ancient and honorable custom, from the time of Mein Kampf andthe Communist Manifesto through the Porcelain Wall of Leung. Suchdeclarations have a legendary quality. It's traditional that they'renever taken at face value. But always, Retief said, there was a critical point at which the manon horseback could have been pulled from the saddle. Could have been, the Aga Kaga chuckled. He finished the grapes andbegan peeling an orange. But they never were. Hitler could have beenstopped by the Czech Air Force in 1938; Stalin was at the mercy of theprimitive atomics of the west in 1946; Leung was grossly over-extendedat Rangoon. But the onus of that historic role could not be overcome.It has been the fate of your spiritual forebears to carve civilizationfrom the wilderness and then, amid tearing of garments and the heapingof ashes of self-accusation on your own confused heads, to withdraw,leaving the spoils for local political opportunists and mob leaders,clothed in the mystical virtue of native birth. Have a banana. You're stretching your analogy a little too far, Retief said. You'rebanking on the inaction of the Corps. You could be wrong. I shall know when to stop, the Aga Kaga said. Tell me, Stanley, Retief said, rising. Are we quite private here? Yes, perfectly so, the Aga Kaga said. None would dare to intrude inmy council. He cocked an eyebrow at Retief. You have a proposal tomake in confidence? But what of our dear friend Georges? One would notlike to see him disillusioned. Don't worry about Georges. He's a realist, like you. He's prepared todeal in facts. Hard facts, in this case. The Aga Kaga nodded thoughtfully. What are you getting at? You're basing your plan of action on the certainty that the Corps willsit by, wringing its hands, while you embark on a career of planetarypiracy. Isn't it the custom? the Aga Kaga smiled complacently. I have news for you, Stanley. In this instance, neck-wringing seemsmore in order than hand-wringing. The Aga Kaga frowned. Your manner— Never mind our manners! Georges blurted, standing. We don't need anylessons from goat-herding land-thieves! The Aga Kaga's face darkened. You dare to speak thus to me, pig of amuck-grubber! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

As the story opens, Retief, the Minister to Flamme, is meeting with other members of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne, including Under-Secretary Sternwheeler and Deputy Under-Secretary Magnan. The men discuss Retief’s plan to visit Flamme in person to deal with the growing conflict between the Boyars, who have been living on Flamme for sixty years, and the Aga Kagans. The latter recently arrived on Flamme and began taking over land that the Boyars are farming. The Aga Kagans appear to be goat herders, living in tents and allowing their goats to graze on land that the Boyars use for crops, but in reality, the Aga Kagans have weapons, including 40 mm infinite repeaters and rocket launchers. Retief wants to offer the Boyars the support of the Corps, but Sternwheeler will only go so far as to authorize a “stiffly worded Protest Note.” With foresight, Retief has already drafted a note because he anticipated the Corps would respond with paperwork rather than action. Retief travels to Flamme and meets with Georges Duror, the Boyar Chef d’Regime. Georges indicates that he has been holding back his men who want to attack the Aga Kagans for taking their land, and Retief reminds Georges that if the Boyars act without backing from the Corps, they are likely to be destroyed. Retief also tells Georges that the goats and tents are just for show; the Aga Kagans have a modern navy and bullet-proof cloaks, and on their home planet, they travel via modern helis and ground cars. Georges seems discouraged by this news, but Retief reminds him he has the Note and asks him to give diplomacy a chance. Retief and Georges travel to meet with the head of the Aga Kagans to deliver the Note. On the way, Georges points out the progress that the Boyars have made on Flamme. They stop their air-car when Georges sees a herd of goats in a grain field, and three Aga Kagan horsemen confront them. Retief asks them to take him and Georges to their leader, and they do. Retief introduces Georges as from the Planetary government to the leader, Stanley, and offers to read the Note. He begins with a series of titles until Stanley tells him to skip them. Retief flips two pages and begins a long, legalistic description of relocated people until Stanley cuts him off. Stanley says the Boyars will be accused of imperialism if they attack the Aga Kagans but offers to allow the Boyars to stay until they can make other arrangements. Stanley reveals that the Aga Kagans are slowly creating an empire, and he expects the Corps won’t do anything about it. Georges and Stanley exchange heated insults.

Compare and contrast Georges and Retief. [SEP] <s> THE DESERT AND THE STARS BY KEITH LAUMER The Aga Kaga wanted peace—a piece of everything in sight! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I'm not at all sure, Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, that I fullyunderstand the necessity for your ... ah ... absenting yourself fromyour post of duty, Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealtwith in the usual way—assuming any action is necessary. I had a sharp attack of writer's cramp, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.So I thought I'd better come along in person—just to be sure I waspositive of making my point. Eh? Why, ah, there were a number of dispatches, Deputy Under-SecretaryMagnan put in. Unfortunately, this being end-of-the-fiscal-year time,we found ourselves quite inundated with reports. Reports, reports,reports— Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan? theUnder-Secretary barked. Gracious, no, Magnan said. I love reports. It seems nobody's told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years, Retiefsaid. They're going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing onFlamme. So far, I've persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for theCorps, and not to take matters into their own hands. The Under-Secretary nodded. Quite right. Carry on along the samelines. Now, if there's nothing further— Thank you, Mr. Secretary, Magnan said, rising. We certainlyappreciate your guidance. There is a little something further, said Retief, sitting solidly inhis chair. What's the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans? The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. As Ministerto Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomaticrepresentative is merely to ... what shall I say...? String them along? Magnan suggested. An unfortunate choice of phrase, the Under-Secretary said. However,it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics. The Corps mustconcern itself with matters of broad policy. Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to settleFlamme, Retief said. They were assured of Corps support. I don't believe you'll find that in writing, said the Under-Secretaryblandly. In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time afoothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Nowthe situation has changed. The Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme, Retief said.They've cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set outforests. They've just about reached the point where they can begin toenjoy it. The Aga Kagans have picked this as a good time to move in.They've landed thirty detachments of 'fishermen'—complete with armoredtrawlers mounting 40 mm infinite repeaters—and another two dozenparties of 'homesteaders'—all male and toting rocket launchers. Surely there's land enough on the world to afford space to bothgroups, the Under-Secretary said. A spirit of co-operation— <doc-sep>The Boyars needed some co-operation sixty years ago, Retief said.They tried to get the Aga Kagans to join in and help them beatback some of the saurian wild life that liked to graze on people.The Corps didn't like the idea. They wanted to see an undisputedanti-Concordiatist enclave. The Aga Kagans didn't want to play, either.But now that the world is tamed, they're moving in. The exigencies of diplomacy require a flexible policy— I want a firm assurance of Corps support to take back to Flamme,Retief said. The Boyars are a little naive. They don't understanddiplomatic triple-speak. They just want to hold onto the homes they'vemade out of a wasteland. I'm warning you, Retief! the Under-Secretary snapped, leaningforward, wattles quivering. Corps policy with regard to Flammeincludes no inflammatory actions based on outmoded concepts. The Boyarswill have to accommodate themselves to the situation! That's what I'm afraid of, Retief said. They're not going to sitstill and watch it happen. If I don't take back concrete evidence ofCorps backing, we're going to have a nice hot little shooting war onour hands. The Under-Secretary pushed out his lips and drummed his fingers on thedesk. Confounded hot-heads, he muttered. Very well, Retief. I'll go alongto the extent of a Note; but positively no further. A Note? I was thinking of something more like a squadron of CorpsPeace Enforcers running through a few routine maneuvers off Flamme. Out of the question. A stiffly worded Protest Note is the best I cando. That's final. Back in the corridor, Magnan turned to Retief. When will you learnnot to argue with Under-Secretaries? One would think you activelydisliked the idea of ever receiving a promotion. I was astonishedat the Under-Secretary's restraint. Frankly, I was stunned when heactually agreed to a Note. I, of course, will have to draft it. Magnanpulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. Now, I wonder, should I viewwith deep concern an act of open aggression, or merely point out anapparent violation of technicalities.... Don't bother, Retief said. I have a draft all ready to go. But how—? I had a feeling I'd get paper instead of action, Retief said. Ithought I'd save a little time all around. At times, your cynicism borders on impudence. At other times, it borders on disgust. Now, if you'll run the Notethrough for signature, I'll try to catch the six o'clock shuttle. Leaving so soon? There's an important reception tonight. Some of ourbiggest names will be there. An excellent opportunity for you to joinin the diplomatic give-and-take. No, thanks. I want to get back to Flamme and join in something mild,like a dinosaur hunt. When you get there, said Magnan, I hope you'll make it quite clearthat this matter is to be settled without violence. Don't worry. I'll keep the peace, if I have to start a war to do it. <doc-sep>On the broad verandah at Government House, Retief settled himselfcomfortably in a lounge chair. He accepted a tall glass from awhite-jacketed waiter and regarded the flamboyant Flamme sunset, agorgeous blaze of vermillion and purple that reflected from a stilllake, tinged the broad lawn with color, silhouetted tall poplars amongflower beds. You've done great things here in sixty years, Georges, said Retief.Not that natural geological processes wouldn't have produced the sameresults, given a couple of hundred million years. Don't belabor the point, the Boyar Chef d'Regime said. Since we seemto be on the verge of losing it. You're forgetting the Note. A Note, Georges said, waving his cigar. What the purple pollutedhell is a Note supposed to do? I've got Aga Kagan claim-jumpers campedin the middle of what used to be a fine stand of barley, cookingsheep's brains over dung fires not ten miles from Government House—andupwind at that. Say, if that's the same barley you distill your whiskey from, I'dcall that a first-class atrocity. Retief, on your say-so, I've kept my boys on a short leash. They'veput up with plenty. Last week, while you were away, these barbarianssailed that flotilla of armor-plated junks right through the middle ofone of our best oyster breeding beds. It was all I could do to keep abunch of our men from going out in private helis and blasting 'em outof the water. That wouldn't have been good for the oysters, either. That's what I told 'em. I also said you'd be back here in a few dayswith something from Corps HQ. When I tell 'em all we've got is a pieceof paper, that'll be the end. There's a strong vigilante organizationhere that's been outfitting for the last four weeks. If I hadn't heldthem back with assurances that the CDT would step in and take care ofthis invasion, they would have hit them before now. <doc-sep>That would have been a mistake, said Retief. The Aga Kagans aretough customers. They're active on half a dozen worlds at the moment.They've been building up for this push for the last five years. Ashow of resistance by you Boyars without Corps backing would be aninvitation to slaughter—with the excuse that you started it. So what are we going to do? Sit here and watch these goat-herders takeover our farms and fisheries? Those goat-herders aren't all they seem. They've got a first-classmodern navy. I've seen 'em. They camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around onanimal-back, wear dresses down to their ankles— The 'goat-skin' tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in the samefactory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes youmention. The animals are just for show. Back home they use helis andground cars of the most modern design. The Chef d'Regime chewed his cigar. Why the masquerade? Something to do with internal policies, I suppose. So we sit tight and watch 'em take our world away from us. That's whatI get for playing along with you, Retief. We should have clobberedthese monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world. Slow down, I haven't finished yet. There's still the Note. I've got plenty of paper already. Rolls and rolls of it. Give diplomatic processes a chance, said Retief. The Note hasn'teven been delivered yet. Who knows? We may get surprising results. If you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you're out ofluck. From what I hear, he's likely to come back with his ears stuffedin his hip pocket. I'll deliver the Note personally, Retief said. I could use a coupleof escorts—preferably strong-arm lads. The Chef d'Regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. I wasn't kiddingabout these Aga Kagans, he said. I hear they have some nasty habits.I don't want to see you operated on with the same knives they use toskin out the goats. I'd be against that myself. Still, the mail must go through. Strong-arm lads, eh? What have you got in mind, Retief? A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic custom, Retiefsaid. The Chef d'Regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. I used to be apretty fair elbow-wrestler myself, he said. Suppose I go along...? That, said Retief, should lend just the right note of solidarity toour little delegation. He hitched his chair closer. Now, depending onwhat we run into, here's how we'll play it.... II Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the capital, ablack-painted official air-car flying the twin flags of Chief of Stateand Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road.Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d'Regime waved his cigarglumly at the surrounding hills. Fifty years ago this was bare rock, he said. We've bred specialstrains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and wefollowed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We plannedto put the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like thegoats will get it. Will that scrubland support a crop? Retief said, eyeing thelichen-covered knolls. Sure. We start with legumes and follow up with cereals. Wait until yousee this next section. It's an old flood plain, came into productionthirty years ago. One of our finest— The air-car topped a rise. The Chef dropped his cigar and half rose,with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among astand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar'sarm. Keep calm, Georges, he said. Remember, we're on a diplomaticmission. It wouldn't do to come to the conference table smelling ofgoats. Let me at 'em! Georges roared. I'll throttle 'em with my bare hands! A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working. Look atthat long-nosed son! The goat gave a derisive bleat and took anothermouthful of ripe grain. Did you see that? Georges yelled. They've trained the son of a— Chin up, Georges, Retief said. We'll take up the goat problem alongwith the rest. I'll murder 'em! Hold it, Georges. Look over there. A hundred yards away, a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise,paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then gallopeddown the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaksbillowing out behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-goldengrain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep fromthe ridge to the air-car where Retief and the Chef d'Regime hovered,waiting. Georges scrambled for the side of the car. Just wait 'til I get myhands on him! Retief pulled him back. Sit tight and look pleased, Georges. Nevergive the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you're a goatlover—and hand me one of your cigars. The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a clatter ofpebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust. Retiefpeeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed, at it and thumbed it alight. Hedrew at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke and glanced casually at thetrio of Aga Kagan cavaliers. Peace be with you, he intoned in accent-free Kagan. May your shadowsnever grow less. <doc-sep>The leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard,unlimbered his rifle. He fingered it, frowning ferociously. Have no fear, Retief said, smiling graciously. He who comes as aguest enjoys perfect safety. A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath and leveled hisrifle at Retief. Youth is the steed of folly, Retief said. Take care that thebeardless one does not disgrace his house. The leader whirled on the youth and snarled an order. He lowered therifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief. Begone, interlopers, he said. You disturb the goats. Provision is not taken to the houses of the generous, Retief said.May the creatures dine well ere they move on. Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga Kaga.The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. We welcome nointruders on our lands. To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appearfoolish, Retief said. These are the lands of the Boyars. But enoughof these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler. You may address me as 'Exalted One', the leader said. Now dismountfrom that steed of Shaitan. It is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him 'sir',Retief said. I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Nowyou may conduct us to your headquarters. Enough of your insolence! The bearded man cocked his rifle. I couldblow your heads off! The hen has feathers, but it does not fly, Retief said. We haveasked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man,a hint is enough. You mock me, pale one. I warn you— Only love makes me weep, Retief said. I laugh at hatred. Get out of the car! Retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the Aga Kagan cheerfully. The youthin the rear moved forward, teeth bared. Never give in to the fool, lest he say, 'He fears me,' Retief said. I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults, the bearded AgaKagan roared. These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as well! When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings, Retief said.Distress in misfortune is another misfortune. The bearded man's face grew purple. Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car. Now I think we'd better be getting on, he said briskly. I've enjoyedour chat, but we do have business to attend to. The bearded leader laughed shortly. Does the condemned man beg for theaxe? he enquired rhetorically. You shall visit the Aga Kaga, then.Move on! And make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you abrief farewell. The horsemen glowered, then, at a word from the leader, took positionsaround the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following theleading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh. That was close, he said. I was about out of proverbs. You sound as though you'd brought off a coup, Georges said. From theexpression on the whiskery one's face, we're in for trouble. What washe saying? Just a routine exchange of bluffs, Retief said. Now when we getthere, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and yourinsults sound like flattery, and you'll be all right. These birds are armed. And they don't like strangers, Georges said.Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined thisexpedition. Just stick to the plan, Retief said. And remember: a handful of luckis better than a camel-load of learning. <doc-sep>The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry river bedand across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand to a greenoasis set with canopies. The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense tent ofglistening black. Before the tent armed men lounged under a pennantbearing a lion couchant in crimson on a field verte. Get out, Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, theirdrawn sabers catching sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from thecar onto rich rugs spread on the grass. They followed the ferociousgesture of the bearded man through the opening into a perfumed interiorof luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in the air, and thestrumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of sound behindthe decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end ofthe room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently cladman with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape intohis mouth. He wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offeredby a handmaiden, belched loudly and looked the callers over. Blackbeard cleared his throat. Down on your faces in the presence ofthe Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of East and West. Sorry, Retief said firmly. My hay-fever, you know. The reclining giant waved a hand languidly. Never mind the formalities, he said. Approach. Retief and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew towardthem. The reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on anothersilken scarf and held up a hand. Night and the horses and the desert know me, he said in resonanttones. Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen— Hepaused, wrinkled his nose and sneezed again. Turn off that damnedair-conditioner, he snapped. He settled himself and motioned the bearded man to him. The twoexchanged muted remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked hishead and withdrew to the rear. Excellency, Retief said, I have the honor to present M. GeorgesDuror, Chef d'Regime of the Planetary government. Planetary government? The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the rug. Mymen have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they're indistress, I'll see about a distribution of goat-meat. It is the punishment of the envious to grieve at anothers' plenty,Retief said. No goat-meat will be required. Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben Abdallah KatibJelebi, the Aga Kaga said. I know a few old sayings myself. Forexample, 'A Bedouin is only cheated once.' We have no such intentions, Excellency, Retief said. Is it notwritten, 'Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you'? I've had some unhappy experiences with strangers, the Aga Kaga said.It is written in the sands that all strangers are kin. Still, he whovisits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated. III Handmaidens brought cushions, giggled and fled. Retief and Georgessettled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence. We have come to bear tidings from the Corps DiplomatiqueTerrestrienne, Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offeredgrapes. Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge, the Aga Kagasaid. What brings the CDT into the picture? The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern, Retief said.Whereas the words of kings.... Very well, I concede the point. The Aga Kaga waved a hand at theserving maids. Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph.These are mere diplomats. They are men of words, not deeds. The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after him. Now, the Aga Kaga said. Let's drop the wisdom of the ages andget down to the issues. Not that I don't admire your repertoire ofplatitudes. How do you remember them all? Diplomats and other liars require good memories, said Retief. Butas you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I'm here to effect asettlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetaryauthorities. I have here a Note, which I'm conveying on behalf of theSector Under-Secretary. With your permission, I'll read it. Go ahead. The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the floor,eased a bottle from under the couch and reached for glasses. The Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to hisExcellency, the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, HereditarySheik, Emir of the— Yes, yes. Skip the titles. Retief flipped over two pages. ... and with reference to the recent relocation of persons under thejurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor to point out that theterritories now under settlement comprise a portion of that area,hereinafter designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms ofthe Agreement entered into by his Excellency's predecessor, and asreferenced in Sector Ministry's Notes numbers G-175846573957-b andX-7584736 c-1, with particular pertinence to that body designated inthe Revised Galactic Catalogue, Tenth Edition, as amended, VolumeNine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise referred to hereinafter asFlamme— Come to the point, the Aga Kaga cut in. You're here to lodge acomplaint that I'm invading territories to which someone else laysclaim, is that it? He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks and lit one.Well, I've been expecting a call. After all, it's what you gentlemenare paid for. Cheers. Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things, Retief said. Call me Stanley, the Aga Kaga said. The other routine is just toplease some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative membersof my government. They're still gnawing their beards and kickingthemselves because their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemyand got themselves stranded in a cultural dead end. This charade issupposed to prove they were right all along. However, I've no timeto waste in neurotic compensations. I have places to go and deeds toaccomplish. At first glance, Retief said, it looks as though the places arealready occupied, and the deeds are illegal. <doc-sep>The Aga Kaga guffawed. For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief. Haveanother drink. He poured, eyeing Georges. What of M. Duror? How doeshe feel about it? Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. Not bad, he said. Butnot quite good enough to cover the odor of goats. The Aga Kaga snorted. I thought the goats were overdoing it a bitmyself, he said. Still, the graybeards insisted. And I need theirsupport. Also, Georges said distinctly, I think you're soft. You lie aroundletting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honestday's work. The Aga Kaga looked startled. Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron baras big as your thumb. He popped a grape into his mouth. As for therest, your pious views about the virtues of hard labor are as childishas my advisors' faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. As formyself, I am a realist. If two monkeys want the same banana, in the endone will have it, and the other will cry morality. The days of my yearsare numbered, praise be to God. While they last, I hope to eat well,hunt well, fight well and take my share of pleasure. I leave to othersthe arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions. You admit you're here to grab our land, then, Georges said. That'sthe damnedest piece of bare-faced aggression— Ah, ah! The Aga Kaga held up a hand. Watch your vocabulary, mydear sir. I'm sure that 'justifiable yearnings for territorialself-realization' would be more appropriate to the situation. Orpossibly 'legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerlyexploited peoples' might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition,an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle ofColonial Imperialism. Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most notoriousplanet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you— Call me Stanley. The Aga Kaga munched a grape. I merely face therealities of popular folk-lore. Let's be pragmatic; it's a matter ofhistorical association. Some people can grab land and pass it offlightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely forholding onto their own. Unfair, you say. But that's life, my friends.And I shall continue to take every advantage of it. We'll fight you! Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of whiskeyand slammed the glass down. You won't take this world without astruggle! Another? the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges glowered ashis glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light. Excellent color, don't you agree? He turned his eyes on Georges. It's pointless to resist, he said. We have you outgunned andoutmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we'reprepared to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we donot immediately require until such time as you're able to make otherarrangements. And by the time we've got a crop growing out of what was bare rock,you'll be ready to move in, the Boyar Chef d'Regime snapped. Butyou'll find that we aren't alone! <doc-sep>Quite alone, the Aga said. He nodded sagely. Yes, one need but readthe lesson of history. The Corps Diplomatique will make expostulatorynoises, but it will accept the fait accompli . You, my dear sir, arebut a very small nibble. We won't make the mistake of excessive greed.We shall inch our way to empire—and those who stand in our way shallbe dubbed warmongers. I see you're quite a student of history, Stanley, Retief said. Iwonder if you recall the eventual fate of most of the would-be empirenibblers of the past? Ah, but they grew incautious. They went too far, too fast. The confounded impudence, Georges rasped. Tells us to our face whathe has in mind! An ancient and honorable custom, from the time of Mein Kampf andthe Communist Manifesto through the Porcelain Wall of Leung. Suchdeclarations have a legendary quality. It's traditional that they'renever taken at face value. But always, Retief said, there was a critical point at which the manon horseback could have been pulled from the saddle. Could have been, the Aga Kaga chuckled. He finished the grapes andbegan peeling an orange. But they never were. Hitler could have beenstopped by the Czech Air Force in 1938; Stalin was at the mercy of theprimitive atomics of the west in 1946; Leung was grossly over-extendedat Rangoon. But the onus of that historic role could not be overcome.It has been the fate of your spiritual forebears to carve civilizationfrom the wilderness and then, amid tearing of garments and the heapingof ashes of self-accusation on your own confused heads, to withdraw,leaving the spoils for local political opportunists and mob leaders,clothed in the mystical virtue of native birth. Have a banana. You're stretching your analogy a little too far, Retief said. You'rebanking on the inaction of the Corps. You could be wrong. I shall know when to stop, the Aga Kaga said. Tell me, Stanley, Retief said, rising. Are we quite private here? Yes, perfectly so, the Aga Kaga said. None would dare to intrude inmy council. He cocked an eyebrow at Retief. You have a proposal tomake in confidence? But what of our dear friend Georges? One would notlike to see him disillusioned. Don't worry about Georges. He's a realist, like you. He's prepared todeal in facts. Hard facts, in this case. The Aga Kaga nodded thoughtfully. What are you getting at? You're basing your plan of action on the certainty that the Corps willsit by, wringing its hands, while you embark on a career of planetarypiracy. Isn't it the custom? the Aga Kaga smiled complacently. I have news for you, Stanley. In this instance, neck-wringing seemsmore in order than hand-wringing. The Aga Kaga frowned. Your manner— Never mind our manners! Georges blurted, standing. We don't need anylessons from goat-herding land-thieves! The Aga Kaga's face darkened. You dare to speak thus to me, pig of amuck-grubber! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Compare and contrast Georges and Retief.

The two men have dealt with each other prior to the events in the story; Retief addresses Georges by his first name, so they know each other fairly well. However, Retief’s position is higher than Georges’s position. Retief works for the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne; Georges works for the Planetary government. Retief knows information about the Aga Kagans that Georges doesn’t know, such as the fact that they are armed, have bulletproof cloaks, and have modern technology on their home planet. He has advised Georges about handling the situation with the Aga Kagans, urging him to prevent the Boyars from attacking the Aga Kagans, and Georges trusts Retief to secure assistance for them. Retief is sympathetic to the Boyars and their situation, trying to persuade Under-Secretary Sternwheeler to support them. When Retief tells Georges that he will personally deliver the Note to the Aga Kagans, Georges wants to help Retief and volunteers to go with him; Retief agrees. It is Retief who develops the plan for handling the Aga Kagans. Georges is impulsive, which leads Retief to keep watch on him. When they encounter the goats in the grain field, Retief has to convince Georges not to hurt the animals, and when the horsemen ride through the grain, Retief has to hold him back again. Retief is calmer in stressful situations and reminds Georges of their strategy: to make their flattery sound like insults and their insults sound like flattery. Georges seems unsure of himself and comments that he should have learned more about their habits before accompanying Retief. Retief has to translate what the Aga Kagans say for Georges in order for him to know what is going on. When the two men meet with Stanley, Retief maintains his calm demeanor, while Georges loses his temper.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> THE DESERT AND THE STARS BY KEITH LAUMER The Aga Kaga wanted peace—a piece of everything in sight! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I'm not at all sure, Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, that I fullyunderstand the necessity for your ... ah ... absenting yourself fromyour post of duty, Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealtwith in the usual way—assuming any action is necessary. I had a sharp attack of writer's cramp, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.So I thought I'd better come along in person—just to be sure I waspositive of making my point. Eh? Why, ah, there were a number of dispatches, Deputy Under-SecretaryMagnan put in. Unfortunately, this being end-of-the-fiscal-year time,we found ourselves quite inundated with reports. Reports, reports,reports— Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan? theUnder-Secretary barked. Gracious, no, Magnan said. I love reports. It seems nobody's told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years, Retiefsaid. They're going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing onFlamme. So far, I've persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for theCorps, and not to take matters into their own hands. The Under-Secretary nodded. Quite right. Carry on along the samelines. Now, if there's nothing further— Thank you, Mr. Secretary, Magnan said, rising. We certainlyappreciate your guidance. There is a little something further, said Retief, sitting solidly inhis chair. What's the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans? The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. As Ministerto Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomaticrepresentative is merely to ... what shall I say...? String them along? Magnan suggested. An unfortunate choice of phrase, the Under-Secretary said. However,it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics. The Corps mustconcern itself with matters of broad policy. Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to settleFlamme, Retief said. They were assured of Corps support. I don't believe you'll find that in writing, said the Under-Secretaryblandly. In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time afoothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Nowthe situation has changed. The Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme, Retief said.They've cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set outforests. They've just about reached the point where they can begin toenjoy it. The Aga Kagans have picked this as a good time to move in.They've landed thirty detachments of 'fishermen'—complete with armoredtrawlers mounting 40 mm infinite repeaters—and another two dozenparties of 'homesteaders'—all male and toting rocket launchers. Surely there's land enough on the world to afford space to bothgroups, the Under-Secretary said. A spirit of co-operation— <doc-sep>The Boyars needed some co-operation sixty years ago, Retief said.They tried to get the Aga Kagans to join in and help them beatback some of the saurian wild life that liked to graze on people.The Corps didn't like the idea. They wanted to see an undisputedanti-Concordiatist enclave. The Aga Kagans didn't want to play, either.But now that the world is tamed, they're moving in. The exigencies of diplomacy require a flexible policy— I want a firm assurance of Corps support to take back to Flamme,Retief said. The Boyars are a little naive. They don't understanddiplomatic triple-speak. They just want to hold onto the homes they'vemade out of a wasteland. I'm warning you, Retief! the Under-Secretary snapped, leaningforward, wattles quivering. Corps policy with regard to Flammeincludes no inflammatory actions based on outmoded concepts. The Boyarswill have to accommodate themselves to the situation! That's what I'm afraid of, Retief said. They're not going to sitstill and watch it happen. If I don't take back concrete evidence ofCorps backing, we're going to have a nice hot little shooting war onour hands. The Under-Secretary pushed out his lips and drummed his fingers on thedesk. Confounded hot-heads, he muttered. Very well, Retief. I'll go alongto the extent of a Note; but positively no further. A Note? I was thinking of something more like a squadron of CorpsPeace Enforcers running through a few routine maneuvers off Flamme. Out of the question. A stiffly worded Protest Note is the best I cando. That's final. Back in the corridor, Magnan turned to Retief. When will you learnnot to argue with Under-Secretaries? One would think you activelydisliked the idea of ever receiving a promotion. I was astonishedat the Under-Secretary's restraint. Frankly, I was stunned when heactually agreed to a Note. I, of course, will have to draft it. Magnanpulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. Now, I wonder, should I viewwith deep concern an act of open aggression, or merely point out anapparent violation of technicalities.... Don't bother, Retief said. I have a draft all ready to go. But how—? I had a feeling I'd get paper instead of action, Retief said. Ithought I'd save a little time all around. At times, your cynicism borders on impudence. At other times, it borders on disgust. Now, if you'll run the Notethrough for signature, I'll try to catch the six o'clock shuttle. Leaving so soon? There's an important reception tonight. Some of ourbiggest names will be there. An excellent opportunity for you to joinin the diplomatic give-and-take. No, thanks. I want to get back to Flamme and join in something mild,like a dinosaur hunt. When you get there, said Magnan, I hope you'll make it quite clearthat this matter is to be settled without violence. Don't worry. I'll keep the peace, if I have to start a war to do it. <doc-sep>On the broad verandah at Government House, Retief settled himselfcomfortably in a lounge chair. He accepted a tall glass from awhite-jacketed waiter and regarded the flamboyant Flamme sunset, agorgeous blaze of vermillion and purple that reflected from a stilllake, tinged the broad lawn with color, silhouetted tall poplars amongflower beds. You've done great things here in sixty years, Georges, said Retief.Not that natural geological processes wouldn't have produced the sameresults, given a couple of hundred million years. Don't belabor the point, the Boyar Chef d'Regime said. Since we seemto be on the verge of losing it. You're forgetting the Note. A Note, Georges said, waving his cigar. What the purple pollutedhell is a Note supposed to do? I've got Aga Kagan claim-jumpers campedin the middle of what used to be a fine stand of barley, cookingsheep's brains over dung fires not ten miles from Government House—andupwind at that. Say, if that's the same barley you distill your whiskey from, I'dcall that a first-class atrocity. Retief, on your say-so, I've kept my boys on a short leash. They'veput up with plenty. Last week, while you were away, these barbarianssailed that flotilla of armor-plated junks right through the middle ofone of our best oyster breeding beds. It was all I could do to keep abunch of our men from going out in private helis and blasting 'em outof the water. That wouldn't have been good for the oysters, either. That's what I told 'em. I also said you'd be back here in a few dayswith something from Corps HQ. When I tell 'em all we've got is a pieceof paper, that'll be the end. There's a strong vigilante organizationhere that's been outfitting for the last four weeks. If I hadn't heldthem back with assurances that the CDT would step in and take care ofthis invasion, they would have hit them before now. <doc-sep>That would have been a mistake, said Retief. The Aga Kagans aretough customers. They're active on half a dozen worlds at the moment.They've been building up for this push for the last five years. Ashow of resistance by you Boyars without Corps backing would be aninvitation to slaughter—with the excuse that you started it. So what are we going to do? Sit here and watch these goat-herders takeover our farms and fisheries? Those goat-herders aren't all they seem. They've got a first-classmodern navy. I've seen 'em. They camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around onanimal-back, wear dresses down to their ankles— The 'goat-skin' tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in the samefactory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes youmention. The animals are just for show. Back home they use helis andground cars of the most modern design. The Chef d'Regime chewed his cigar. Why the masquerade? Something to do with internal policies, I suppose. So we sit tight and watch 'em take our world away from us. That's whatI get for playing along with you, Retief. We should have clobberedthese monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world. Slow down, I haven't finished yet. There's still the Note. I've got plenty of paper already. Rolls and rolls of it. Give diplomatic processes a chance, said Retief. The Note hasn'teven been delivered yet. Who knows? We may get surprising results. If you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you're out ofluck. From what I hear, he's likely to come back with his ears stuffedin his hip pocket. I'll deliver the Note personally, Retief said. I could use a coupleof escorts—preferably strong-arm lads. The Chef d'Regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. I wasn't kiddingabout these Aga Kagans, he said. I hear they have some nasty habits.I don't want to see you operated on with the same knives they use toskin out the goats. I'd be against that myself. Still, the mail must go through. Strong-arm lads, eh? What have you got in mind, Retief? A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic custom, Retiefsaid. The Chef d'Regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. I used to be apretty fair elbow-wrestler myself, he said. Suppose I go along...? That, said Retief, should lend just the right note of solidarity toour little delegation. He hitched his chair closer. Now, depending onwhat we run into, here's how we'll play it.... II Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the capital, ablack-painted official air-car flying the twin flags of Chief of Stateand Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road.Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d'Regime waved his cigarglumly at the surrounding hills. Fifty years ago this was bare rock, he said. We've bred specialstrains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and wefollowed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We plannedto put the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like thegoats will get it. Will that scrubland support a crop? Retief said, eyeing thelichen-covered knolls. Sure. We start with legumes and follow up with cereals. Wait until yousee this next section. It's an old flood plain, came into productionthirty years ago. One of our finest— The air-car topped a rise. The Chef dropped his cigar and half rose,with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among astand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar'sarm. Keep calm, Georges, he said. Remember, we're on a diplomaticmission. It wouldn't do to come to the conference table smelling ofgoats. Let me at 'em! Georges roared. I'll throttle 'em with my bare hands! A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working. Look atthat long-nosed son! The goat gave a derisive bleat and took anothermouthful of ripe grain. Did you see that? Georges yelled. They've trained the son of a— Chin up, Georges, Retief said. We'll take up the goat problem alongwith the rest. I'll murder 'em! Hold it, Georges. Look over there. A hundred yards away, a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise,paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then gallopeddown the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaksbillowing out behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-goldengrain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep fromthe ridge to the air-car where Retief and the Chef d'Regime hovered,waiting. Georges scrambled for the side of the car. Just wait 'til I get myhands on him! Retief pulled him back. Sit tight and look pleased, Georges. Nevergive the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you're a goatlover—and hand me one of your cigars. The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a clatter ofpebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust. Retiefpeeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed, at it and thumbed it alight. Hedrew at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke and glanced casually at thetrio of Aga Kagan cavaliers. Peace be with you, he intoned in accent-free Kagan. May your shadowsnever grow less. <doc-sep>The leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard,unlimbered his rifle. He fingered it, frowning ferociously. Have no fear, Retief said, smiling graciously. He who comes as aguest enjoys perfect safety. A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath and leveled hisrifle at Retief. Youth is the steed of folly, Retief said. Take care that thebeardless one does not disgrace his house. The leader whirled on the youth and snarled an order. He lowered therifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief. Begone, interlopers, he said. You disturb the goats. Provision is not taken to the houses of the generous, Retief said.May the creatures dine well ere they move on. Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga Kaga.The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. We welcome nointruders on our lands. To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appearfoolish, Retief said. These are the lands of the Boyars. But enoughof these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler. You may address me as 'Exalted One', the leader said. Now dismountfrom that steed of Shaitan. It is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him 'sir',Retief said. I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Nowyou may conduct us to your headquarters. Enough of your insolence! The bearded man cocked his rifle. I couldblow your heads off! The hen has feathers, but it does not fly, Retief said. We haveasked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man,a hint is enough. You mock me, pale one. I warn you— Only love makes me weep, Retief said. I laugh at hatred. Get out of the car! Retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the Aga Kagan cheerfully. The youthin the rear moved forward, teeth bared. Never give in to the fool, lest he say, 'He fears me,' Retief said. I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults, the bearded AgaKagan roared. These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as well! When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings, Retief said.Distress in misfortune is another misfortune. The bearded man's face grew purple. Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car. Now I think we'd better be getting on, he said briskly. I've enjoyedour chat, but we do have business to attend to. The bearded leader laughed shortly. Does the condemned man beg for theaxe? he enquired rhetorically. You shall visit the Aga Kaga, then.Move on! And make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you abrief farewell. The horsemen glowered, then, at a word from the leader, took positionsaround the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following theleading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh. That was close, he said. I was about out of proverbs. You sound as though you'd brought off a coup, Georges said. From theexpression on the whiskery one's face, we're in for trouble. What washe saying? Just a routine exchange of bluffs, Retief said. Now when we getthere, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and yourinsults sound like flattery, and you'll be all right. These birds are armed. And they don't like strangers, Georges said.Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined thisexpedition. Just stick to the plan, Retief said. And remember: a handful of luckis better than a camel-load of learning. <doc-sep>The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry river bedand across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand to a greenoasis set with canopies. The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense tent ofglistening black. Before the tent armed men lounged under a pennantbearing a lion couchant in crimson on a field verte. Get out, Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, theirdrawn sabers catching sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from thecar onto rich rugs spread on the grass. They followed the ferociousgesture of the bearded man through the opening into a perfumed interiorof luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in the air, and thestrumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of sound behindthe decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end ofthe room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently cladman with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape intohis mouth. He wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offeredby a handmaiden, belched loudly and looked the callers over. Blackbeard cleared his throat. Down on your faces in the presence ofthe Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of East and West. Sorry, Retief said firmly. My hay-fever, you know. The reclining giant waved a hand languidly. Never mind the formalities, he said. Approach. Retief and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew towardthem. The reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on anothersilken scarf and held up a hand. Night and the horses and the desert know me, he said in resonanttones. Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen— Hepaused, wrinkled his nose and sneezed again. Turn off that damnedair-conditioner, he snapped. He settled himself and motioned the bearded man to him. The twoexchanged muted remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked hishead and withdrew to the rear. Excellency, Retief said, I have the honor to present M. GeorgesDuror, Chef d'Regime of the Planetary government. Planetary government? The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the rug. Mymen have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they're indistress, I'll see about a distribution of goat-meat. It is the punishment of the envious to grieve at anothers' plenty,Retief said. No goat-meat will be required. Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben Abdallah KatibJelebi, the Aga Kaga said. I know a few old sayings myself. Forexample, 'A Bedouin is only cheated once.' We have no such intentions, Excellency, Retief said. Is it notwritten, 'Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you'? I've had some unhappy experiences with strangers, the Aga Kaga said.It is written in the sands that all strangers are kin. Still, he whovisits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated. III Handmaidens brought cushions, giggled and fled. Retief and Georgessettled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence. We have come to bear tidings from the Corps DiplomatiqueTerrestrienne, Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offeredgrapes. Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge, the Aga Kagasaid. What brings the CDT into the picture? The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern, Retief said.Whereas the words of kings.... Very well, I concede the point. The Aga Kaga waved a hand at theserving maids. Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph.These are mere diplomats. They are men of words, not deeds. The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after him. Now, the Aga Kaga said. Let's drop the wisdom of the ages andget down to the issues. Not that I don't admire your repertoire ofplatitudes. How do you remember them all? Diplomats and other liars require good memories, said Retief. Butas you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I'm here to effect asettlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetaryauthorities. I have here a Note, which I'm conveying on behalf of theSector Under-Secretary. With your permission, I'll read it. Go ahead. The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the floor,eased a bottle from under the couch and reached for glasses. The Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to hisExcellency, the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, HereditarySheik, Emir of the— Yes, yes. Skip the titles. Retief flipped over two pages. ... and with reference to the recent relocation of persons under thejurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor to point out that theterritories now under settlement comprise a portion of that area,hereinafter designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms ofthe Agreement entered into by his Excellency's predecessor, and asreferenced in Sector Ministry's Notes numbers G-175846573957-b andX-7584736 c-1, with particular pertinence to that body designated inthe Revised Galactic Catalogue, Tenth Edition, as amended, VolumeNine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise referred to hereinafter asFlamme— Come to the point, the Aga Kaga cut in. You're here to lodge acomplaint that I'm invading territories to which someone else laysclaim, is that it? He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks and lit one.Well, I've been expecting a call. After all, it's what you gentlemenare paid for. Cheers. Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things, Retief said. Call me Stanley, the Aga Kaga said. The other routine is just toplease some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative membersof my government. They're still gnawing their beards and kickingthemselves because their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemyand got themselves stranded in a cultural dead end. This charade issupposed to prove they were right all along. However, I've no timeto waste in neurotic compensations. I have places to go and deeds toaccomplish. At first glance, Retief said, it looks as though the places arealready occupied, and the deeds are illegal. <doc-sep>The Aga Kaga guffawed. For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief. Haveanother drink. He poured, eyeing Georges. What of M. Duror? How doeshe feel about it? Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. Not bad, he said. Butnot quite good enough to cover the odor of goats. The Aga Kaga snorted. I thought the goats were overdoing it a bitmyself, he said. Still, the graybeards insisted. And I need theirsupport. Also, Georges said distinctly, I think you're soft. You lie aroundletting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honestday's work. The Aga Kaga looked startled. Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron baras big as your thumb. He popped a grape into his mouth. As for therest, your pious views about the virtues of hard labor are as childishas my advisors' faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. As formyself, I am a realist. If two monkeys want the same banana, in the endone will have it, and the other will cry morality. The days of my yearsare numbered, praise be to God. While they last, I hope to eat well,hunt well, fight well and take my share of pleasure. I leave to othersthe arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions. You admit you're here to grab our land, then, Georges said. That'sthe damnedest piece of bare-faced aggression— Ah, ah! The Aga Kaga held up a hand. Watch your vocabulary, mydear sir. I'm sure that 'justifiable yearnings for territorialself-realization' would be more appropriate to the situation. Orpossibly 'legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerlyexploited peoples' might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition,an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle ofColonial Imperialism. Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most notoriousplanet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you— Call me Stanley. The Aga Kaga munched a grape. I merely face therealities of popular folk-lore. Let's be pragmatic; it's a matter ofhistorical association. Some people can grab land and pass it offlightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely forholding onto their own. Unfair, you say. But that's life, my friends.And I shall continue to take every advantage of it. We'll fight you! Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of whiskeyand slammed the glass down. You won't take this world without astruggle! Another? the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges glowered ashis glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light. Excellent color, don't you agree? He turned his eyes on Georges. It's pointless to resist, he said. We have you outgunned andoutmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we'reprepared to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we donot immediately require until such time as you're able to make otherarrangements. And by the time we've got a crop growing out of what was bare rock,you'll be ready to move in, the Boyar Chef d'Regime snapped. Butyou'll find that we aren't alone! <doc-sep>Quite alone, the Aga said. He nodded sagely. Yes, one need but readthe lesson of history. The Corps Diplomatique will make expostulatorynoises, but it will accept the fait accompli . You, my dear sir, arebut a very small nibble. We won't make the mistake of excessive greed.We shall inch our way to empire—and those who stand in our way shallbe dubbed warmongers. I see you're quite a student of history, Stanley, Retief said. Iwonder if you recall the eventual fate of most of the would-be empirenibblers of the past? Ah, but they grew incautious. They went too far, too fast. The confounded impudence, Georges rasped. Tells us to our face whathe has in mind! An ancient and honorable custom, from the time of Mein Kampf andthe Communist Manifesto through the Porcelain Wall of Leung. Suchdeclarations have a legendary quality. It's traditional that they'renever taken at face value. But always, Retief said, there was a critical point at which the manon horseback could have been pulled from the saddle. Could have been, the Aga Kaga chuckled. He finished the grapes andbegan peeling an orange. But they never were. Hitler could have beenstopped by the Czech Air Force in 1938; Stalin was at the mercy of theprimitive atomics of the west in 1946; Leung was grossly over-extendedat Rangoon. But the onus of that historic role could not be overcome.It has been the fate of your spiritual forebears to carve civilizationfrom the wilderness and then, amid tearing of garments and the heapingof ashes of self-accusation on your own confused heads, to withdraw,leaving the spoils for local political opportunists and mob leaders,clothed in the mystical virtue of native birth. Have a banana. You're stretching your analogy a little too far, Retief said. You'rebanking on the inaction of the Corps. You could be wrong. I shall know when to stop, the Aga Kaga said. Tell me, Stanley, Retief said, rising. Are we quite private here? Yes, perfectly so, the Aga Kaga said. None would dare to intrude inmy council. He cocked an eyebrow at Retief. You have a proposal tomake in confidence? But what of our dear friend Georges? One would notlike to see him disillusioned. Don't worry about Georges. He's a realist, like you. He's prepared todeal in facts. Hard facts, in this case. The Aga Kaga nodded thoughtfully. What are you getting at? You're basing your plan of action on the certainty that the Corps willsit by, wringing its hands, while you embark on a career of planetarypiracy. Isn't it the custom? the Aga Kaga smiled complacently. I have news for you, Stanley. In this instance, neck-wringing seemsmore in order than hand-wringing. The Aga Kaga frowned. Your manner— Never mind our manners! Georges blurted, standing. We don't need anylessons from goat-herding land-thieves! The Aga Kaga's face darkened. You dare to speak thus to me, pig of amuck-grubber! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The story’s beginning takes place at the headquarters for the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne where Retief works, but the rest of the story takes place on the planet Flamme. Sixty years earlier, the Boyars settled on Flamme and set about making it suitable for farming by clearing the jungle, descumming the seas, irrigating the deserts, and setting out forests. For sixty years, the Boyars inhabited the planet by themselves, with only the saurian wildlife presenting a danger to them. Flamme is now a thriving planet. It has a Government House with comfortable lounge furniture, waiters in white jackets, colorful flowers, a lake, a lawn, and colorful flowerbeds. It also has beautiful sunsets. Outside the capital, there are rolling hills of granite. Flamme’s main industry seems to be agriculture; fifty years ago they had bare rock, but they bred special strains of bacteria that broke the rock down to soil where they raised legumes and then grains. The Boyars also have oyster breeding beds. There are roads, although they have pot-holes, and air-cars for transportation. The Aga Kaban headquarters is a large black tent featuring air conditioning and a pennant featuring a lion “couchant in crimson on a field verte.” It has the smell of incense, and someone is playing stringed instruments inside. There are colorful decorations in gold, blue, silver, and green. The Aga Kaba are accustomed to the finer things in life; Stanley even blows his nose on silk cloth. Their foods include grapes, oranges, and bananas, and their beverages include whiskey. Everything about the Aga Kaba’s leader’s tent suggests wealth and luxury.

What is the role of history in the story? [SEP] <s> THE DESERT AND THE STARS BY KEITH LAUMER The Aga Kaga wanted peace—a piece of everything in sight! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I'm not at all sure, Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, that I fullyunderstand the necessity for your ... ah ... absenting yourself fromyour post of duty, Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealtwith in the usual way—assuming any action is necessary. I had a sharp attack of writer's cramp, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.So I thought I'd better come along in person—just to be sure I waspositive of making my point. Eh? Why, ah, there were a number of dispatches, Deputy Under-SecretaryMagnan put in. Unfortunately, this being end-of-the-fiscal-year time,we found ourselves quite inundated with reports. Reports, reports,reports— Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan? theUnder-Secretary barked. Gracious, no, Magnan said. I love reports. It seems nobody's told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years, Retiefsaid. They're going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing onFlamme. So far, I've persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for theCorps, and not to take matters into their own hands. The Under-Secretary nodded. Quite right. Carry on along the samelines. Now, if there's nothing further— Thank you, Mr. Secretary, Magnan said, rising. We certainlyappreciate your guidance. There is a little something further, said Retief, sitting solidly inhis chair. What's the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans? The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. As Ministerto Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomaticrepresentative is merely to ... what shall I say...? String them along? Magnan suggested. An unfortunate choice of phrase, the Under-Secretary said. However,it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics. The Corps mustconcern itself with matters of broad policy. Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to settleFlamme, Retief said. They were assured of Corps support. I don't believe you'll find that in writing, said the Under-Secretaryblandly. In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time afoothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Nowthe situation has changed. The Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme, Retief said.They've cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set outforests. They've just about reached the point where they can begin toenjoy it. The Aga Kagans have picked this as a good time to move in.They've landed thirty detachments of 'fishermen'—complete with armoredtrawlers mounting 40 mm infinite repeaters—and another two dozenparties of 'homesteaders'—all male and toting rocket launchers. Surely there's land enough on the world to afford space to bothgroups, the Under-Secretary said. A spirit of co-operation— <doc-sep>The Boyars needed some co-operation sixty years ago, Retief said.They tried to get the Aga Kagans to join in and help them beatback some of the saurian wild life that liked to graze on people.The Corps didn't like the idea. They wanted to see an undisputedanti-Concordiatist enclave. The Aga Kagans didn't want to play, either.But now that the world is tamed, they're moving in. The exigencies of diplomacy require a flexible policy— I want a firm assurance of Corps support to take back to Flamme,Retief said. The Boyars are a little naive. They don't understanddiplomatic triple-speak. They just want to hold onto the homes they'vemade out of a wasteland. I'm warning you, Retief! the Under-Secretary snapped, leaningforward, wattles quivering. Corps policy with regard to Flammeincludes no inflammatory actions based on outmoded concepts. The Boyarswill have to accommodate themselves to the situation! That's what I'm afraid of, Retief said. They're not going to sitstill and watch it happen. If I don't take back concrete evidence ofCorps backing, we're going to have a nice hot little shooting war onour hands. The Under-Secretary pushed out his lips and drummed his fingers on thedesk. Confounded hot-heads, he muttered. Very well, Retief. I'll go alongto the extent of a Note; but positively no further. A Note? I was thinking of something more like a squadron of CorpsPeace Enforcers running through a few routine maneuvers off Flamme. Out of the question. A stiffly worded Protest Note is the best I cando. That's final. Back in the corridor, Magnan turned to Retief. When will you learnnot to argue with Under-Secretaries? One would think you activelydisliked the idea of ever receiving a promotion. I was astonishedat the Under-Secretary's restraint. Frankly, I was stunned when heactually agreed to a Note. I, of course, will have to draft it. Magnanpulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. Now, I wonder, should I viewwith deep concern an act of open aggression, or merely point out anapparent violation of technicalities.... Don't bother, Retief said. I have a draft all ready to go. But how—? I had a feeling I'd get paper instead of action, Retief said. Ithought I'd save a little time all around. At times, your cynicism borders on impudence. At other times, it borders on disgust. Now, if you'll run the Notethrough for signature, I'll try to catch the six o'clock shuttle. Leaving so soon? There's an important reception tonight. Some of ourbiggest names will be there. An excellent opportunity for you to joinin the diplomatic give-and-take. No, thanks. I want to get back to Flamme and join in something mild,like a dinosaur hunt. When you get there, said Magnan, I hope you'll make it quite clearthat this matter is to be settled without violence. Don't worry. I'll keep the peace, if I have to start a war to do it. <doc-sep>On the broad verandah at Government House, Retief settled himselfcomfortably in a lounge chair. He accepted a tall glass from awhite-jacketed waiter and regarded the flamboyant Flamme sunset, agorgeous blaze of vermillion and purple that reflected from a stilllake, tinged the broad lawn with color, silhouetted tall poplars amongflower beds. You've done great things here in sixty years, Georges, said Retief.Not that natural geological processes wouldn't have produced the sameresults, given a couple of hundred million years. Don't belabor the point, the Boyar Chef d'Regime said. Since we seemto be on the verge of losing it. You're forgetting the Note. A Note, Georges said, waving his cigar. What the purple pollutedhell is a Note supposed to do? I've got Aga Kagan claim-jumpers campedin the middle of what used to be a fine stand of barley, cookingsheep's brains over dung fires not ten miles from Government House—andupwind at that. Say, if that's the same barley you distill your whiskey from, I'dcall that a first-class atrocity. Retief, on your say-so, I've kept my boys on a short leash. They'veput up with plenty. Last week, while you were away, these barbarianssailed that flotilla of armor-plated junks right through the middle ofone of our best oyster breeding beds. It was all I could do to keep abunch of our men from going out in private helis and blasting 'em outof the water. That wouldn't have been good for the oysters, either. That's what I told 'em. I also said you'd be back here in a few dayswith something from Corps HQ. When I tell 'em all we've got is a pieceof paper, that'll be the end. There's a strong vigilante organizationhere that's been outfitting for the last four weeks. If I hadn't heldthem back with assurances that the CDT would step in and take care ofthis invasion, they would have hit them before now. <doc-sep>That would have been a mistake, said Retief. The Aga Kagans aretough customers. They're active on half a dozen worlds at the moment.They've been building up for this push for the last five years. Ashow of resistance by you Boyars without Corps backing would be aninvitation to slaughter—with the excuse that you started it. So what are we going to do? Sit here and watch these goat-herders takeover our farms and fisheries? Those goat-herders aren't all they seem. They've got a first-classmodern navy. I've seen 'em. They camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around onanimal-back, wear dresses down to their ankles— The 'goat-skin' tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in the samefactory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes youmention. The animals are just for show. Back home they use helis andground cars of the most modern design. The Chef d'Regime chewed his cigar. Why the masquerade? Something to do with internal policies, I suppose. So we sit tight and watch 'em take our world away from us. That's whatI get for playing along with you, Retief. We should have clobberedthese monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world. Slow down, I haven't finished yet. There's still the Note. I've got plenty of paper already. Rolls and rolls of it. Give diplomatic processes a chance, said Retief. The Note hasn'teven been delivered yet. Who knows? We may get surprising results. If you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you're out ofluck. From what I hear, he's likely to come back with his ears stuffedin his hip pocket. I'll deliver the Note personally, Retief said. I could use a coupleof escorts—preferably strong-arm lads. The Chef d'Regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. I wasn't kiddingabout these Aga Kagans, he said. I hear they have some nasty habits.I don't want to see you operated on with the same knives they use toskin out the goats. I'd be against that myself. Still, the mail must go through. Strong-arm lads, eh? What have you got in mind, Retief? A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic custom, Retiefsaid. The Chef d'Regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. I used to be apretty fair elbow-wrestler myself, he said. Suppose I go along...? That, said Retief, should lend just the right note of solidarity toour little delegation. He hitched his chair closer. Now, depending onwhat we run into, here's how we'll play it.... II Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the capital, ablack-painted official air-car flying the twin flags of Chief of Stateand Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road.Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d'Regime waved his cigarglumly at the surrounding hills. Fifty years ago this was bare rock, he said. We've bred specialstrains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and wefollowed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We plannedto put the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like thegoats will get it. Will that scrubland support a crop? Retief said, eyeing thelichen-covered knolls. Sure. We start with legumes and follow up with cereals. Wait until yousee this next section. It's an old flood plain, came into productionthirty years ago. One of our finest— The air-car topped a rise. The Chef dropped his cigar and half rose,with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among astand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar'sarm. Keep calm, Georges, he said. Remember, we're on a diplomaticmission. It wouldn't do to come to the conference table smelling ofgoats. Let me at 'em! Georges roared. I'll throttle 'em with my bare hands! A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working. Look atthat long-nosed son! The goat gave a derisive bleat and took anothermouthful of ripe grain. Did you see that? Georges yelled. They've trained the son of a— Chin up, Georges, Retief said. We'll take up the goat problem alongwith the rest. I'll murder 'em! Hold it, Georges. Look over there. A hundred yards away, a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise,paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then gallopeddown the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaksbillowing out behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-goldengrain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep fromthe ridge to the air-car where Retief and the Chef d'Regime hovered,waiting. Georges scrambled for the side of the car. Just wait 'til I get myhands on him! Retief pulled him back. Sit tight and look pleased, Georges. Nevergive the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you're a goatlover—and hand me one of your cigars. The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a clatter ofpebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust. Retiefpeeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed, at it and thumbed it alight. Hedrew at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke and glanced casually at thetrio of Aga Kagan cavaliers. Peace be with you, he intoned in accent-free Kagan. May your shadowsnever grow less. <doc-sep>The leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard,unlimbered his rifle. He fingered it, frowning ferociously. Have no fear, Retief said, smiling graciously. He who comes as aguest enjoys perfect safety. A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath and leveled hisrifle at Retief. Youth is the steed of folly, Retief said. Take care that thebeardless one does not disgrace his house. The leader whirled on the youth and snarled an order. He lowered therifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief. Begone, interlopers, he said. You disturb the goats. Provision is not taken to the houses of the generous, Retief said.May the creatures dine well ere they move on. Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga Kaga.The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. We welcome nointruders on our lands. To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appearfoolish, Retief said. These are the lands of the Boyars. But enoughof these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler. You may address me as 'Exalted One', the leader said. Now dismountfrom that steed of Shaitan. It is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him 'sir',Retief said. I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Nowyou may conduct us to your headquarters. Enough of your insolence! The bearded man cocked his rifle. I couldblow your heads off! The hen has feathers, but it does not fly, Retief said. We haveasked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man,a hint is enough. You mock me, pale one. I warn you— Only love makes me weep, Retief said. I laugh at hatred. Get out of the car! Retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the Aga Kagan cheerfully. The youthin the rear moved forward, teeth bared. Never give in to the fool, lest he say, 'He fears me,' Retief said. I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults, the bearded AgaKagan roared. These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as well! When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings, Retief said.Distress in misfortune is another misfortune. The bearded man's face grew purple. Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car. Now I think we'd better be getting on, he said briskly. I've enjoyedour chat, but we do have business to attend to. The bearded leader laughed shortly. Does the condemned man beg for theaxe? he enquired rhetorically. You shall visit the Aga Kaga, then.Move on! And make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you abrief farewell. The horsemen glowered, then, at a word from the leader, took positionsaround the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following theleading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh. That was close, he said. I was about out of proverbs. You sound as though you'd brought off a coup, Georges said. From theexpression on the whiskery one's face, we're in for trouble. What washe saying? Just a routine exchange of bluffs, Retief said. Now when we getthere, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and yourinsults sound like flattery, and you'll be all right. These birds are armed. And they don't like strangers, Georges said.Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined thisexpedition. Just stick to the plan, Retief said. And remember: a handful of luckis better than a camel-load of learning. <doc-sep>The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry river bedand across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand to a greenoasis set with canopies. The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense tent ofglistening black. Before the tent armed men lounged under a pennantbearing a lion couchant in crimson on a field verte. Get out, Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, theirdrawn sabers catching sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from thecar onto rich rugs spread on the grass. They followed the ferociousgesture of the bearded man through the opening into a perfumed interiorof luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in the air, and thestrumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of sound behindthe decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end ofthe room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently cladman with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape intohis mouth. He wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offeredby a handmaiden, belched loudly and looked the callers over. Blackbeard cleared his throat. Down on your faces in the presence ofthe Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of East and West. Sorry, Retief said firmly. My hay-fever, you know. The reclining giant waved a hand languidly. Never mind the formalities, he said. Approach. Retief and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew towardthem. The reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on anothersilken scarf and held up a hand. Night and the horses and the desert know me, he said in resonanttones. Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen— Hepaused, wrinkled his nose and sneezed again. Turn off that damnedair-conditioner, he snapped. He settled himself and motioned the bearded man to him. The twoexchanged muted remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked hishead and withdrew to the rear. Excellency, Retief said, I have the honor to present M. GeorgesDuror, Chef d'Regime of the Planetary government. Planetary government? The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the rug. Mymen have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they're indistress, I'll see about a distribution of goat-meat. It is the punishment of the envious to grieve at anothers' plenty,Retief said. No goat-meat will be required. Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben Abdallah KatibJelebi, the Aga Kaga said. I know a few old sayings myself. Forexample, 'A Bedouin is only cheated once.' We have no such intentions, Excellency, Retief said. Is it notwritten, 'Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you'? I've had some unhappy experiences with strangers, the Aga Kaga said.It is written in the sands that all strangers are kin. Still, he whovisits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated. III Handmaidens brought cushions, giggled and fled. Retief and Georgessettled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence. We have come to bear tidings from the Corps DiplomatiqueTerrestrienne, Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offeredgrapes. Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge, the Aga Kagasaid. What brings the CDT into the picture? The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern, Retief said.Whereas the words of kings.... Very well, I concede the point. The Aga Kaga waved a hand at theserving maids. Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph.These are mere diplomats. They are men of words, not deeds. The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after him. Now, the Aga Kaga said. Let's drop the wisdom of the ages andget down to the issues. Not that I don't admire your repertoire ofplatitudes. How do you remember them all? Diplomats and other liars require good memories, said Retief. Butas you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I'm here to effect asettlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetaryauthorities. I have here a Note, which I'm conveying on behalf of theSector Under-Secretary. With your permission, I'll read it. Go ahead. The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the floor,eased a bottle from under the couch and reached for glasses. The Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to hisExcellency, the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, HereditarySheik, Emir of the— Yes, yes. Skip the titles. Retief flipped over two pages. ... and with reference to the recent relocation of persons under thejurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor to point out that theterritories now under settlement comprise a portion of that area,hereinafter designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms ofthe Agreement entered into by his Excellency's predecessor, and asreferenced in Sector Ministry's Notes numbers G-175846573957-b andX-7584736 c-1, with particular pertinence to that body designated inthe Revised Galactic Catalogue, Tenth Edition, as amended, VolumeNine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise referred to hereinafter asFlamme— Come to the point, the Aga Kaga cut in. You're here to lodge acomplaint that I'm invading territories to which someone else laysclaim, is that it? He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks and lit one.Well, I've been expecting a call. After all, it's what you gentlemenare paid for. Cheers. Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things, Retief said. Call me Stanley, the Aga Kaga said. The other routine is just toplease some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative membersof my government. They're still gnawing their beards and kickingthemselves because their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemyand got themselves stranded in a cultural dead end. This charade issupposed to prove they were right all along. However, I've no timeto waste in neurotic compensations. I have places to go and deeds toaccomplish. At first glance, Retief said, it looks as though the places arealready occupied, and the deeds are illegal. <doc-sep>The Aga Kaga guffawed. For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief. Haveanother drink. He poured, eyeing Georges. What of M. Duror? How doeshe feel about it? Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. Not bad, he said. Butnot quite good enough to cover the odor of goats. The Aga Kaga snorted. I thought the goats were overdoing it a bitmyself, he said. Still, the graybeards insisted. And I need theirsupport. Also, Georges said distinctly, I think you're soft. You lie aroundletting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honestday's work. The Aga Kaga looked startled. Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron baras big as your thumb. He popped a grape into his mouth. As for therest, your pious views about the virtues of hard labor are as childishas my advisors' faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. As formyself, I am a realist. If two monkeys want the same banana, in the endone will have it, and the other will cry morality. The days of my yearsare numbered, praise be to God. While they last, I hope to eat well,hunt well, fight well and take my share of pleasure. I leave to othersthe arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions. You admit you're here to grab our land, then, Georges said. That'sthe damnedest piece of bare-faced aggression— Ah, ah! The Aga Kaga held up a hand. Watch your vocabulary, mydear sir. I'm sure that 'justifiable yearnings for territorialself-realization' would be more appropriate to the situation. Orpossibly 'legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerlyexploited peoples' might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition,an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle ofColonial Imperialism. Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most notoriousplanet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you— Call me Stanley. The Aga Kaga munched a grape. I merely face therealities of popular folk-lore. Let's be pragmatic; it's a matter ofhistorical association. Some people can grab land and pass it offlightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely forholding onto their own. Unfair, you say. But that's life, my friends.And I shall continue to take every advantage of it. We'll fight you! Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of whiskeyand slammed the glass down. You won't take this world without astruggle! Another? the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges glowered ashis glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light. Excellent color, don't you agree? He turned his eyes on Georges. It's pointless to resist, he said. We have you outgunned andoutmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we'reprepared to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we donot immediately require until such time as you're able to make otherarrangements. And by the time we've got a crop growing out of what was bare rock,you'll be ready to move in, the Boyar Chef d'Regime snapped. Butyou'll find that we aren't alone! <doc-sep>Quite alone, the Aga said. He nodded sagely. Yes, one need but readthe lesson of history. The Corps Diplomatique will make expostulatorynoises, but it will accept the fait accompli . You, my dear sir, arebut a very small nibble. We won't make the mistake of excessive greed.We shall inch our way to empire—and those who stand in our way shallbe dubbed warmongers. I see you're quite a student of history, Stanley, Retief said. Iwonder if you recall the eventual fate of most of the would-be empirenibblers of the past? Ah, but they grew incautious. They went too far, too fast. The confounded impudence, Georges rasped. Tells us to our face whathe has in mind! An ancient and honorable custom, from the time of Mein Kampf andthe Communist Manifesto through the Porcelain Wall of Leung. Suchdeclarations have a legendary quality. It's traditional that they'renever taken at face value. But always, Retief said, there was a critical point at which the manon horseback could have been pulled from the saddle. Could have been, the Aga Kaga chuckled. He finished the grapes andbegan peeling an orange. But they never were. Hitler could have beenstopped by the Czech Air Force in 1938; Stalin was at the mercy of theprimitive atomics of the west in 1946; Leung was grossly over-extendedat Rangoon. But the onus of that historic role could not be overcome.It has been the fate of your spiritual forebears to carve civilizationfrom the wilderness and then, amid tearing of garments and the heapingof ashes of self-accusation on your own confused heads, to withdraw,leaving the spoils for local political opportunists and mob leaders,clothed in the mystical virtue of native birth. Have a banana. You're stretching your analogy a little too far, Retief said. You'rebanking on the inaction of the Corps. You could be wrong. I shall know when to stop, the Aga Kaga said. Tell me, Stanley, Retief said, rising. Are we quite private here? Yes, perfectly so, the Aga Kaga said. None would dare to intrude inmy council. He cocked an eyebrow at Retief. You have a proposal tomake in confidence? But what of our dear friend Georges? One would notlike to see him disillusioned. Don't worry about Georges. He's a realist, like you. He's prepared todeal in facts. Hard facts, in this case. The Aga Kaga nodded thoughtfully. What are you getting at? You're basing your plan of action on the certainty that the Corps willsit by, wringing its hands, while you embark on a career of planetarypiracy. Isn't it the custom? the Aga Kaga smiled complacently. I have news for you, Stanley. In this instance, neck-wringing seemsmore in order than hand-wringing. The Aga Kaga frowned. Your manner— Never mind our manners! Georges blurted, standing. We don't need anylessons from goat-herding land-thieves! The Aga Kaga's face darkened. You dare to speak thus to me, pig of amuck-grubber! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the role of history in the story?

The history of Flamme itself is of great relevance to its value to both the Boyars and the Aga Kagans. When the Boyars settled the planet sixty years ago, it was habitable but unable to support much agriculture. They have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme, clearing jungles, descumming seas, irrigating deserts, and planting forests. Fifty years ago, the Boyars learned how to breed a special strain of bacteria that breaks down the granite that covered much of the surface. The granite breaks down to soil, and the Boyars add broad-spectrum fertilizer to make the land arable. The Boyars now have many fields of crops and are continuing to develop new sections for more. Their many years of intensive work in creating farming land and growing crops gives them a vested interest in their settlement.The Aga Kagans are involved in empire-building. They have sent what appear to be goat herders and fishermen to Flamme to begin taking over the land. The goat herders are all male and have rocket launchers. They present a false appearance as homesteaders who lack access to modern technology; in reality, their tents are high-polymer plastic, and their robes are bullet-proof. On their home planet, they have helis and ground cars. The homesteaders set up camp in the middle of farm fields, allow their goats to graze on the crops, and cook their sheep’s brains over dung fires. The fishermen are actually the Aga Kagan navy who come equipped with 40 mm infinite repeaters. The CDT knows that the Aga Kagans have been using this same method of invasion for the past five years in six other worlds. The Aga Kagans hide their modern technology in the places they are invading to dupe the people they are intruding on and to please the older conservatives in their government. The Aga Kagans’ approach to empire-building is based on their knowledge of Earth history. While their society has modern technology, their false appearance of third world trappings can be used to justify their invasions into “more advanced” societies. Stanley admits the Aga Kagans move into an area after others have done the hard work of building the community and civilization so that the Aga Kagans can enjoy the fruits of the others’ labors. By appearing to be a third world civilization, the Aga Kagans can defend their actions and gain empathy with a claim of “legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerly exploited peoples.” Stanley also acknowledges his familiarity with empire-builders on Earth and claims he won’t make their mistake of going “too far, too fast.” He couches their approach as “an ancient and honorable custom” and references Mein Kampf, the Communist Manifesto, and Leung’s the Porcelain Wall. Based on the histories of the men behind these works, Stanley knows that the CDT will follow the practice of appeasement and allow the Aga Kagans to make their little land-grabs until they are positioned so that they cannot be stopped.

What is the role of the Aga Kagans in the story? [SEP] <s> THE DESERT AND THE STARS BY KEITH LAUMER The Aga Kaga wanted peace—a piece of everything in sight! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I'm not at all sure, Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, that I fullyunderstand the necessity for your ... ah ... absenting yourself fromyour post of duty, Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealtwith in the usual way—assuming any action is necessary. I had a sharp attack of writer's cramp, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.So I thought I'd better come along in person—just to be sure I waspositive of making my point. Eh? Why, ah, there were a number of dispatches, Deputy Under-SecretaryMagnan put in. Unfortunately, this being end-of-the-fiscal-year time,we found ourselves quite inundated with reports. Reports, reports,reports— Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan? theUnder-Secretary barked. Gracious, no, Magnan said. I love reports. It seems nobody's told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years, Retiefsaid. They're going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing onFlamme. So far, I've persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for theCorps, and not to take matters into their own hands. The Under-Secretary nodded. Quite right. Carry on along the samelines. Now, if there's nothing further— Thank you, Mr. Secretary, Magnan said, rising. We certainlyappreciate your guidance. There is a little something further, said Retief, sitting solidly inhis chair. What's the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans? The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. As Ministerto Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomaticrepresentative is merely to ... what shall I say...? String them along? Magnan suggested. An unfortunate choice of phrase, the Under-Secretary said. However,it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics. The Corps mustconcern itself with matters of broad policy. Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to settleFlamme, Retief said. They were assured of Corps support. I don't believe you'll find that in writing, said the Under-Secretaryblandly. In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time afoothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Nowthe situation has changed. The Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme, Retief said.They've cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set outforests. They've just about reached the point where they can begin toenjoy it. The Aga Kagans have picked this as a good time to move in.They've landed thirty detachments of 'fishermen'—complete with armoredtrawlers mounting 40 mm infinite repeaters—and another two dozenparties of 'homesteaders'—all male and toting rocket launchers. Surely there's land enough on the world to afford space to bothgroups, the Under-Secretary said. A spirit of co-operation— <doc-sep>The Boyars needed some co-operation sixty years ago, Retief said.They tried to get the Aga Kagans to join in and help them beatback some of the saurian wild life that liked to graze on people.The Corps didn't like the idea. They wanted to see an undisputedanti-Concordiatist enclave. The Aga Kagans didn't want to play, either.But now that the world is tamed, they're moving in. The exigencies of diplomacy require a flexible policy— I want a firm assurance of Corps support to take back to Flamme,Retief said. The Boyars are a little naive. They don't understanddiplomatic triple-speak. They just want to hold onto the homes they'vemade out of a wasteland. I'm warning you, Retief! the Under-Secretary snapped, leaningforward, wattles quivering. Corps policy with regard to Flammeincludes no inflammatory actions based on outmoded concepts. The Boyarswill have to accommodate themselves to the situation! That's what I'm afraid of, Retief said. They're not going to sitstill and watch it happen. If I don't take back concrete evidence ofCorps backing, we're going to have a nice hot little shooting war onour hands. The Under-Secretary pushed out his lips and drummed his fingers on thedesk. Confounded hot-heads, he muttered. Very well, Retief. I'll go alongto the extent of a Note; but positively no further. A Note? I was thinking of something more like a squadron of CorpsPeace Enforcers running through a few routine maneuvers off Flamme. Out of the question. A stiffly worded Protest Note is the best I cando. That's final. Back in the corridor, Magnan turned to Retief. When will you learnnot to argue with Under-Secretaries? One would think you activelydisliked the idea of ever receiving a promotion. I was astonishedat the Under-Secretary's restraint. Frankly, I was stunned when heactually agreed to a Note. I, of course, will have to draft it. Magnanpulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. Now, I wonder, should I viewwith deep concern an act of open aggression, or merely point out anapparent violation of technicalities.... Don't bother, Retief said. I have a draft all ready to go. But how—? I had a feeling I'd get paper instead of action, Retief said. Ithought I'd save a little time all around. At times, your cynicism borders on impudence. At other times, it borders on disgust. Now, if you'll run the Notethrough for signature, I'll try to catch the six o'clock shuttle. Leaving so soon? There's an important reception tonight. Some of ourbiggest names will be there. An excellent opportunity for you to joinin the diplomatic give-and-take. No, thanks. I want to get back to Flamme and join in something mild,like a dinosaur hunt. When you get there, said Magnan, I hope you'll make it quite clearthat this matter is to be settled without violence. Don't worry. I'll keep the peace, if I have to start a war to do it. <doc-sep>On the broad verandah at Government House, Retief settled himselfcomfortably in a lounge chair. He accepted a tall glass from awhite-jacketed waiter and regarded the flamboyant Flamme sunset, agorgeous blaze of vermillion and purple that reflected from a stilllake, tinged the broad lawn with color, silhouetted tall poplars amongflower beds. You've done great things here in sixty years, Georges, said Retief.Not that natural geological processes wouldn't have produced the sameresults, given a couple of hundred million years. Don't belabor the point, the Boyar Chef d'Regime said. Since we seemto be on the verge of losing it. You're forgetting the Note. A Note, Georges said, waving his cigar. What the purple pollutedhell is a Note supposed to do? I've got Aga Kagan claim-jumpers campedin the middle of what used to be a fine stand of barley, cookingsheep's brains over dung fires not ten miles from Government House—andupwind at that. Say, if that's the same barley you distill your whiskey from, I'dcall that a first-class atrocity. Retief, on your say-so, I've kept my boys on a short leash. They'veput up with plenty. Last week, while you were away, these barbarianssailed that flotilla of armor-plated junks right through the middle ofone of our best oyster breeding beds. It was all I could do to keep abunch of our men from going out in private helis and blasting 'em outof the water. That wouldn't have been good for the oysters, either. That's what I told 'em. I also said you'd be back here in a few dayswith something from Corps HQ. When I tell 'em all we've got is a pieceof paper, that'll be the end. There's a strong vigilante organizationhere that's been outfitting for the last four weeks. If I hadn't heldthem back with assurances that the CDT would step in and take care ofthis invasion, they would have hit them before now. <doc-sep>That would have been a mistake, said Retief. The Aga Kagans aretough customers. They're active on half a dozen worlds at the moment.They've been building up for this push for the last five years. Ashow of resistance by you Boyars without Corps backing would be aninvitation to slaughter—with the excuse that you started it. So what are we going to do? Sit here and watch these goat-herders takeover our farms and fisheries? Those goat-herders aren't all they seem. They've got a first-classmodern navy. I've seen 'em. They camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around onanimal-back, wear dresses down to their ankles— The 'goat-skin' tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in the samefactory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes youmention. The animals are just for show. Back home they use helis andground cars of the most modern design. The Chef d'Regime chewed his cigar. Why the masquerade? Something to do with internal policies, I suppose. So we sit tight and watch 'em take our world away from us. That's whatI get for playing along with you, Retief. We should have clobberedthese monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world. Slow down, I haven't finished yet. There's still the Note. I've got plenty of paper already. Rolls and rolls of it. Give diplomatic processes a chance, said Retief. The Note hasn'teven been delivered yet. Who knows? We may get surprising results. If you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you're out ofluck. From what I hear, he's likely to come back with his ears stuffedin his hip pocket. I'll deliver the Note personally, Retief said. I could use a coupleof escorts—preferably strong-arm lads. The Chef d'Regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. I wasn't kiddingabout these Aga Kagans, he said. I hear they have some nasty habits.I don't want to see you operated on with the same knives they use toskin out the goats. I'd be against that myself. Still, the mail must go through. Strong-arm lads, eh? What have you got in mind, Retief? A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic custom, Retiefsaid. The Chef d'Regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. I used to be apretty fair elbow-wrestler myself, he said. Suppose I go along...? That, said Retief, should lend just the right note of solidarity toour little delegation. He hitched his chair closer. Now, depending onwhat we run into, here's how we'll play it.... II Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the capital, ablack-painted official air-car flying the twin flags of Chief of Stateand Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road.Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d'Regime waved his cigarglumly at the surrounding hills. Fifty years ago this was bare rock, he said. We've bred specialstrains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and wefollowed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We plannedto put the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like thegoats will get it. Will that scrubland support a crop? Retief said, eyeing thelichen-covered knolls. Sure. We start with legumes and follow up with cereals. Wait until yousee this next section. It's an old flood plain, came into productionthirty years ago. One of our finest— The air-car topped a rise. The Chef dropped his cigar and half rose,with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among astand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar'sarm. Keep calm, Georges, he said. Remember, we're on a diplomaticmission. It wouldn't do to come to the conference table smelling ofgoats. Let me at 'em! Georges roared. I'll throttle 'em with my bare hands! A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working. Look atthat long-nosed son! The goat gave a derisive bleat and took anothermouthful of ripe grain. Did you see that? Georges yelled. They've trained the son of a— Chin up, Georges, Retief said. We'll take up the goat problem alongwith the rest. I'll murder 'em! Hold it, Georges. Look over there. A hundred yards away, a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise,paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then gallopeddown the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaksbillowing out behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-goldengrain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep fromthe ridge to the air-car where Retief and the Chef d'Regime hovered,waiting. Georges scrambled for the side of the car. Just wait 'til I get myhands on him! Retief pulled him back. Sit tight and look pleased, Georges. Nevergive the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you're a goatlover—and hand me one of your cigars. The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a clatter ofpebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust. Retiefpeeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed, at it and thumbed it alight. Hedrew at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke and glanced casually at thetrio of Aga Kagan cavaliers. Peace be with you, he intoned in accent-free Kagan. May your shadowsnever grow less. <doc-sep>The leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard,unlimbered his rifle. He fingered it, frowning ferociously. Have no fear, Retief said, smiling graciously. He who comes as aguest enjoys perfect safety. A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath and leveled hisrifle at Retief. Youth is the steed of folly, Retief said. Take care that thebeardless one does not disgrace his house. The leader whirled on the youth and snarled an order. He lowered therifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief. Begone, interlopers, he said. You disturb the goats. Provision is not taken to the houses of the generous, Retief said.May the creatures dine well ere they move on. Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga Kaga.The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. We welcome nointruders on our lands. To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appearfoolish, Retief said. These are the lands of the Boyars. But enoughof these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler. You may address me as 'Exalted One', the leader said. Now dismountfrom that steed of Shaitan. It is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him 'sir',Retief said. I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Nowyou may conduct us to your headquarters. Enough of your insolence! The bearded man cocked his rifle. I couldblow your heads off! The hen has feathers, but it does not fly, Retief said. We haveasked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man,a hint is enough. You mock me, pale one. I warn you— Only love makes me weep, Retief said. I laugh at hatred. Get out of the car! Retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the Aga Kagan cheerfully. The youthin the rear moved forward, teeth bared. Never give in to the fool, lest he say, 'He fears me,' Retief said. I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults, the bearded AgaKagan roared. These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as well! When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings, Retief said.Distress in misfortune is another misfortune. The bearded man's face grew purple. Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car. Now I think we'd better be getting on, he said briskly. I've enjoyedour chat, but we do have business to attend to. The bearded leader laughed shortly. Does the condemned man beg for theaxe? he enquired rhetorically. You shall visit the Aga Kaga, then.Move on! And make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you abrief farewell. The horsemen glowered, then, at a word from the leader, took positionsaround the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following theleading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh. That was close, he said. I was about out of proverbs. You sound as though you'd brought off a coup, Georges said. From theexpression on the whiskery one's face, we're in for trouble. What washe saying? Just a routine exchange of bluffs, Retief said. Now when we getthere, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and yourinsults sound like flattery, and you'll be all right. These birds are armed. And they don't like strangers, Georges said.Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined thisexpedition. Just stick to the plan, Retief said. And remember: a handful of luckis better than a camel-load of learning. <doc-sep>The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry river bedand across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand to a greenoasis set with canopies. The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense tent ofglistening black. Before the tent armed men lounged under a pennantbearing a lion couchant in crimson on a field verte. Get out, Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, theirdrawn sabers catching sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from thecar onto rich rugs spread on the grass. They followed the ferociousgesture of the bearded man through the opening into a perfumed interiorof luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in the air, and thestrumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of sound behindthe decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end ofthe room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently cladman with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape intohis mouth. He wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offeredby a handmaiden, belched loudly and looked the callers over. Blackbeard cleared his throat. Down on your faces in the presence ofthe Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of East and West. Sorry, Retief said firmly. My hay-fever, you know. The reclining giant waved a hand languidly. Never mind the formalities, he said. Approach. Retief and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew towardthem. The reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on anothersilken scarf and held up a hand. Night and the horses and the desert know me, he said in resonanttones. Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen— Hepaused, wrinkled his nose and sneezed again. Turn off that damnedair-conditioner, he snapped. He settled himself and motioned the bearded man to him. The twoexchanged muted remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked hishead and withdrew to the rear. Excellency, Retief said, I have the honor to present M. GeorgesDuror, Chef d'Regime of the Planetary government. Planetary government? The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the rug. Mymen have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they're indistress, I'll see about a distribution of goat-meat. It is the punishment of the envious to grieve at anothers' plenty,Retief said. No goat-meat will be required. Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben Abdallah KatibJelebi, the Aga Kaga said. I know a few old sayings myself. Forexample, 'A Bedouin is only cheated once.' We have no such intentions, Excellency, Retief said. Is it notwritten, 'Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you'? I've had some unhappy experiences with strangers, the Aga Kaga said.It is written in the sands that all strangers are kin. Still, he whovisits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated. III Handmaidens brought cushions, giggled and fled. Retief and Georgessettled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence. We have come to bear tidings from the Corps DiplomatiqueTerrestrienne, Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offeredgrapes. Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge, the Aga Kagasaid. What brings the CDT into the picture? The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern, Retief said.Whereas the words of kings.... Very well, I concede the point. The Aga Kaga waved a hand at theserving maids. Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph.These are mere diplomats. They are men of words, not deeds. The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after him. Now, the Aga Kaga said. Let's drop the wisdom of the ages andget down to the issues. Not that I don't admire your repertoire ofplatitudes. How do you remember them all? Diplomats and other liars require good memories, said Retief. Butas you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I'm here to effect asettlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetaryauthorities. I have here a Note, which I'm conveying on behalf of theSector Under-Secretary. With your permission, I'll read it. Go ahead. The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the floor,eased a bottle from under the couch and reached for glasses. The Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to hisExcellency, the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, HereditarySheik, Emir of the— Yes, yes. Skip the titles. Retief flipped over two pages. ... and with reference to the recent relocation of persons under thejurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor to point out that theterritories now under settlement comprise a portion of that area,hereinafter designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms ofthe Agreement entered into by his Excellency's predecessor, and asreferenced in Sector Ministry's Notes numbers G-175846573957-b andX-7584736 c-1, with particular pertinence to that body designated inthe Revised Galactic Catalogue, Tenth Edition, as amended, VolumeNine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise referred to hereinafter asFlamme— Come to the point, the Aga Kaga cut in. You're here to lodge acomplaint that I'm invading territories to which someone else laysclaim, is that it? He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks and lit one.Well, I've been expecting a call. After all, it's what you gentlemenare paid for. Cheers. Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things, Retief said. Call me Stanley, the Aga Kaga said. The other routine is just toplease some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative membersof my government. They're still gnawing their beards and kickingthemselves because their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemyand got themselves stranded in a cultural dead end. This charade issupposed to prove they were right all along. However, I've no timeto waste in neurotic compensations. I have places to go and deeds toaccomplish. At first glance, Retief said, it looks as though the places arealready occupied, and the deeds are illegal. <doc-sep>The Aga Kaga guffawed. For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief. Haveanother drink. He poured, eyeing Georges. What of M. Duror? How doeshe feel about it? Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. Not bad, he said. Butnot quite good enough to cover the odor of goats. The Aga Kaga snorted. I thought the goats were overdoing it a bitmyself, he said. Still, the graybeards insisted. And I need theirsupport. Also, Georges said distinctly, I think you're soft. You lie aroundletting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honestday's work. The Aga Kaga looked startled. Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron baras big as your thumb. He popped a grape into his mouth. As for therest, your pious views about the virtues of hard labor are as childishas my advisors' faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. As formyself, I am a realist. If two monkeys want the same banana, in the endone will have it, and the other will cry morality. The days of my yearsare numbered, praise be to God. While they last, I hope to eat well,hunt well, fight well and take my share of pleasure. I leave to othersthe arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions. You admit you're here to grab our land, then, Georges said. That'sthe damnedest piece of bare-faced aggression— Ah, ah! The Aga Kaga held up a hand. Watch your vocabulary, mydear sir. I'm sure that 'justifiable yearnings for territorialself-realization' would be more appropriate to the situation. Orpossibly 'legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerlyexploited peoples' might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition,an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle ofColonial Imperialism. Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most notoriousplanet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you— Call me Stanley. The Aga Kaga munched a grape. I merely face therealities of popular folk-lore. Let's be pragmatic; it's a matter ofhistorical association. Some people can grab land and pass it offlightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely forholding onto their own. Unfair, you say. But that's life, my friends.And I shall continue to take every advantage of it. We'll fight you! Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of whiskeyand slammed the glass down. You won't take this world without astruggle! Another? the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges glowered ashis glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light. Excellent color, don't you agree? He turned his eyes on Georges. It's pointless to resist, he said. We have you outgunned andoutmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we'reprepared to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we donot immediately require until such time as you're able to make otherarrangements. And by the time we've got a crop growing out of what was bare rock,you'll be ready to move in, the Boyar Chef d'Regime snapped. Butyou'll find that we aren't alone! <doc-sep>Quite alone, the Aga said. He nodded sagely. Yes, one need but readthe lesson of history. The Corps Diplomatique will make expostulatorynoises, but it will accept the fait accompli . You, my dear sir, arebut a very small nibble. We won't make the mistake of excessive greed.We shall inch our way to empire—and those who stand in our way shallbe dubbed warmongers. I see you're quite a student of history, Stanley, Retief said. Iwonder if you recall the eventual fate of most of the would-be empirenibblers of the past? Ah, but they grew incautious. They went too far, too fast. The confounded impudence, Georges rasped. Tells us to our face whathe has in mind! An ancient and honorable custom, from the time of Mein Kampf andthe Communist Manifesto through the Porcelain Wall of Leung. Suchdeclarations have a legendary quality. It's traditional that they'renever taken at face value. But always, Retief said, there was a critical point at which the manon horseback could have been pulled from the saddle. Could have been, the Aga Kaga chuckled. He finished the grapes andbegan peeling an orange. But they never were. Hitler could have beenstopped by the Czech Air Force in 1938; Stalin was at the mercy of theprimitive atomics of the west in 1946; Leung was grossly over-extendedat Rangoon. But the onus of that historic role could not be overcome.It has been the fate of your spiritual forebears to carve civilizationfrom the wilderness and then, amid tearing of garments and the heapingof ashes of self-accusation on your own confused heads, to withdraw,leaving the spoils for local political opportunists and mob leaders,clothed in the mystical virtue of native birth. Have a banana. You're stretching your analogy a little too far, Retief said. You'rebanking on the inaction of the Corps. You could be wrong. I shall know when to stop, the Aga Kaga said. Tell me, Stanley, Retief said, rising. Are we quite private here? Yes, perfectly so, the Aga Kaga said. None would dare to intrude inmy council. He cocked an eyebrow at Retief. You have a proposal tomake in confidence? But what of our dear friend Georges? One would notlike to see him disillusioned. Don't worry about Georges. He's a realist, like you. He's prepared todeal in facts. Hard facts, in this case. The Aga Kaga nodded thoughtfully. What are you getting at? You're basing your plan of action on the certainty that the Corps willsit by, wringing its hands, while you embark on a career of planetarypiracy. Isn't it the custom? the Aga Kaga smiled complacently. I have news for you, Stanley. In this instance, neck-wringing seemsmore in order than hand-wringing. The Aga Kaga frowned. Your manner— Never mind our manners! Georges blurted, standing. We don't need anylessons from goat-herding land-thieves! The Aga Kaga's face darkened. You dare to speak thus to me, pig of amuck-grubber! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the role of the Aga Kagans in the story?

The Aga Kagans are an empire-building society that has been increasing their presence in six other worlds by the time they appear on Flamme. The Aga Kagans send in men disguised as goat herders and fishermen who are actually armed and equipped with modern accessories. The Aga Kagans have a plan to build their empire by invading other worlds following the model of Adolf Hitler, but they plan to avoid his mistake of moving “too far, too fast.” The Aga Kagan leader, Stanley, is well-educated and a manipulator. He plays to the older conservative Aga Kagans by allowing the third-world trappings of goat herders to be used while he actually has disdain for their traditional values, but his charade gives him what he wants. The Aga Kagans wait until an area has done the hard work of building its civilization and becoming sustainable before he moves his men in. Although the CDT is aware of the Aga Kagans’ actions, it wants to avoid warfare and meets the intrusions with diplomacy, but all the while, the Aga Kagans are ensconcing themselves for a permanent takeover of the places where they have intruded.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> INNOCENT AT LARGE By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble! The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips. After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important. She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you. Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage? Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight. I'll say you do! With a Martian! <doc-sep>Peri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. You musthave heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you canjust blank right out again. I saw him first! Doran's thin sharp face grinned. You break that date, Peri. Put it offor something. I got this Martian for you, see? So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-timemarijuana rancher? Not to mention the heir ap— Sure, sure. But how much are those boys going to spend on any girl,even a high-level type like you? Listen, I need you just for tonight,see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on officialbusiness, but he is a yokel and I do mean hayseed. Like he asked mewhat the Christmas decorations in all the stores were! And here is thesolar nexus of it, Peri, kid. Doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. He has got ahundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audithis accounts at home. One hundred million good green certificates,legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates. And he has aboutas much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen tohave experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this will belike taking candy from a baby. Peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches andcream left overnight on Pluto. Badger? she asked. Sure. You and Sam Wendt handle the routine. I will take the go-betweenangle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because I have otherplans for him too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for thisone night's work, there is something akilter. And your share of amillion is three hundred thirty-three— Is five hundred thousand flat, said Peri. Too bad I just got anawful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus? <doc-sep>The gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chesta trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and hadapparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listenthrough the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted byEarth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him. Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome allvisitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visaprovokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boatof your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business. Well—recruiting. The official patted his comfortable stomach, iridescent in neolon, andchuckled patronizingly. I am afraid, sir, you won't find many peoplewho wish to leave. They wouldn't be able to see the Teamsters Hour onMars, would they? Oh, we don't expect immigration, said Matheny shyly. He was a fairlyyoung man, but small, with a dark-thatched, snub-nosed, gray-eyedhead that seemed too large for his slender body. We learned long agothat no one is interested any more in giving up even second-classcitizenship on Earth to live in the Republic. But we only wanted tohire——uh, I mean engage—an, an advisor. We're not businessmen. Weknow our export trade hasn't a chance among all your corporationsunless we get some—a five-year contract...? He heard his words trailing off idiotically, and swore at himself. Well, good luck. The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped thepassport and handed it back. There, now, you are free to travelanywhere in the Protectorates. But I would advise you to leave thecapital and get into the sticks—um, I mean the provinces. I am surethere must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia orCongolese Belgium or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe youcan attract anyone out of Newer York. Thanks, said Matheny, but, you see, I—we need—that is.... Oh,well. Thanks. Good-by. He backed out of the office. <doc-sep>A dropshaft deposited him on a walkway. The crowd, a rainbow of men inpajamas and robes, women in Neo-Sino dresses and goldleaf hats, swepthim against the rail. For a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared ahundred feet down at the river of automobiles. Phobos! he thoughtwildly. If the barrier gives, I'll be sliced in two by a dorsal finbefore I hit the pavement! The August twilight wrapped him in heat and stickiness. He could seeneither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. The forest ofmulti-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across moreacreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—heused to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke apipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when thetemperature wasn't too far below zero. Why did they tap me for this job? he asked himself in a surge ofhomesickness. What the hell is the Martian Embassy here for? He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor ofsociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advisedhis government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been hisidea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess andhis mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and anoccasional trip to Swindletown— My God , thought Matheny, here I am, one solitary outlander in thegreatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'msupposed to find my planet a con man! He began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt andblack culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was fortyyears out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to himwhenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth hadgone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you couldname on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time beforeMars had such machines. If ever. The city roared at him. He fumbled after his pipe. Of course , he told himself, that's whythe Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld? He wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the MartianRepublic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from therambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the articlewas a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friendwho was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found afew spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challengeto work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. Butmore, he would have been among people he understood. The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed toexist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, ploddinghis syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayeragainst, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency. <doc-sep>Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weighton them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out anyindividual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on onethat was distinguished by relative austerity. THE CHURCH OF CHOICE Enter, Play, Pray That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feetof altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in amarble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand. Ah, brother, welcome, said a red-haired usherette in demure blackleotards. The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. Therestaurant is right up those stairs. I—I'm not hungry, stammered Matheny. I just wanted to sit in— To your left, sir. The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from ananimated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The seriesof rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable. Get your chips right here, sir, said the girl in the booth. Hm? said Matheny. She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped afifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped themartini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learningsomething new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honestor too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead. He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of thecongregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first fewpasses he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was acustomary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushedchips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simplecourtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get thefeel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him. I say! he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around thegreen table. I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules. You did all right, brother, said a middle-aged lady with an obviouslysurgical bodice. But—I mean—when do we start actually playing ? What happened to thecocked dice? <doc-sep>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church! Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears. You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice. Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue. Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler? The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers. You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard. Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here. Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft. Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most. My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus. They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings. I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran— Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested. There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me. I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on. We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us? I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she appreciated me for it! He winked and nudged. Oh, said Matheny. <doc-sep>He felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man todeserve— Of course, Matheny said ritually, I agree with all the archeologistsit's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but whatcan we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent. Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable, said Doran. Imean, do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, butpeople come back saying you have given the planet just barely enoughair to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns andvillages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers andmaking a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck fortheir ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know. I do know, said Matheny. But we're poor—a handful of people tryingto make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woodsand seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipmentand supplies—which can only be paid for in Earth dollars—and we can'texport enough to Earth to earn those dollars. By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down. Whassa matter? asked Doran. Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastictechnician before? Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications. Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was forpurely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtainreduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices. What'll you have? asked Doran. It's on me. Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean— Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth? Matheny shuddered. Good Lord, no! Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they? Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. Butyou don't think we'd drink it, do you? I mean—well, I imagine itdoesn't absolutely ruin vermouth. But we don't see those Earthsidecommercials about how sophisticated people like it so much. <doc-sep>Well, I'll be a socialist creeper! Doran's face split in a grin. Youknow, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it! Heraised a hand. Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if youcontrol the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,why do you call yourselves poor? Because we are, said Matheny. By the time the shipping costs havebeen paid on a bottle, and the Earth wholesaler and jobber and salesengineer and so on, down to the retailer, have taken their percentage,and the advertising agency has been paid, and about fifty separateEarth taxes—there's very little profit going back to the distilleryon Mars. The same principle is what's strangling us on everything. OldMartian artifacts aren't really rare, for instance, but freight chargesand the middlemen here put them out of the mass market. Have you not got some other business? Well, we do sell a lot of color slides, postcards, baggage labels andso on to people who like to act cosmopolitan, and I understand ourtravel posters are quite popular as wall decoration. But all that hasto be printed on Earth, and the printer and distributor keep most ofthe money. We've sold some books and show tapes, of course, but onlyone has been really successful— I Was a Slave Girl on Mars . Our most prominent novelist was co-opted to ghostwrite that one.Again, though, local income taxes took most of the money; authorsnever have been protected the way a businessman is. We do make a highpercentage of profit on those little certificates you see around—youknow, the title deeds to one square inch of Mars—but expressedabsolutely, in dollars, it doesn't amount to much when we startshopping for bulldozers and thermonuclear power plants. How about postage stamps? inquired Doran. Philately is a bigbusiness, I have heard. It was our mainstay, admitted Matheny, but it's been overworked.Martian stamps are a drug on the market. What we'd like to operate is asweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on Earth forbid that. <doc-sep>Doran whistled. I got to give your people credit for enterprise,anyway! He fingered his mustache. Uh, pardon me, but have you triedto, well, attract capital from Earth? Of course, said Matheny bitterly. We offer the most liberalconcessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transportfirm or—or anybody—who wanted to come and actually invest a fewdollars in Mars—why, we'd probably give him the President's daughteras security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got moreof. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few politicalmalcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill ofliberties to the incorporated state—what could General Nucleonicshope to get from Mars? I see. Well, what are you having to drink? Beer, said Matheny without hesitation. Huh? Look, pal, this is on me. The only beer on Mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetaryfreight charges tacked on, said Matheny. Heineken's! Doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins. This is a real interesting talk, Pete, he said. You are being veryfrank with me. I like a man that is frank. Matheny shrugged. I haven't told you anything that isn't known toevery economist. Of course I haven't. I've not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, forinstance. But, in principle, I have told him the truth, told him of ourneed; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough. The beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it. Doran sipped at awhiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of theMartian. Ahhh! said Matheny. Bless you, my friend. A pleasure. But now you must let me buy you one. That is not necessary. After all, said Doran with great tact, withthe situation as you have been describing— Oh, we're not that poor! My expense allowance assumes I willentertain quite a bit. Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. You're here on business,then? Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a businessmanager for the Martian export trade. What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your faultthere are so many rackets—uh, taxes—and middlemen and agencies and etcetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days. <doc-sep>Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajamatop. Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians arebabes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on thescale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buyand sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't affordthree seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What weneed, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's anEarthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, andhow to dodge the tax bite and—and—well, you see how it goes, thatsort of, uh, thing. Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the secondbottle of beer. But where do I start? he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smotehim anew. I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even getto see— It might be arranged, said Doran in a thoughtful tone. It justmight. How much could you pay this fellow? A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That'sEarth years, mind you. I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete, said Doran, but while that is notbad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in NewerYork. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quitwhere he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Marspermanently. I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe, said Matheny. Thatis, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expensesand, well ... let me buy you a drink! Doran's black eyes frogged at him. You might at that, said theEarthman very softly. Yes, you might at that. Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. Ahell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lancebusiness consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrangesome contacts.... No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetaryfriendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you havegot to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What isakvavit? Well, I will just take and show you. A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, andhe laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for abig-city taste like his. What I really want, said Matheny, what I really want—I mean whatMars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man. A what? The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con gamefor us and make us some real money. Con man? Oh. A slipstring. A con by any other name, said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit. <doc-sep>Doran squinted through cigarette smoke. You are interesting mestrangely, my friend. Say on. No. Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the boothseemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had anodd quality. No, sorry, Gus, he said. I spoke too much. Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bombout of here, how about it? Go have a little fun. By all means. Matheny disposed of his last beer. I could use somegaiety. You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel roomfirst and some more up-to-date clothes. Allez , said Matheny. If I don't mean allons , or maybe alors . The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward soberedhim; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more. Oh, well , he thought, if I succeed in this job, no one at home willquibble. And the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacularenough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency toshow the vertical incandescence of the towers. Whoof! Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about hiscontours. He jumped. What the dusty hell—Oh. He tried to grin, buthis face burned. I see. That is a sexy type of furniture, all right, agreed Doran. He loweredhimself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved acigarette. Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is nottoo late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around2100 hours earliest. What? You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar andswivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you. Me? Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. Me?Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moisteneduncertain lips. You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in anabandoned canal. What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate— Look, Pete, said Doran patiently. She don't have to know that, doesshe? Well—well, no. I guess not No. Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo, said Doran. I recommendyou buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive. <doc-sep>While Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling withhis new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer. You said one thing, Pete, Doran remarked. About needing aslipstring. A con man, you would call it. Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn. Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. Andmaybe I have got a few contacts. What? Matheny gaped out of the bathroom. Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.I am not that man, he said frankly. But in my line I get a lot ofcontacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could notdo it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell youa phone number. He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. Sure, you may notbe interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. Igot tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you havegot to think positively. Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made himwant to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybehe became overcautious. They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must. I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea, hesaid slowly. But it would have to be under security. Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now. What? But—but— Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe thathe had landed on Earth less than six hours ago. In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without aninstant's hesitation. I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whateveryou may tell me under security, now or at any other time, herecited. Then, cheerfully: And that formula, Pete, happens to be thehonest-to-zebra truth. I know. Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. I'm sorryto—to—I mean of course I trust you, but— Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, goahead. Doran crossed his legs and leaned back. Oh, it's simple enough, said Matheny. It's only that we already areoperating con games. On Mars, you mean? Yes. There never were any Old Martians. We erected the ruins fiftyyears ago for the Billingsworth Expedition to find. We've beenmanufacturing relics ever since. Huh? Well, why, but— In this case, it helps to be at the far end of an interplanetaryhaul, said Matheny. Not many Terrestrial archeologists get to Marsand they depend on our people to—Well, anyhow— I will be clopped! Good for you! <doc-sep>Doran blew up in laughter. That is one thing I would never spill, evenwithout security. I told you about my girl friend, didn't I? Yes, and that calls to mind the Little Girl, said Mathenyapologetically. She was another official project. Who? Remember Junie O'Brien? The little golden-haired girl on Mars, amathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collectedEarth coins. Oh, that. Sure, I remember—Hey! You didn't! Yes. We made about a billion dollars on that one. I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buckpiece myself. Say, how is Junie O'Brien? Oh, fine. Under a different name, she's now our finance minister.Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind hisback. There were no lies involved. She really does have a fataldisease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older. Uh! exclaimed Doran. And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What wasthe secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerfulsemantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is availableto a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise. He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but itwould have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, whohad heard everything already. Doran whistled. That's about all, so far, confessed Matheny. Perhaps a con is ouronly hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martianbucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know. I think— Doran removed the helmet and stood up. Yes? Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension. I may be able to find the man you want, said Doran. I just may. Itwill take a few days and might get a little expensive. You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually— I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finishdressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl Iknow. We deserve a celebration! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Peter Matheny is a Martian sociodynamics professor sent to Earth on behalf of the Martian government under the guise of hiring an Earthman who can help manage and improve their export business. Armed with a hundred million dollars, his real mission is to find and enlist the service of a con man who can help the Martians concoct a securities scheme that will net greater profits than their current exports yield (the government hired him because of his experience formulating the Red Ankh Society scheme, which offered to sell bogus wisdom of the Old Martians). Peter is accustomed to the largely-empty deserts of Mars and enjoys the serenity of smoking a pipe while stargazing behind his small home in addition to other quiet hobbies such as reading, playing chess, and collecting minerals. When he arrives on Earth, he feels out of his element and uncomfortable due to the heavy, humid air and massive towers and neon lights he encounters in the crowded city, so he seeks a place where he can sit. He finds a place called "The Church of Choice," where, to his delight, he discovers a number of gambling games in progress despite the ban on such activities on Earth. Because the Martian Constitution specifically allows for gambling, Peter partakes and shoots a successful game of craps. However, he expresses confusion about Earth rules for craps, since the Martian version employs a number of tricks and cheats. After the game, Peter feels uncomfortable again and tries to leave, but he is stopped by a man named Gus Doran, who takes him out for drinks. During their conversation, Peter tells Gus about the struggles of the Martian economy and explains how high Earth taxes and greedy middlemen have cut into the profits from their exports. Over the course of a few more drinks, Peter tells Gus about several frauds the Martians developed in an effort to bolster their economy and accidentally reveals his true intentions for visiting Earth to Gus. This information intrigues Gus who informs Peter that he has contacts that may be able to help. To ensure Peter's trust, Gus uses an oath box and promises not to tell anyone what he learned from Peter that night. Gus then suggests they celebrate by inviting some women to their hotel, and he leaves to make a phone call. He calls his business partner Peri, who is preparing to go on a date with a wealthy marijuana rancher. Gus convinces her to cancel the date and join him at the hotel so that together they can take advantage of Peter's amenability and hustle him out of a million dollars.

What is the setting of the story? [SEP] <s> INNOCENT AT LARGE By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble! The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips. After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important. She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you. Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage? Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight. I'll say you do! With a Martian! <doc-sep>Peri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. You musthave heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you canjust blank right out again. I saw him first! Doran's thin sharp face grinned. You break that date, Peri. Put it offor something. I got this Martian for you, see? So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-timemarijuana rancher? Not to mention the heir ap— Sure, sure. But how much are those boys going to spend on any girl,even a high-level type like you? Listen, I need you just for tonight,see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on officialbusiness, but he is a yokel and I do mean hayseed. Like he asked mewhat the Christmas decorations in all the stores were! And here is thesolar nexus of it, Peri, kid. Doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. He has got ahundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audithis accounts at home. One hundred million good green certificates,legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates. And he has aboutas much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen tohave experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this will belike taking candy from a baby. Peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches andcream left overnight on Pluto. Badger? she asked. Sure. You and Sam Wendt handle the routine. I will take the go-betweenangle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because I have otherplans for him too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for thisone night's work, there is something akilter. And your share of amillion is three hundred thirty-three— Is five hundred thousand flat, said Peri. Too bad I just got anawful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus? <doc-sep>The gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chesta trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and hadapparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listenthrough the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted byEarth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him. Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome allvisitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visaprovokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boatof your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business. Well—recruiting. The official patted his comfortable stomach, iridescent in neolon, andchuckled patronizingly. I am afraid, sir, you won't find many peoplewho wish to leave. They wouldn't be able to see the Teamsters Hour onMars, would they? Oh, we don't expect immigration, said Matheny shyly. He was a fairlyyoung man, but small, with a dark-thatched, snub-nosed, gray-eyedhead that seemed too large for his slender body. We learned long agothat no one is interested any more in giving up even second-classcitizenship on Earth to live in the Republic. But we only wanted tohire——uh, I mean engage—an, an advisor. We're not businessmen. Weknow our export trade hasn't a chance among all your corporationsunless we get some—a five-year contract...? He heard his words trailing off idiotically, and swore at himself. Well, good luck. The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped thepassport and handed it back. There, now, you are free to travelanywhere in the Protectorates. But I would advise you to leave thecapital and get into the sticks—um, I mean the provinces. I am surethere must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia orCongolese Belgium or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe youcan attract anyone out of Newer York. Thanks, said Matheny, but, you see, I—we need—that is.... Oh,well. Thanks. Good-by. He backed out of the office. <doc-sep>A dropshaft deposited him on a walkway. The crowd, a rainbow of men inpajamas and robes, women in Neo-Sino dresses and goldleaf hats, swepthim against the rail. For a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared ahundred feet down at the river of automobiles. Phobos! he thoughtwildly. If the barrier gives, I'll be sliced in two by a dorsal finbefore I hit the pavement! The August twilight wrapped him in heat and stickiness. He could seeneither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. The forest ofmulti-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across moreacreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—heused to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke apipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when thetemperature wasn't too far below zero. Why did they tap me for this job? he asked himself in a surge ofhomesickness. What the hell is the Martian Embassy here for? He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor ofsociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advisedhis government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been hisidea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess andhis mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and anoccasional trip to Swindletown— My God , thought Matheny, here I am, one solitary outlander in thegreatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'msupposed to find my planet a con man! He began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt andblack culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was fortyyears out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to himwhenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth hadgone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you couldname on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time beforeMars had such machines. If ever. The city roared at him. He fumbled after his pipe. Of course , he told himself, that's whythe Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld? He wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the MartianRepublic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from therambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the articlewas a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friendwho was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found afew spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challengeto work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. Butmore, he would have been among people he understood. The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed toexist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, ploddinghis syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayeragainst, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency. <doc-sep>Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weighton them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out anyindividual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on onethat was distinguished by relative austerity. THE CHURCH OF CHOICE Enter, Play, Pray That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feetof altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in amarble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand. Ah, brother, welcome, said a red-haired usherette in demure blackleotards. The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. Therestaurant is right up those stairs. I—I'm not hungry, stammered Matheny. I just wanted to sit in— To your left, sir. The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from ananimated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The seriesof rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable. Get your chips right here, sir, said the girl in the booth. Hm? said Matheny. She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped afifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped themartini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learningsomething new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honestor too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead. He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of thecongregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first fewpasses he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was acustomary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushedchips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simplecourtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get thefeel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him. I say! he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around thegreen table. I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules. You did all right, brother, said a middle-aged lady with an obviouslysurgical bodice. But—I mean—when do we start actually playing ? What happened to thecocked dice? <doc-sep>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church! Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears. You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice. Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue. Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler? The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers. You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard. Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here. Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft. Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most. My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus. They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings. I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran— Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested. There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me. I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on. We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us? I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she appreciated me for it! He winked and nudged. Oh, said Matheny. <doc-sep>He felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man todeserve— Of course, Matheny said ritually, I agree with all the archeologistsit's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but whatcan we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent. Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable, said Doran. Imean, do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, butpeople come back saying you have given the planet just barely enoughair to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns andvillages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers andmaking a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck fortheir ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know. I do know, said Matheny. But we're poor—a handful of people tryingto make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woodsand seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipmentand supplies—which can only be paid for in Earth dollars—and we can'texport enough to Earth to earn those dollars. By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down. Whassa matter? asked Doran. Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastictechnician before? Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications. Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was forpurely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtainreduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices. What'll you have? asked Doran. It's on me. Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean— Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth? Matheny shuddered. Good Lord, no! Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they? Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. Butyou don't think we'd drink it, do you? I mean—well, I imagine itdoesn't absolutely ruin vermouth. But we don't see those Earthsidecommercials about how sophisticated people like it so much. <doc-sep>Well, I'll be a socialist creeper! Doran's face split in a grin. Youknow, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it! Heraised a hand. Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if youcontrol the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,why do you call yourselves poor? Because we are, said Matheny. By the time the shipping costs havebeen paid on a bottle, and the Earth wholesaler and jobber and salesengineer and so on, down to the retailer, have taken their percentage,and the advertising agency has been paid, and about fifty separateEarth taxes—there's very little profit going back to the distilleryon Mars. The same principle is what's strangling us on everything. OldMartian artifacts aren't really rare, for instance, but freight chargesand the middlemen here put them out of the mass market. Have you not got some other business? Well, we do sell a lot of color slides, postcards, baggage labels andso on to people who like to act cosmopolitan, and I understand ourtravel posters are quite popular as wall decoration. But all that hasto be printed on Earth, and the printer and distributor keep most ofthe money. We've sold some books and show tapes, of course, but onlyone has been really successful— I Was a Slave Girl on Mars . Our most prominent novelist was co-opted to ghostwrite that one.Again, though, local income taxes took most of the money; authorsnever have been protected the way a businessman is. We do make a highpercentage of profit on those little certificates you see around—youknow, the title deeds to one square inch of Mars—but expressedabsolutely, in dollars, it doesn't amount to much when we startshopping for bulldozers and thermonuclear power plants. How about postage stamps? inquired Doran. Philately is a bigbusiness, I have heard. It was our mainstay, admitted Matheny, but it's been overworked.Martian stamps are a drug on the market. What we'd like to operate is asweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on Earth forbid that. <doc-sep>Doran whistled. I got to give your people credit for enterprise,anyway! He fingered his mustache. Uh, pardon me, but have you triedto, well, attract capital from Earth? Of course, said Matheny bitterly. We offer the most liberalconcessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transportfirm or—or anybody—who wanted to come and actually invest a fewdollars in Mars—why, we'd probably give him the President's daughteras security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got moreof. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few politicalmalcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill ofliberties to the incorporated state—what could General Nucleonicshope to get from Mars? I see. Well, what are you having to drink? Beer, said Matheny without hesitation. Huh? Look, pal, this is on me. The only beer on Mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetaryfreight charges tacked on, said Matheny. Heineken's! Doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins. This is a real interesting talk, Pete, he said. You are being veryfrank with me. I like a man that is frank. Matheny shrugged. I haven't told you anything that isn't known toevery economist. Of course I haven't. I've not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, forinstance. But, in principle, I have told him the truth, told him of ourneed; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough. The beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it. Doran sipped at awhiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of theMartian. Ahhh! said Matheny. Bless you, my friend. A pleasure. But now you must let me buy you one. That is not necessary. After all, said Doran with great tact, withthe situation as you have been describing— Oh, we're not that poor! My expense allowance assumes I willentertain quite a bit. Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. You're here on business,then? Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a businessmanager for the Martian export trade. What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your faultthere are so many rackets—uh, taxes—and middlemen and agencies and etcetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days. <doc-sep>Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajamatop. Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians arebabes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on thescale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buyand sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't affordthree seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What weneed, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's anEarthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, andhow to dodge the tax bite and—and—well, you see how it goes, thatsort of, uh, thing. Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the secondbottle of beer. But where do I start? he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smotehim anew. I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even getto see— It might be arranged, said Doran in a thoughtful tone. It justmight. How much could you pay this fellow? A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That'sEarth years, mind you. I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete, said Doran, but while that is notbad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in NewerYork. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quitwhere he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Marspermanently. I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe, said Matheny. Thatis, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expensesand, well ... let me buy you a drink! Doran's black eyes frogged at him. You might at that, said theEarthman very softly. Yes, you might at that. Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. Ahell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lancebusiness consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrangesome contacts.... No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetaryfriendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you havegot to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What isakvavit? Well, I will just take and show you. A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, andhe laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for abig-city taste like his. What I really want, said Matheny, what I really want—I mean whatMars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man. A what? The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con gamefor us and make us some real money. Con man? Oh. A slipstring. A con by any other name, said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit. <doc-sep>Doran squinted through cigarette smoke. You are interesting mestrangely, my friend. Say on. No. Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the boothseemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had anodd quality. No, sorry, Gus, he said. I spoke too much. Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bombout of here, how about it? Go have a little fun. By all means. Matheny disposed of his last beer. I could use somegaiety. You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel roomfirst and some more up-to-date clothes. Allez , said Matheny. If I don't mean allons , or maybe alors . The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward soberedhim; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more. Oh, well , he thought, if I succeed in this job, no one at home willquibble. And the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacularenough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency toshow the vertical incandescence of the towers. Whoof! Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about hiscontours. He jumped. What the dusty hell—Oh. He tried to grin, buthis face burned. I see. That is a sexy type of furniture, all right, agreed Doran. He loweredhimself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved acigarette. Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is nottoo late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around2100 hours earliest. What? You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar andswivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you. Me? Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. Me?Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moisteneduncertain lips. You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in anabandoned canal. What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate— Look, Pete, said Doran patiently. She don't have to know that, doesshe? Well—well, no. I guess not No. Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo, said Doran. I recommendyou buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive. <doc-sep>While Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling withhis new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer. You said one thing, Pete, Doran remarked. About needing aslipstring. A con man, you would call it. Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn. Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. Andmaybe I have got a few contacts. What? Matheny gaped out of the bathroom. Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.I am not that man, he said frankly. But in my line I get a lot ofcontacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could notdo it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell youa phone number. He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. Sure, you may notbe interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. Igot tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you havegot to think positively. Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made himwant to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybehe became overcautious. They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must. I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea, hesaid slowly. But it would have to be under security. Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now. What? But—but— Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe thathe had landed on Earth less than six hours ago. In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without aninstant's hesitation. I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whateveryou may tell me under security, now or at any other time, herecited. Then, cheerfully: And that formula, Pete, happens to be thehonest-to-zebra truth. I know. Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. I'm sorryto—to—I mean of course I trust you, but— Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, goahead. Doran crossed his legs and leaned back. Oh, it's simple enough, said Matheny. It's only that we already areoperating con games. On Mars, you mean? Yes. There never were any Old Martians. We erected the ruins fiftyyears ago for the Billingsworth Expedition to find. We've beenmanufacturing relics ever since. Huh? Well, why, but— In this case, it helps to be at the far end of an interplanetaryhaul, said Matheny. Not many Terrestrial archeologists get to Marsand they depend on our people to—Well, anyhow— I will be clopped! Good for you! <doc-sep>Doran blew up in laughter. That is one thing I would never spill, evenwithout security. I told you about my girl friend, didn't I? Yes, and that calls to mind the Little Girl, said Mathenyapologetically. She was another official project. Who? Remember Junie O'Brien? The little golden-haired girl on Mars, amathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collectedEarth coins. Oh, that. Sure, I remember—Hey! You didn't! Yes. We made about a billion dollars on that one. I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buckpiece myself. Say, how is Junie O'Brien? Oh, fine. Under a different name, she's now our finance minister.Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind hisback. There were no lies involved. She really does have a fataldisease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older. Uh! exclaimed Doran. And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What wasthe secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerfulsemantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is availableto a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise. He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but itwould have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, whohad heard everything already. Doran whistled. That's about all, so far, confessed Matheny. Perhaps a con is ouronly hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martianbucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know. I think— Doran removed the helmet and stood up. Yes? Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension. I may be able to find the man you want, said Doran. I just may. Itwill take a few days and might get a little expensive. You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually— I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finishdressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl Iknow. We deserve a celebration! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting of the story?

There are several locations where key events in the story take place including Peri's residence, the immigration office, the Earth city, the Church of Choice, Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar & Grill, and the Jupiter-Astoria hotel. In addition, at various points throughout the narrative, Peter recalls life on Mars, which is covered with deserts and scrub thorn and an atmosphere with drier air and lesser gravity compared to Earth's humidity and strong gravitation. Martian society is largely rural with very small towns and villages, and their weeks are different than those on Earth; they have a day called "Tenthday" when Peter likes to play poker with his coworkers, and he sometimes visits a place called Swindletown. Peter often notes the differences between Earth's commercialism and reliance upon automation and Mars' more calm, individualistic society. Peter is overwhelmed by the bright, neon lights, massive towers, and sheer amount of vehicles and people in the city where he arrives on Earth and longs for his small cottage and rock garden back on Mars. To navigate the city, Peter takes cabs, and to access the different levels of the towers, he utilizes the ramp system. Looking for a place to sit, Peter finds The Church of Choice, which seems to be an establishment where people can drink and gamble, although gambling is illegal on Earth. The Church of Choice features craps tables, roulette wheels, and even Bingo and has a large, marble lobby at its entrance that leads into a number of dim rooms with Gothic architecture. After meeting Gus there, the two leave and share drinks at Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar & Grill, a place where diners can talk in private sitting at soundproof booths while enjoying a strip show. The carpeted hotel room he shares with Gus at the Jupiter-Astoria has a pneumatic device that can deliver drinks straight from the bar along with anything else someone may require, such as the oath box Gus uses to cement Peter's trust in him. There is also a bathroom and a "sexy type of furniture" that operates like a massage chair.

Who is Gus Doran and what is his role in the story? [SEP] <s> INNOCENT AT LARGE By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble! The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips. After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important. She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you. Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage? Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight. I'll say you do! With a Martian! <doc-sep>Peri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. You musthave heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you canjust blank right out again. I saw him first! Doran's thin sharp face grinned. You break that date, Peri. Put it offor something. I got this Martian for you, see? So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-timemarijuana rancher? Not to mention the heir ap— Sure, sure. But how much are those boys going to spend on any girl,even a high-level type like you? Listen, I need you just for tonight,see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on officialbusiness, but he is a yokel and I do mean hayseed. Like he asked mewhat the Christmas decorations in all the stores were! And here is thesolar nexus of it, Peri, kid. Doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. He has got ahundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audithis accounts at home. One hundred million good green certificates,legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates. And he has aboutas much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen tohave experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this will belike taking candy from a baby. Peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches andcream left overnight on Pluto. Badger? she asked. Sure. You and Sam Wendt handle the routine. I will take the go-betweenangle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because I have otherplans for him too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for thisone night's work, there is something akilter. And your share of amillion is three hundred thirty-three— Is five hundred thousand flat, said Peri. Too bad I just got anawful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus? <doc-sep>The gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chesta trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and hadapparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listenthrough the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted byEarth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him. Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome allvisitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visaprovokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boatof your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business. Well—recruiting. The official patted his comfortable stomach, iridescent in neolon, andchuckled patronizingly. I am afraid, sir, you won't find many peoplewho wish to leave. They wouldn't be able to see the Teamsters Hour onMars, would they? Oh, we don't expect immigration, said Matheny shyly. He was a fairlyyoung man, but small, with a dark-thatched, snub-nosed, gray-eyedhead that seemed too large for his slender body. We learned long agothat no one is interested any more in giving up even second-classcitizenship on Earth to live in the Republic. But we only wanted tohire——uh, I mean engage—an, an advisor. We're not businessmen. Weknow our export trade hasn't a chance among all your corporationsunless we get some—a five-year contract...? He heard his words trailing off idiotically, and swore at himself. Well, good luck. The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped thepassport and handed it back. There, now, you are free to travelanywhere in the Protectorates. But I would advise you to leave thecapital and get into the sticks—um, I mean the provinces. I am surethere must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia orCongolese Belgium or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe youcan attract anyone out of Newer York. Thanks, said Matheny, but, you see, I—we need—that is.... Oh,well. Thanks. Good-by. He backed out of the office. <doc-sep>A dropshaft deposited him on a walkway. The crowd, a rainbow of men inpajamas and robes, women in Neo-Sino dresses and goldleaf hats, swepthim against the rail. For a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared ahundred feet down at the river of automobiles. Phobos! he thoughtwildly. If the barrier gives, I'll be sliced in two by a dorsal finbefore I hit the pavement! The August twilight wrapped him in heat and stickiness. He could seeneither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. The forest ofmulti-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across moreacreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—heused to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke apipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when thetemperature wasn't too far below zero. Why did they tap me for this job? he asked himself in a surge ofhomesickness. What the hell is the Martian Embassy here for? He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor ofsociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advisedhis government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been hisidea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess andhis mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and anoccasional trip to Swindletown— My God , thought Matheny, here I am, one solitary outlander in thegreatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'msupposed to find my planet a con man! He began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt andblack culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was fortyyears out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to himwhenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth hadgone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you couldname on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time beforeMars had such machines. If ever. The city roared at him. He fumbled after his pipe. Of course , he told himself, that's whythe Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld? He wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the MartianRepublic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from therambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the articlewas a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friendwho was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found afew spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challengeto work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. Butmore, he would have been among people he understood. The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed toexist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, ploddinghis syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayeragainst, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency. <doc-sep>Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weighton them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out anyindividual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on onethat was distinguished by relative austerity. THE CHURCH OF CHOICE Enter, Play, Pray That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feetof altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in amarble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand. Ah, brother, welcome, said a red-haired usherette in demure blackleotards. The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. Therestaurant is right up those stairs. I—I'm not hungry, stammered Matheny. I just wanted to sit in— To your left, sir. The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from ananimated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The seriesof rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable. Get your chips right here, sir, said the girl in the booth. Hm? said Matheny. She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped afifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped themartini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learningsomething new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honestor too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead. He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of thecongregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first fewpasses he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was acustomary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushedchips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simplecourtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get thefeel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him. I say! he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around thegreen table. I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules. You did all right, brother, said a middle-aged lady with an obviouslysurgical bodice. But—I mean—when do we start actually playing ? What happened to thecocked dice? <doc-sep>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church! Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears. You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice. Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue. Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler? The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers. You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard. Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here. Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft. Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most. My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus. They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings. I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran— Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested. There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me. I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on. We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us? I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she appreciated me for it! He winked and nudged. Oh, said Matheny. <doc-sep>He felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man todeserve— Of course, Matheny said ritually, I agree with all the archeologistsit's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but whatcan we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent. Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable, said Doran. Imean, do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, butpeople come back saying you have given the planet just barely enoughair to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns andvillages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers andmaking a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck fortheir ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know. I do know, said Matheny. But we're poor—a handful of people tryingto make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woodsand seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipmentand supplies—which can only be paid for in Earth dollars—and we can'texport enough to Earth to earn those dollars. By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down. Whassa matter? asked Doran. Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastictechnician before? Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications. Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was forpurely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtainreduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices. What'll you have? asked Doran. It's on me. Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean— Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth? Matheny shuddered. Good Lord, no! Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they? Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. Butyou don't think we'd drink it, do you? I mean—well, I imagine itdoesn't absolutely ruin vermouth. But we don't see those Earthsidecommercials about how sophisticated people like it so much. <doc-sep>Well, I'll be a socialist creeper! Doran's face split in a grin. Youknow, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it! Heraised a hand. Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if youcontrol the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,why do you call yourselves poor? Because we are, said Matheny. By the time the shipping costs havebeen paid on a bottle, and the Earth wholesaler and jobber and salesengineer and so on, down to the retailer, have taken their percentage,and the advertising agency has been paid, and about fifty separateEarth taxes—there's very little profit going back to the distilleryon Mars. The same principle is what's strangling us on everything. OldMartian artifacts aren't really rare, for instance, but freight chargesand the middlemen here put them out of the mass market. Have you not got some other business? Well, we do sell a lot of color slides, postcards, baggage labels andso on to people who like to act cosmopolitan, and I understand ourtravel posters are quite popular as wall decoration. But all that hasto be printed on Earth, and the printer and distributor keep most ofthe money. We've sold some books and show tapes, of course, but onlyone has been really successful— I Was a Slave Girl on Mars . Our most prominent novelist was co-opted to ghostwrite that one.Again, though, local income taxes took most of the money; authorsnever have been protected the way a businessman is. We do make a highpercentage of profit on those little certificates you see around—youknow, the title deeds to one square inch of Mars—but expressedabsolutely, in dollars, it doesn't amount to much when we startshopping for bulldozers and thermonuclear power plants. How about postage stamps? inquired Doran. Philately is a bigbusiness, I have heard. It was our mainstay, admitted Matheny, but it's been overworked.Martian stamps are a drug on the market. What we'd like to operate is asweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on Earth forbid that. <doc-sep>Doran whistled. I got to give your people credit for enterprise,anyway! He fingered his mustache. Uh, pardon me, but have you triedto, well, attract capital from Earth? Of course, said Matheny bitterly. We offer the most liberalconcessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transportfirm or—or anybody—who wanted to come and actually invest a fewdollars in Mars—why, we'd probably give him the President's daughteras security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got moreof. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few politicalmalcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill ofliberties to the incorporated state—what could General Nucleonicshope to get from Mars? I see. Well, what are you having to drink? Beer, said Matheny without hesitation. Huh? Look, pal, this is on me. The only beer on Mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetaryfreight charges tacked on, said Matheny. Heineken's! Doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins. This is a real interesting talk, Pete, he said. You are being veryfrank with me. I like a man that is frank. Matheny shrugged. I haven't told you anything that isn't known toevery economist. Of course I haven't. I've not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, forinstance. But, in principle, I have told him the truth, told him of ourneed; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough. The beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it. Doran sipped at awhiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of theMartian. Ahhh! said Matheny. Bless you, my friend. A pleasure. But now you must let me buy you one. That is not necessary. After all, said Doran with great tact, withthe situation as you have been describing— Oh, we're not that poor! My expense allowance assumes I willentertain quite a bit. Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. You're here on business,then? Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a businessmanager for the Martian export trade. What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your faultthere are so many rackets—uh, taxes—and middlemen and agencies and etcetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days. <doc-sep>Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajamatop. Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians arebabes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on thescale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buyand sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't affordthree seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What weneed, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's anEarthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, andhow to dodge the tax bite and—and—well, you see how it goes, thatsort of, uh, thing. Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the secondbottle of beer. But where do I start? he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smotehim anew. I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even getto see— It might be arranged, said Doran in a thoughtful tone. It justmight. How much could you pay this fellow? A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That'sEarth years, mind you. I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete, said Doran, but while that is notbad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in NewerYork. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quitwhere he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Marspermanently. I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe, said Matheny. Thatis, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expensesand, well ... let me buy you a drink! Doran's black eyes frogged at him. You might at that, said theEarthman very softly. Yes, you might at that. Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. Ahell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lancebusiness consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrangesome contacts.... No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetaryfriendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you havegot to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What isakvavit? Well, I will just take and show you. A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, andhe laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for abig-city taste like his. What I really want, said Matheny, what I really want—I mean whatMars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man. A what? The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con gamefor us and make us some real money. Con man? Oh. A slipstring. A con by any other name, said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit. <doc-sep>Doran squinted through cigarette smoke. You are interesting mestrangely, my friend. Say on. No. Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the boothseemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had anodd quality. No, sorry, Gus, he said. I spoke too much. Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bombout of here, how about it? Go have a little fun. By all means. Matheny disposed of his last beer. I could use somegaiety. You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel roomfirst and some more up-to-date clothes. Allez , said Matheny. If I don't mean allons , or maybe alors . The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward soberedhim; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more. Oh, well , he thought, if I succeed in this job, no one at home willquibble. And the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacularenough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency toshow the vertical incandescence of the towers. Whoof! Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about hiscontours. He jumped. What the dusty hell—Oh. He tried to grin, buthis face burned. I see. That is a sexy type of furniture, all right, agreed Doran. He loweredhimself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved acigarette. Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is nottoo late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around2100 hours earliest. What? You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar andswivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you. Me? Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. Me?Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moisteneduncertain lips. You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in anabandoned canal. What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate— Look, Pete, said Doran patiently. She don't have to know that, doesshe? Well—well, no. I guess not No. Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo, said Doran. I recommendyou buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive. <doc-sep>While Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling withhis new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer. You said one thing, Pete, Doran remarked. About needing aslipstring. A con man, you would call it. Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn. Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. Andmaybe I have got a few contacts. What? Matheny gaped out of the bathroom. Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.I am not that man, he said frankly. But in my line I get a lot ofcontacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could notdo it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell youa phone number. He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. Sure, you may notbe interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. Igot tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you havegot to think positively. Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made himwant to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybehe became overcautious. They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must. I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea, hesaid slowly. But it would have to be under security. Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now. What? But—but— Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe thathe had landed on Earth less than six hours ago. In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without aninstant's hesitation. I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whateveryou may tell me under security, now or at any other time, herecited. Then, cheerfully: And that formula, Pete, happens to be thehonest-to-zebra truth. I know. Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. I'm sorryto—to—I mean of course I trust you, but— Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, goahead. Doran crossed his legs and leaned back. Oh, it's simple enough, said Matheny. It's only that we already areoperating con games. On Mars, you mean? Yes. There never were any Old Martians. We erected the ruins fiftyyears ago for the Billingsworth Expedition to find. We've beenmanufacturing relics ever since. Huh? Well, why, but— In this case, it helps to be at the far end of an interplanetaryhaul, said Matheny. Not many Terrestrial archeologists get to Marsand they depend on our people to—Well, anyhow— I will be clopped! Good for you! <doc-sep>Doran blew up in laughter. That is one thing I would never spill, evenwithout security. I told you about my girl friend, didn't I? Yes, and that calls to mind the Little Girl, said Mathenyapologetically. She was another official project. Who? Remember Junie O'Brien? The little golden-haired girl on Mars, amathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collectedEarth coins. Oh, that. Sure, I remember—Hey! You didn't! Yes. We made about a billion dollars on that one. I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buckpiece myself. Say, how is Junie O'Brien? Oh, fine. Under a different name, she's now our finance minister.Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind hisback. There were no lies involved. She really does have a fataldisease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older. Uh! exclaimed Doran. And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What wasthe secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerfulsemantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is availableto a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise. He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but itwould have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, whohad heard everything already. Doran whistled. That's about all, so far, confessed Matheny. Perhaps a con is ouronly hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martianbucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know. I think— Doran removed the helmet and stood up. Yes? Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension. I may be able to find the man you want, said Doran. I just may. Itwill take a few days and might get a little expensive. You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually— I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finishdressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl Iknow. We deserve a celebration! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Gus Doran and what is his role in the story?

Gus is a con artist who works with Peri and Sam Wendt to primarily target wealthy, powerful men and extort money from them. He is short, chisel-faced, has slicked-back hair, and wears blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbell cloak, and slippers. When the story begins, Peri is preparing to go on a date with the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc. who is also a wealthy marijuana rancher, supposedly to use him for money. Gus convinces her to change her plans to help him swindle Peter since he has discovered Peter has a hundred million dollars at his disposal and appears to be susceptible to Gus's charming and manipulative ways. Gus goads Peter into confessing his secret by providing him with beer and akvavit and gains his trust by wearing the helmet attached to the oath box. At the end of the story, Gus agrees to help Peter find his confidence man by utilizing his network of underworld contacts, but instead calls Peri to begin implementing his con.

What is the significance of the Red Ankh Society? [SEP] <s> INNOCENT AT LARGE By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble! The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips. After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important. She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you. Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage? Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight. I'll say you do! With a Martian! <doc-sep>Peri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. You musthave heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you canjust blank right out again. I saw him first! Doran's thin sharp face grinned. You break that date, Peri. Put it offor something. I got this Martian for you, see? So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-timemarijuana rancher? Not to mention the heir ap— Sure, sure. But how much are those boys going to spend on any girl,even a high-level type like you? Listen, I need you just for tonight,see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on officialbusiness, but he is a yokel and I do mean hayseed. Like he asked mewhat the Christmas decorations in all the stores were! And here is thesolar nexus of it, Peri, kid. Doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. He has got ahundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audithis accounts at home. One hundred million good green certificates,legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates. And he has aboutas much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen tohave experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this will belike taking candy from a baby. Peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches andcream left overnight on Pluto. Badger? she asked. Sure. You and Sam Wendt handle the routine. I will take the go-betweenangle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because I have otherplans for him too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for thisone night's work, there is something akilter. And your share of amillion is three hundred thirty-three— Is five hundred thousand flat, said Peri. Too bad I just got anawful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus? <doc-sep>The gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chesta trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and hadapparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listenthrough the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted byEarth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him. Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome allvisitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visaprovokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boatof your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business. Well—recruiting. The official patted his comfortable stomach, iridescent in neolon, andchuckled patronizingly. I am afraid, sir, you won't find many peoplewho wish to leave. They wouldn't be able to see the Teamsters Hour onMars, would they? Oh, we don't expect immigration, said Matheny shyly. He was a fairlyyoung man, but small, with a dark-thatched, snub-nosed, gray-eyedhead that seemed too large for his slender body. We learned long agothat no one is interested any more in giving up even second-classcitizenship on Earth to live in the Republic. But we only wanted tohire——uh, I mean engage—an, an advisor. We're not businessmen. Weknow our export trade hasn't a chance among all your corporationsunless we get some—a five-year contract...? He heard his words trailing off idiotically, and swore at himself. Well, good luck. The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped thepassport and handed it back. There, now, you are free to travelanywhere in the Protectorates. But I would advise you to leave thecapital and get into the sticks—um, I mean the provinces. I am surethere must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia orCongolese Belgium or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe youcan attract anyone out of Newer York. Thanks, said Matheny, but, you see, I—we need—that is.... Oh,well. Thanks. Good-by. He backed out of the office. <doc-sep>A dropshaft deposited him on a walkway. The crowd, a rainbow of men inpajamas and robes, women in Neo-Sino dresses and goldleaf hats, swepthim against the rail. For a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared ahundred feet down at the river of automobiles. Phobos! he thoughtwildly. If the barrier gives, I'll be sliced in two by a dorsal finbefore I hit the pavement! The August twilight wrapped him in heat and stickiness. He could seeneither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. The forest ofmulti-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across moreacreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—heused to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke apipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when thetemperature wasn't too far below zero. Why did they tap me for this job? he asked himself in a surge ofhomesickness. What the hell is the Martian Embassy here for? He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor ofsociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advisedhis government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been hisidea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess andhis mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and anoccasional trip to Swindletown— My God , thought Matheny, here I am, one solitary outlander in thegreatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'msupposed to find my planet a con man! He began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt andblack culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was fortyyears out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to himwhenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth hadgone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you couldname on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time beforeMars had such machines. If ever. The city roared at him. He fumbled after his pipe. Of course , he told himself, that's whythe Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld? He wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the MartianRepublic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from therambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the articlewas a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friendwho was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found afew spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challengeto work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. Butmore, he would have been among people he understood. The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed toexist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, ploddinghis syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayeragainst, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency. <doc-sep>Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weighton them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out anyindividual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on onethat was distinguished by relative austerity. THE CHURCH OF CHOICE Enter, Play, Pray That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feetof altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in amarble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand. Ah, brother, welcome, said a red-haired usherette in demure blackleotards. The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. Therestaurant is right up those stairs. I—I'm not hungry, stammered Matheny. I just wanted to sit in— To your left, sir. The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from ananimated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The seriesof rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable. Get your chips right here, sir, said the girl in the booth. Hm? said Matheny. She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped afifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped themartini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learningsomething new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honestor too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead. He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of thecongregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first fewpasses he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was acustomary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushedchips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simplecourtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get thefeel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him. I say! he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around thegreen table. I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules. You did all right, brother, said a middle-aged lady with an obviouslysurgical bodice. But—I mean—when do we start actually playing ? What happened to thecocked dice? <doc-sep>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church! Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears. You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice. Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue. Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler? The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers. You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard. Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here. Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft. Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most. My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus. They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings. I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran— Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested. There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me. I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on. We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us? I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she appreciated me for it! He winked and nudged. Oh, said Matheny. <doc-sep>He felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man todeserve— Of course, Matheny said ritually, I agree with all the archeologistsit's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but whatcan we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent. Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable, said Doran. Imean, do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, butpeople come back saying you have given the planet just barely enoughair to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns andvillages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers andmaking a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck fortheir ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know. I do know, said Matheny. But we're poor—a handful of people tryingto make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woodsand seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipmentand supplies—which can only be paid for in Earth dollars—and we can'texport enough to Earth to earn those dollars. By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down. Whassa matter? asked Doran. Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastictechnician before? Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications. Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was forpurely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtainreduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices. What'll you have? asked Doran. It's on me. Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean— Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth? Matheny shuddered. Good Lord, no! Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they? Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. Butyou don't think we'd drink it, do you? I mean—well, I imagine itdoesn't absolutely ruin vermouth. But we don't see those Earthsidecommercials about how sophisticated people like it so much. <doc-sep>Well, I'll be a socialist creeper! Doran's face split in a grin. Youknow, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it! Heraised a hand. Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if youcontrol the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,why do you call yourselves poor? Because we are, said Matheny. By the time the shipping costs havebeen paid on a bottle, and the Earth wholesaler and jobber and salesengineer and so on, down to the retailer, have taken their percentage,and the advertising agency has been paid, and about fifty separateEarth taxes—there's very little profit going back to the distilleryon Mars. The same principle is what's strangling us on everything. OldMartian artifacts aren't really rare, for instance, but freight chargesand the middlemen here put them out of the mass market. Have you not got some other business? Well, we do sell a lot of color slides, postcards, baggage labels andso on to people who like to act cosmopolitan, and I understand ourtravel posters are quite popular as wall decoration. But all that hasto be printed on Earth, and the printer and distributor keep most ofthe money. We've sold some books and show tapes, of course, but onlyone has been really successful— I Was a Slave Girl on Mars . Our most prominent novelist was co-opted to ghostwrite that one.Again, though, local income taxes took most of the money; authorsnever have been protected the way a businessman is. We do make a highpercentage of profit on those little certificates you see around—youknow, the title deeds to one square inch of Mars—but expressedabsolutely, in dollars, it doesn't amount to much when we startshopping for bulldozers and thermonuclear power plants. How about postage stamps? inquired Doran. Philately is a bigbusiness, I have heard. It was our mainstay, admitted Matheny, but it's been overworked.Martian stamps are a drug on the market. What we'd like to operate is asweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on Earth forbid that. <doc-sep>Doran whistled. I got to give your people credit for enterprise,anyway! He fingered his mustache. Uh, pardon me, but have you triedto, well, attract capital from Earth? Of course, said Matheny bitterly. We offer the most liberalconcessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transportfirm or—or anybody—who wanted to come and actually invest a fewdollars in Mars—why, we'd probably give him the President's daughteras security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got moreof. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few politicalmalcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill ofliberties to the incorporated state—what could General Nucleonicshope to get from Mars? I see. Well, what are you having to drink? Beer, said Matheny without hesitation. Huh? Look, pal, this is on me. The only beer on Mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetaryfreight charges tacked on, said Matheny. Heineken's! Doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins. This is a real interesting talk, Pete, he said. You are being veryfrank with me. I like a man that is frank. Matheny shrugged. I haven't told you anything that isn't known toevery economist. Of course I haven't. I've not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, forinstance. But, in principle, I have told him the truth, told him of ourneed; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough. The beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it. Doran sipped at awhiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of theMartian. Ahhh! said Matheny. Bless you, my friend. A pleasure. But now you must let me buy you one. That is not necessary. After all, said Doran with great tact, withthe situation as you have been describing— Oh, we're not that poor! My expense allowance assumes I willentertain quite a bit. Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. You're here on business,then? Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a businessmanager for the Martian export trade. What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your faultthere are so many rackets—uh, taxes—and middlemen and agencies and etcetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days. <doc-sep>Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajamatop. Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians arebabes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on thescale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buyand sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't affordthree seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What weneed, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's anEarthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, andhow to dodge the tax bite and—and—well, you see how it goes, thatsort of, uh, thing. Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the secondbottle of beer. But where do I start? he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smotehim anew. I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even getto see— It might be arranged, said Doran in a thoughtful tone. It justmight. How much could you pay this fellow? A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That'sEarth years, mind you. I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete, said Doran, but while that is notbad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in NewerYork. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quitwhere he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Marspermanently. I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe, said Matheny. Thatis, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expensesand, well ... let me buy you a drink! Doran's black eyes frogged at him. You might at that, said theEarthman very softly. Yes, you might at that. Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. Ahell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lancebusiness consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrangesome contacts.... No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetaryfriendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you havegot to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What isakvavit? Well, I will just take and show you. A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, andhe laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for abig-city taste like his. What I really want, said Matheny, what I really want—I mean whatMars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man. A what? The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con gamefor us and make us some real money. Con man? Oh. A slipstring. A con by any other name, said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit. <doc-sep>Doran squinted through cigarette smoke. You are interesting mestrangely, my friend. Say on. No. Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the boothseemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had anodd quality. No, sorry, Gus, he said. I spoke too much. Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bombout of here, how about it? Go have a little fun. By all means. Matheny disposed of his last beer. I could use somegaiety. You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel roomfirst and some more up-to-date clothes. Allez , said Matheny. If I don't mean allons , or maybe alors . The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward soberedhim; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more. Oh, well , he thought, if I succeed in this job, no one at home willquibble. And the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacularenough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency toshow the vertical incandescence of the towers. Whoof! Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about hiscontours. He jumped. What the dusty hell—Oh. He tried to grin, buthis face burned. I see. That is a sexy type of furniture, all right, agreed Doran. He loweredhimself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved acigarette. Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is nottoo late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around2100 hours earliest. What? You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar andswivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you. Me? Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. Me?Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moisteneduncertain lips. You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in anabandoned canal. What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate— Look, Pete, said Doran patiently. She don't have to know that, doesshe? Well—well, no. I guess not No. Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo, said Doran. I recommendyou buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive. <doc-sep>While Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling withhis new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer. You said one thing, Pete, Doran remarked. About needing aslipstring. A con man, you would call it. Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn. Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. Andmaybe I have got a few contacts. What? Matheny gaped out of the bathroom. Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.I am not that man, he said frankly. But in my line I get a lot ofcontacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could notdo it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell youa phone number. He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. Sure, you may notbe interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. Igot tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you havegot to think positively. Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made himwant to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybehe became overcautious. They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must. I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea, hesaid slowly. But it would have to be under security. Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now. What? But—but— Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe thathe had landed on Earth less than six hours ago. In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without aninstant's hesitation. I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whateveryou may tell me under security, now or at any other time, herecited. Then, cheerfully: And that formula, Pete, happens to be thehonest-to-zebra truth. I know. Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. I'm sorryto—to—I mean of course I trust you, but— Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, goahead. Doran crossed his legs and leaned back. Oh, it's simple enough, said Matheny. It's only that we already areoperating con games. On Mars, you mean? Yes. There never were any Old Martians. We erected the ruins fiftyyears ago for the Billingsworth Expedition to find. We've beenmanufacturing relics ever since. Huh? Well, why, but— In this case, it helps to be at the far end of an interplanetaryhaul, said Matheny. Not many Terrestrial archeologists get to Marsand they depend on our people to—Well, anyhow— I will be clopped! Good for you! <doc-sep>Doran blew up in laughter. That is one thing I would never spill, evenwithout security. I told you about my girl friend, didn't I? Yes, and that calls to mind the Little Girl, said Mathenyapologetically. She was another official project. Who? Remember Junie O'Brien? The little golden-haired girl on Mars, amathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collectedEarth coins. Oh, that. Sure, I remember—Hey! You didn't! Yes. We made about a billion dollars on that one. I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buckpiece myself. Say, how is Junie O'Brien? Oh, fine. Under a different name, she's now our finance minister.Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind hisback. There were no lies involved. She really does have a fataldisease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older. Uh! exclaimed Doran. And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What wasthe secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerfulsemantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is availableto a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise. He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but itwould have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, whohad heard everything already. Doran whistled. That's about all, so far, confessed Matheny. Perhaps a con is ouronly hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martianbucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know. I think— Doran removed the helmet and stood up. Yes? Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension. I may be able to find the man you want, said Doran. I just may. Itwill take a few days and might get a little expensive. You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually— I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finishdressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl Iknow. We deserve a celebration! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the Red Ankh Society?

The Red Ankh Society is a con devised by Peter for the Martian government as a way to boost their economy. People paid for the exclusive privilege of access to the secrets and ancient wisdom of the Old Martians; in reality, these were just bogus semantics compiled for the sake of earning large amounts of money. However, the existence of the Red Ankh Society reveals quite a bit about Mars, the role of cons in the story, and even Peter himself. During Peter's discussion with Gus, we learn the Martians are descended from Earthmen who preferred greater freedom than was offered by the United Protectorate and moved to Mars to establish a life there. They work to make the planet habitable and attractive to tourists, but the process is slow because they cannot afford the equipment and power plants required to build on a scale that will attract the necessary amount of visitors needed to turn a profit. This leads the government to resort to drastic measures; they wield their skills at playing tricks and cheating at gambling (they even have a city called Swindletown) to implement a number of schemes meant to draw in vast amounts of cash such as the Red Ankh Society, the construction and sale of phony ancient relics and ruins, and the saga of Junie O'Brien (a little girl whose fake illness raised a billion dollars for the planet). This leads the government to send Peter to Earth in order to purchase the services of a con man who can help implement a new scheme to sell Martian securities. This trip introduces Peter to Gus, who begins work on a plan to swindle Peter out of a million dollars.

Who is Peri and what is her role in the story? [SEP] <s> INNOCENT AT LARGE By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble! The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips. After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important. She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you. Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage? Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight. I'll say you do! With a Martian! <doc-sep>Peri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. You musthave heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you canjust blank right out again. I saw him first! Doran's thin sharp face grinned. You break that date, Peri. Put it offor something. I got this Martian for you, see? So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-timemarijuana rancher? Not to mention the heir ap— Sure, sure. But how much are those boys going to spend on any girl,even a high-level type like you? Listen, I need you just for tonight,see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on officialbusiness, but he is a yokel and I do mean hayseed. Like he asked mewhat the Christmas decorations in all the stores were! And here is thesolar nexus of it, Peri, kid. Doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. He has got ahundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audithis accounts at home. One hundred million good green certificates,legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates. And he has aboutas much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen tohave experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this will belike taking candy from a baby. Peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches andcream left overnight on Pluto. Badger? she asked. Sure. You and Sam Wendt handle the routine. I will take the go-betweenangle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because I have otherplans for him too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for thisone night's work, there is something akilter. And your share of amillion is three hundred thirty-three— Is five hundred thousand flat, said Peri. Too bad I just got anawful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus? <doc-sep>The gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chesta trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and hadapparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listenthrough the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted byEarth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him. Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome allvisitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visaprovokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boatof your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business. Well—recruiting. The official patted his comfortable stomach, iridescent in neolon, andchuckled patronizingly. I am afraid, sir, you won't find many peoplewho wish to leave. They wouldn't be able to see the Teamsters Hour onMars, would they? Oh, we don't expect immigration, said Matheny shyly. He was a fairlyyoung man, but small, with a dark-thatched, snub-nosed, gray-eyedhead that seemed too large for his slender body. We learned long agothat no one is interested any more in giving up even second-classcitizenship on Earth to live in the Republic. But we only wanted tohire——uh, I mean engage—an, an advisor. We're not businessmen. Weknow our export trade hasn't a chance among all your corporationsunless we get some—a five-year contract...? He heard his words trailing off idiotically, and swore at himself. Well, good luck. The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped thepassport and handed it back. There, now, you are free to travelanywhere in the Protectorates. But I would advise you to leave thecapital and get into the sticks—um, I mean the provinces. I am surethere must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia orCongolese Belgium or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe youcan attract anyone out of Newer York. Thanks, said Matheny, but, you see, I—we need—that is.... Oh,well. Thanks. Good-by. He backed out of the office. <doc-sep>A dropshaft deposited him on a walkway. The crowd, a rainbow of men inpajamas and robes, women in Neo-Sino dresses and goldleaf hats, swepthim against the rail. For a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared ahundred feet down at the river of automobiles. Phobos! he thoughtwildly. If the barrier gives, I'll be sliced in two by a dorsal finbefore I hit the pavement! The August twilight wrapped him in heat and stickiness. He could seeneither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. The forest ofmulti-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across moreacreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—heused to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke apipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when thetemperature wasn't too far below zero. Why did they tap me for this job? he asked himself in a surge ofhomesickness. What the hell is the Martian Embassy here for? He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor ofsociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advisedhis government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been hisidea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess andhis mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and anoccasional trip to Swindletown— My God , thought Matheny, here I am, one solitary outlander in thegreatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'msupposed to find my planet a con man! He began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt andblack culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was fortyyears out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to himwhenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth hadgone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you couldname on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time beforeMars had such machines. If ever. The city roared at him. He fumbled after his pipe. Of course , he told himself, that's whythe Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld? He wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the MartianRepublic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from therambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the articlewas a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friendwho was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found afew spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challengeto work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. Butmore, he would have been among people he understood. The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed toexist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, ploddinghis syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayeragainst, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency. <doc-sep>Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weighton them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out anyindividual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on onethat was distinguished by relative austerity. THE CHURCH OF CHOICE Enter, Play, Pray That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feetof altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in amarble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand. Ah, brother, welcome, said a red-haired usherette in demure blackleotards. The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. Therestaurant is right up those stairs. I—I'm not hungry, stammered Matheny. I just wanted to sit in— To your left, sir. The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from ananimated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The seriesof rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable. Get your chips right here, sir, said the girl in the booth. Hm? said Matheny. She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped afifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped themartini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learningsomething new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honestor too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead. He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of thecongregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first fewpasses he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was acustomary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushedchips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simplecourtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get thefeel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him. I say! he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around thegreen table. I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules. You did all right, brother, said a middle-aged lady with an obviouslysurgical bodice. But—I mean—when do we start actually playing ? What happened to thecocked dice? <doc-sep>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church! Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears. You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice. Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue. Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler? The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers. You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard. Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here. Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft. Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most. My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus. They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings. I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran— Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested. There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me. I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on. We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us? I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she appreciated me for it! He winked and nudged. Oh, said Matheny. <doc-sep>He felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man todeserve— Of course, Matheny said ritually, I agree with all the archeologistsit's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but whatcan we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent. Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable, said Doran. Imean, do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, butpeople come back saying you have given the planet just barely enoughair to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns andvillages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers andmaking a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck fortheir ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know. I do know, said Matheny. But we're poor—a handful of people tryingto make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woodsand seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipmentand supplies—which can only be paid for in Earth dollars—and we can'texport enough to Earth to earn those dollars. By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down. Whassa matter? asked Doran. Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastictechnician before? Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications. Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was forpurely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtainreduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices. What'll you have? asked Doran. It's on me. Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean— Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth? Matheny shuddered. Good Lord, no! Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they? Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. Butyou don't think we'd drink it, do you? I mean—well, I imagine itdoesn't absolutely ruin vermouth. But we don't see those Earthsidecommercials about how sophisticated people like it so much. <doc-sep>Well, I'll be a socialist creeper! Doran's face split in a grin. Youknow, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it! Heraised a hand. Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if youcontrol the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,why do you call yourselves poor? Because we are, said Matheny. By the time the shipping costs havebeen paid on a bottle, and the Earth wholesaler and jobber and salesengineer and so on, down to the retailer, have taken their percentage,and the advertising agency has been paid, and about fifty separateEarth taxes—there's very little profit going back to the distilleryon Mars. The same principle is what's strangling us on everything. OldMartian artifacts aren't really rare, for instance, but freight chargesand the middlemen here put them out of the mass market. Have you not got some other business? Well, we do sell a lot of color slides, postcards, baggage labels andso on to people who like to act cosmopolitan, and I understand ourtravel posters are quite popular as wall decoration. But all that hasto be printed on Earth, and the printer and distributor keep most ofthe money. We've sold some books and show tapes, of course, but onlyone has been really successful— I Was a Slave Girl on Mars . Our most prominent novelist was co-opted to ghostwrite that one.Again, though, local income taxes took most of the money; authorsnever have been protected the way a businessman is. We do make a highpercentage of profit on those little certificates you see around—youknow, the title deeds to one square inch of Mars—but expressedabsolutely, in dollars, it doesn't amount to much when we startshopping for bulldozers and thermonuclear power plants. How about postage stamps? inquired Doran. Philately is a bigbusiness, I have heard. It was our mainstay, admitted Matheny, but it's been overworked.Martian stamps are a drug on the market. What we'd like to operate is asweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on Earth forbid that. <doc-sep>Doran whistled. I got to give your people credit for enterprise,anyway! He fingered his mustache. Uh, pardon me, but have you triedto, well, attract capital from Earth? Of course, said Matheny bitterly. We offer the most liberalconcessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transportfirm or—or anybody—who wanted to come and actually invest a fewdollars in Mars—why, we'd probably give him the President's daughteras security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got moreof. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few politicalmalcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill ofliberties to the incorporated state—what could General Nucleonicshope to get from Mars? I see. Well, what are you having to drink? Beer, said Matheny without hesitation. Huh? Look, pal, this is on me. The only beer on Mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetaryfreight charges tacked on, said Matheny. Heineken's! Doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins. This is a real interesting talk, Pete, he said. You are being veryfrank with me. I like a man that is frank. Matheny shrugged. I haven't told you anything that isn't known toevery economist. Of course I haven't. I've not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, forinstance. But, in principle, I have told him the truth, told him of ourneed; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough. The beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it. Doran sipped at awhiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of theMartian. Ahhh! said Matheny. Bless you, my friend. A pleasure. But now you must let me buy you one. That is not necessary. After all, said Doran with great tact, withthe situation as you have been describing— Oh, we're not that poor! My expense allowance assumes I willentertain quite a bit. Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. You're here on business,then? Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a businessmanager for the Martian export trade. What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your faultthere are so many rackets—uh, taxes—and middlemen and agencies and etcetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days. <doc-sep>Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajamatop. Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians arebabes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on thescale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buyand sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't affordthree seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What weneed, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's anEarthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, andhow to dodge the tax bite and—and—well, you see how it goes, thatsort of, uh, thing. Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the secondbottle of beer. But where do I start? he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smotehim anew. I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even getto see— It might be arranged, said Doran in a thoughtful tone. It justmight. How much could you pay this fellow? A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That'sEarth years, mind you. I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete, said Doran, but while that is notbad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in NewerYork. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quitwhere he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Marspermanently. I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe, said Matheny. Thatis, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expensesand, well ... let me buy you a drink! Doran's black eyes frogged at him. You might at that, said theEarthman very softly. Yes, you might at that. Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. Ahell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lancebusiness consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrangesome contacts.... No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetaryfriendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you havegot to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What isakvavit? Well, I will just take and show you. A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, andhe laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for abig-city taste like his. What I really want, said Matheny, what I really want—I mean whatMars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man. A what? The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con gamefor us and make us some real money. Con man? Oh. A slipstring. A con by any other name, said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit. <doc-sep>Doran squinted through cigarette smoke. You are interesting mestrangely, my friend. Say on. No. Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the boothseemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had anodd quality. No, sorry, Gus, he said. I spoke too much. Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bombout of here, how about it? Go have a little fun. By all means. Matheny disposed of his last beer. I could use somegaiety. You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel roomfirst and some more up-to-date clothes. Allez , said Matheny. If I don't mean allons , or maybe alors . The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward soberedhim; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more. Oh, well , he thought, if I succeed in this job, no one at home willquibble. And the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacularenough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency toshow the vertical incandescence of the towers. Whoof! Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about hiscontours. He jumped. What the dusty hell—Oh. He tried to grin, buthis face burned. I see. That is a sexy type of furniture, all right, agreed Doran. He loweredhimself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved acigarette. Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is nottoo late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around2100 hours earliest. What? You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar andswivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you. Me? Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. Me?Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is—His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moisteneduncertain lips. You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in anabandoned canal. What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate— Look, Pete, said Doran patiently. She don't have to know that, doesshe? Well—well, no. I guess not No. Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo, said Doran. I recommendyou buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive. <doc-sep>While Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling withhis new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer. You said one thing, Pete, Doran remarked. About needing aslipstring. A con man, you would call it. Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn. Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. Andmaybe I have got a few contacts. What? Matheny gaped out of the bathroom. Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.I am not that man, he said frankly. But in my line I get a lot ofcontacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could notdo it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell youa phone number. He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. Sure, you may notbe interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. Igot tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you havegot to think positively. Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made himwant to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybehe became overcautious. They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must. I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea, hesaid slowly. But it would have to be under security. Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now. What? But—but— Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe thathe had landed on Earth less than six hours ago. In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without aninstant's hesitation. I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whateveryou may tell me under security, now or at any other time, herecited. Then, cheerfully: And that formula, Pete, happens to be thehonest-to-zebra truth. I know. Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. I'm sorryto—to—I mean of course I trust you, but— Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange—Go ahead, boy, goahead. Doran crossed his legs and leaned back. Oh, it's simple enough, said Matheny. It's only that we already areoperating con games. On Mars, you mean? Yes. There never were any Old Martians. We erected the ruins fiftyyears ago for the Billingsworth Expedition to find. We've beenmanufacturing relics ever since. Huh? Well, why, but— In this case, it helps to be at the far end of an interplanetaryhaul, said Matheny. Not many Terrestrial archeologists get to Marsand they depend on our people to—Well, anyhow— I will be clopped! Good for you! <doc-sep>Doran blew up in laughter. That is one thing I would never spill, evenwithout security. I told you about my girl friend, didn't I? Yes, and that calls to mind the Little Girl, said Mathenyapologetically. She was another official project. Who? Remember Junie O'Brien? The little golden-haired girl on Mars, amathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collectedEarth coins. Oh, that. Sure, I remember—Hey! You didn't! Yes. We made about a billion dollars on that one. I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buckpiece myself. Say, how is Junie O'Brien? Oh, fine. Under a different name, she's now our finance minister.Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind hisback. There were no lies involved. She really does have a fataldisease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older. Uh! exclaimed Doran. And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What wasthe secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerfulsemantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is availableto a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise. He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but itwould have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, whohad heard everything already. Doran whistled. That's about all, so far, confessed Matheny. Perhaps a con is ouronly hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martianbucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know. I think— Doran removed the helmet and stood up. Yes? Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension. I may be able to find the man you want, said Doran. I just may. Itwill take a few days and might get a little expensive. You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually— I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finishdressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl Iknow. We deserve a celebration! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Peri and what is her role in the story?

Peri is Gus Doran's business associate along with someone named Sam Wendt. The three of them operate an enterprise centering on Peri's ability to attract rich and powerful men and swindle them for cash. Peri has golden blonde hair and silver-blue eyes and a light complexion, and she has a private phone number she gives to men involved in the group's schemes. At the beginning of the story, she wears a dinner gown as she prepares to go on a date with a marijuana rancher, who is also the heir apparent to Indonesia, Inc. When she receives a phone call, she changes from her gown into a more casual bathrobe, thinking one of her many suitors is calling her and wants to make him feel special. However, the casualness of the bathrobe is misleading as it is worth thousands of dollars and was given to her by a representative of the Antarctic Enterprise. She even tousles up her coiffed hair to complete the image. When she realizes it is only Gus Doran calling, she grows impatient and drops her facade. On the call with Gus, she learns of his introduction to Peter Matheny, and together they agree on a scheme to extort a million dollars from him. Gus wants to split the cash evenly between the three of them, but Peri insists on fifty percent for her share. She cancels the date with the marijuana rancher and prepares to go meet Gus and Peter at the Jupiter-Astoria.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> The CONJURER of VENUS By CONAN T. TROY A world-famed Earth scientist had disappeared on Venus. When Johnson found him, he found too the secret to that globe-shaking mystery—the fabulous Room of The Dreaming. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city dripped with rain. Crossing the street toward the dive,Johnson got rain in his eyes, his nose, and his ears. That was the waywith the rain here. It came at you from all directions. There had beenoccasions when Johnson had thought the rain was falling straight up.Otherwise, how had the insides of his pants gotten wet? On Venus, everything came at you from all directions, it seemed toJohnson. Opening the door of the joint, it was noise instead of rainthat came at him, the wild frantic beat of a Venusian rhumba, thenotes pounding and jumping through the smoke and perfume clouded room.Feeling states came at him, intangible, but to his trained senses,perceptible emotional nuances of hate, love, fear, and rage. But mostlylove. Since this place had been designed to excite the senses of bothhumans and Venusians, the love feelings were heavily tinged withstraight sex. He sniffed at them, feeling them somewhere inside of him,aware of them but aware also that here was apprehension, and plain fear. Caldwell, sitting in a booth next to the door, glanced up as Johnsonentered but neither Caldwell's facial expression or his eyes revealedthat he had ever seen this human before. Nor did Johnson seem torecognize Caldwell. Is the mighty human wanting liquor, a woman or dreams? His voicewas all soft syllables of liquid sound. The Venusian equivalent of aheadwaiter was bowing to him. I'll have a tarmur to start, Johnson said. How are the dreamstonight? Ze vill be the most wonserful of all sonight. The great Unger hisselfwill be here to do ze dreaming. There is no ozzer one who has quitehis touch at dreaming, mighty one. The headwaiter spread his handsin a gesture indicating ecstasy. It is my great regret that I must doze work tonight instead of being wiz ze dreamers. Ah, ze great Ungerhisself! The headwaiter kissed the tips of his fingers. Um, Johnson said. The great Unger! His voice expressed surprise,just the right amount of it. I'll have a tarmur to start but when doesthe dreaming commence? In one zonar or maybe less. Shall I make ze reservations for ze mightyone? As he was speaking, the headwaiter was deftly conducting Johnsonto the bar. Not just yet, Johnson said. See me a little later. But certainly. The headwaiter was gone into the throng. Johnson wasat the bar. Behind it, a Venusian was bowing to him. Tarmur, Johnsonsaid. The green drink was set before him. He held it up to the light,admiring the slow rise of the tiny golden bubbles in it. To him,watching the bubbles rise was perhaps more important than drinkingitself. Beautiful, aren't they? a soft voice said. He glanced to his right.A girl had slid into the stool beside him. She wore a green dress cutvery low at the throat. Her skin had the pleasant tan recently onEarth. Her hair was a shade of abundant brown and her eyes were blue,the color of the skies of Earth. A necklace circled her throat andbelow the necklace ... Johnson felt his pulse quicken, for two reasons.Women such as this one had been quickening the pulse of men since thedays of Adam. The second reason concerned her presence here in thisplace where no woman in her right mind ever came unescorted. Her eyessmiled up at him unafraid. Didn't she know there were men present herein this space port city who would snatch her bodily from the barstool and carry her away for sleeping purposes? And Venusians werehere who would cut her pretty throat for the sake of the necklace thatcircled it? They are beautiful, he said, smiling. Thank you. I was referring to the bubbles. You were talking about my eyes, she answered, unperturbed. How did you know? I mean.... I am very knowing, the girl said, smiling. Are you sufficiently knowing to be here? For an instant, as if doubt crossed her mind, the smile flickered. Thenit came again, stronger. Aren't you here? Johnson choked as bubbles from the tarmur seemed to go suddenly up hisnose. My dear child ... he sputtered. I am not a child, she answered with a firm sureness that left nodoubt in his mind that she knew what she was saying. And my name isVee Vee. Vee Vee? Um. That is.... Don't you think it's a nice name? I certainly do. Probably the rest of it is even nicer. There is no more of it. Just Vee Vee. Like Topsy, I just grew. <doc-sep>What the devil are you doing here on Venus and here in this place? Growing. The blue eyes were unafraid. Sombrely, Johnson regarded her. What was she doing here? Was she inthe employ of the Venusians? If she was being planted on him, thenhis purpose here was suspected. He shrugged the thought aside. If hispurpose here was suspected, there would be no point in planting a womanon him. There would only be the minor matter of slipping a knife into his back. In this city, as on all of Venus, humans died easily. No one questionedthe motives of the killer. You look as if you were considering some very grave matter, Vee Veesaid. Not any longer, he laughed. You have decided them? Yes. Every last one of them? Oh, there might be one or two matters undecided somewhere, say out onthe periphery of the galaxy. But we will solve them when we get tothem. He waved vaguely toward the roof and the sky of space hiddenbehind the clouds that lay over the roof, glanced around as a man easedhimself into an empty stool on his left. The man was Caldwell. Zlock! Caldwell said, to the bartender. Make it snappy. Gotta havezlock. Finest damn drink in the solar system. Caldwell's voice wasthick, his tongue heavy. Johnson's eyes went back to the girl but outof the corner of them he watched Caldwell's hand lying on the bar. Thefingers were beating a quick nervous tattoo on the yellow wood. I haven't seen him, Caldwell's fingers beat out their tattoo. But Ithink he is, or was, here. Um, Johnson said, his eyes on Vee Vee. How— Because that girl was asking for him, Caldwell's fingers answered.Watch that girl! Picking up the zlock, he lurched away from the bar. Your friend is not as drunk as he seems, Vee Vee said, watchingCaldwell. My friend? Do you mean that drunk? I never saw him— Lying is one of the deadly sins. Her eyes twinkled at him. Under themerriment that danced in them there was ice. Johnson felt cold. The reservations for ze dreaming, great one? The headwaiter wasbowing and scraping in front of him. The great one has decided, yes? The dreaming! Vee Vee looked suddenly alert. Of course. We must seethe dreaming. Everyone wants to see the dreaming. We will go, won't wedarling? She hooked her hand into Johnson's elbow. Certainly, Johnson said. The decision was made on the spur of themoment. That there was danger in it, he did not doubt. But there mightbe something else. And he might be there. Oh. But very good. Ze great Unger, you will love him! The headwaiterclutched the gold coins that Johnson extended, bowed himself out ofsight. Say, I want to know more— Johnson began. His words were drowned ina blast of trumpets. The band that had been playing went into suddensilence. Waves of perfume began to flow into the place. The perfumeswere blended, but one aroma was prominent among them, the sweet,cloying, soul-stirring perfume of the Dreamer. In the suddenly hushed place little sounds began to appear as Venusiansand humans began to shift their feet and their bodies in anticipationof what was to happen. The trumpets flared again. On one side of the place, a big door began to swing slowly open. Frombeyond that slowly opening door came music, soft, muted strains thatsounded like lutes from heaven. Vee Vee, her hand on Johnson's elbow, rose. Johnson stood up withher. He got the surprise of his life as her fingers clenched, digginginto his muscles. Pain shot through his arm, paralyzing it and almostparalyzing him. He knew instantly that she was using the Karmer nerveblock paralysis on him. His left hand moved with lightning speed, thetips of his fingers striking savagely against her shoulder. She gasped, her face whitened as pain shot through her in response tothe thrust of his finger tips. Her hand that had been digging into hiselbow lost its grip, dropped away and hung limp at her side. Grabbingit, she began to massage it. You—you— Hot anger and shock were in her voice. You're the firstman I ever knew who could break the Karmer nerve paralysis. And you're the first woman who ever tried it on me. But— Shall we go watch the dreaming? He took the arm that still hung limpat her side and tucked it into his elbow. If you try to use the Karmer grip on me again I'll break your arm, hesaid. His voice was low but there was a wealth of meaning in it. I won't do it again, the girl said stoutly. I never make the samemistake twice. Good, Johnson said. The second time we break our victim's neck, Vee Vee said. What a sweet, charming child you— I told you before, I'm not a child. Child vampire, Johnson said. Let me finish my sentences before youinterrupt. She was silent. A smile, struggling to appear on her face, seemed tosay she held no malice. Her fingers tightened on Johnson's arm. Hetensed, expecting the nerve block grip again. Instead with the tips ofher fingers she gently patted his arm. There, there, darling, relax, she said. I know a better way to getyou than by using the Karmer grip. What way? Her eyes sparkled. Eve's way, she answered. Um! Surprise sounded in his grunt. But apples don't grow on Venus. Eve's daughters don't use apples any more, darling. Come along. Moving toward the open door that led to the Room of the Dreaming,Johnson saw that Caldwell had risen and was following them. Caldwell'sface was writhing in apprehensive agony and he was making warningsigns. Johnson ignored them. With Vee Vee's fingers lightly patting hisarm, they moved into the Room of the Dreaming. II It was a huge, semi-illumined room, with tier on tier of circling rampsrising up from an open space at the bottom. There ought to have beena stage there at the bottom, but there wasn't. Instead there was anopen space, a mat, and a head rest. Up at the top of the circling rampsthe room was in darkness, a fit hiding place for ghosts or Venusianwerewolves. Pillows and a thick rug covered the circling ramps. The soul-quickening Perfume of the Dreamer was stronger here. Thethrobbing of the lutes was louder. It was Venusian music the lutes wereplaying. Human ears found it inharmonious at first, but as they becameaccustomed to it, they began to detect rhythms and melodies that humanminds had not known existed. The room was pleasantly cool but it hadthe feel of dampness. A world that was rarely without pelting rainwould have the feel of dampness in its dreaming rooms. The music playing strange harmonies in his ears, the perfume sendingtingling feelings through his nose, Johnson entered the Room of theDreamer. He suspected that other forces, unknown to him, were catchinghold of his senses. He had been in dreaming rooms many times before buthe had not grown accustomed to them. He wondered if any human everdid. A touch of chill always came over him as he crossed the threshold.In entering these places, it was as if some unknown nerve centerinside the human organism was touched by something, some force, someradiation, some subtlety, that quite escaped radiation. He felt thecoldness now. Vee Vee's fingers left off patting his arm. Do you feel it, darling? Yes. What is it? How would I know? Please! Her voice grew sharp. I think Johnny Johnson ought to know. Johnny! How do you know my name? Shouldn't I recognize one of Earth's foremost scientists, even if heis incognito on Venus? Her voice had a teasing quality in it. But— And who besides Johnny Johnson would recognize the Karmer nerve gripand be able to break it instantly? Hell— John Michael Johnson, known as Johnny to his friends, Earth's foremostexpert in the field of electro-magnetic radiations within the humanbody! Her words were needles of icy fact, each one jabbing deeper anddeeper into him. And how would I make certain you were Johnny Johnson, except by seeingif you could break the Karmer nerve grip? If you could break it, thenthere was no doubt who you were! Her words went on and on. Who are you? His words were blasts of sound. Please, darling, you are making a scene. I am sure this is the lastthing you really want to do. He looked quickly around them. The Venusians and humans moving intothis room seemed to be paying no attention to him. His gaze came backto her. Again she patted his arm. Relax, darling. Your secrets are safe withme. A gray color came up inside his soul. But—but— His voice wassuddenly weak. The fingers on his arm were very gentle. No harm will come to you. AmI not with you? That's what I'm afraid of! he snapped at her. If he had had achoice, he might have drawn back. But with circumstances as theywere—his life, Caldwell's life, possibly Vee Vee's life hung in thebalance. Didn't she know that this was true? And as for Martin—ButCaldwell had said that she had been asking about Martin. Whatconnection did she have with that frantic human genius he sought here? Johnson felt his skin crawl. He moved toward a nest of cushions ona ramp, found a Venusian was beating him to them, deftly changed toanother nest, found it. Vee Vee flowed to the floor on his right, movedcushions to make him more comfortable. She moved in an easy sort of waythat was all flowing movement. He sat down. Someone bumped him on theleft. Sorry, bud. Didn't mean to bump into you. Caldwell's voice was stillthick and heavy. He sprawled to the floor on Johnson's left. Underthe man's coat, Johnson caught a glimpse of a slight bulge, the zitgun hidden there. His left arm pressed against his own coat, feelinghis own zit gun. Operating under gas pressure, throwing a charge ofgas-driven corvel, the zit guns were not only almost noiseless inoperation but they knocked out a human or a Venusian in a matter ofseconds. True, the person they knocked unconscious would be all right the nextday. For this reason, many people did not regard the zit guns aseffective weapons, but Johnson had a fondness for them. The feel of thelittle weapon inside his coat sent a surge of comfort through him. The music picked up a beat, perfume seemed to flow even more freelythrough the air, the lights dimmed almost to darkness, a single brightspotlight appeared in the ceiling, casting a circle of brilliantillumination on the mat and the headrest at the bottom of the room. Thecurtain rose. <doc-sep>Unger stood in the middle of the spot of light. Johnson felt his chest muscles contract, then relax. Vee Vee's fingerssought his arm, not to harm him but running to him for protection. Hecaught the flutter of her breathing. On his left, Caldwell stiffenedand became a rock. Johnson had not seen Unger appear. One second the circle of lighthad been empty, the next second the Venusian, smiling with all theimpassivity of a bland Buddha, was in the light. He weighed threehundred pounds if he weighed an ounce, he was clad in a long robethat would impede movement. He had appeared in the bright beam of thespotlight as if by magic. Vee Vee's fingers dug deeper into Johnson's arm. How— Shhh. Nobody knows. No human knew the answer to that trick. Unless perhaps Martin— Unger bowed. A little ripple of something that was not quite soundpassed through the audience. Unger bowed again. He stretched himselfflat on the mat, adjusted the rest to support his head, and apparentlywent to sleep. Johnson saw the Dreamer's eyes close, watched the chesttake on the even, regular rhythm of sleep. The music changed, a slow dreamy tempo crept into it. Vee Vee's fingersdug at Johnson's arm as if they were trying to dig under his hide forprotection. She was shivering. He reached for her hand, patted it. Shedrew closer to him. A few minutes earlier, she had been a very certain young woman, ableto take care of herself, and handle anyone around her. Now she wassuddenly uncertain, suddenly scared. In the Room of the Dreaming, shehad suddenly become a frightened child looking for protection. Haven't you ever seen this before? he whispered. N—o. She shivered again. Oh, Johnny.... Under the circle of light pouring down from the ceiling, the Dreamerlay motionless. Johnson found himself with the tendency to hold hisbreath. He was waiting, waiting, waiting—for what? The whole situationwas senseless, silly, but under its apparent lack of coherence, hesensed a pattern. Perhaps the path to the far-off stars passed thisway, through such scented and musical and impossible places as theseRooms of the Dreamers. Certainly Martin thought so. And Johnson himselfwas not prepared to disagree. Around him, he saw that the Venusians were already going ... going ...going.... Some of them were already gone. This was an old experienceto them. They went rapidly. Humans went more slowly. The Venusian watchers had relaxed. They looked as if they were asleep,perhaps in a hypnotic trance, lulled into this state by the musicand the perfume, and by something else. It was this something elsethat sent Johnson's thoughts pounding. The Venusians were like opiumsmokers. But he was not smoking opium. He was not in a hypnotic trance.He was wide awake and very much alert. He was ... watching a space ship float in an endless void . As Unger had come into the spotlight, so the space ship had come intohis vision, out of nowhere, out of nothingness. The room, the Dreamer,the sound of the music, the sweetness of the perfume, Vee Vee andCaldwell were gone. They were no longer in his reality. They were notin the range of his vision. It was as if they did not exist. Yet heknew they did exist, the memory of them, and of other things, was outon the periphery of his universe, perhaps of the universe. All he saw was the space ship. It was a wonderful thing, perhaps the most beautiful sight he had seenin his life. At the sight of it, a deep glow sprang inside of him. Back when he had been a kid he had dreamed of flight to the far-offstars. He had made models of space ships. In a way, they had shaped hisdestiny, had made him what he was. They had brought him where he wasthis night, to the Dream Room of a Venusian tavern. The vision of the space ship floating in the void entranced andthrilled him. Something told him that this was real; that here and nowhe was making contact with a vision that belonged to time. He started to his feet. Fingers gripped his arm. Please, darling. You startled me. Don't move. Vee Vee's voice. Whowas Vee Vee? The fingers dug into his arm. Pain came up in him. The space shipvanished. He looked with startled eyes at Vee Vee, at the Dream Room,at Unger, dreaming on the mat under the spot. You ... you startled me, Vee Vee whispered. She released the grip onhis arm. But, didn't you see it? See what? The space ship! No. No. She seemed startled and a little terrified and half asleep.I ... I was watching something else. When you moved I broke contactwith my dream. Your dream? He asked a question but she did not answer it. Sit down, darling,and look at your damned space ship. Her voice was a taut whisper ofsound in the darkened room. Johnson settled down. A glance to his lefttold him that Caldwell was still sitting like a chunk of stone.... TheVenusians were quiet. The music had shifted. A slow languorous beatof hidden drums filled the room. There was another sound present, ahigh-speed whirring. It was, somehow, a familiar sound, but Johnson hadnot heard it before in this place. He thought about the space ship he had seen. The vision would not come. He shook his head and tried again. Beside him, Vee Vee was silent, her face ecstatic, like the face of awoman in love. He tried again for the space ship. It would not come. Anger came up instead. Somehow he had the impression that the whirring sound which keptintruding into his consciousness was stopping the vision. So far as he could tell, he was the only one present who was notdreaming, who was not in a state of trance. His gaze went to Unger, the Dreamer.... Cold flowed over him. Unger was slowly rising from the mat. The bland face and the body in the robe were slowly floating upward! III An invisible force seemed to twitch at Johnson's skin, nipping it hereand there with a multitude of tiny pinches, like invisible fleas bitinghim. This is it! a voice whispered in his mind. This is what you came toVenus to see. This ... this.... The first voice went into silence.Another voice took its place. This is another damned vision! the second voice said. This ...this is something that is not real, that is not possible! No VenusianDreamer, and no one else, can levitate, can defy the laws of gravity,can float upward toward the ceiling. Your damned eyes are tricking you! We are not tricking you! the eyes hotly insisted. It is happening.We are seeing it. We are reporting accurately to you. That VenusianBuddha is levitating. We, your eyes, do not lie to you! You lied about the space ship! the second voice said. We did not lie about the space ship! the eyes insisted. When ourmaster saw that ship we were out of focus, we were not reporting. Someother sense, some other organ, may have lied, but we did not. I— Johnson whispered. I am your skin, another voice whispered. I am covered with sweat. We are your adrenals. We are pouring forth adrenalin. I am your pancreas. I am gearing you for action. I am your thyroid. I.... A multitude of tiny voices seemed to whisper through him. It was as ifthe parts of his body had suddenly found voices and were reporting tohim what they were doing. These were voices out of his training dayswhen he had learned the names of these functions and how to use them. Be quiet! he said roughly. The little voices seemed to blend into a single chorus. Action,Master! Do something. Quiet! Johnson ordered. But hurry. We are excited. There is a time to be excited and a time to hurry. In this situation,if action is taken before the time for it—if that time ever comes—wecan all die. Die? the chorus quavered. Yes, Johnson said. Now be quiet. When the time goes we will all gotogether. The chorus went into muted silence. But just under the threshold thelittle voices were a multitude of tiny fretful pressures. I hear a whirring sound, his ears reported. Please! Johnson said. In the front of the room Unger floated ten feet above the floor. Master, we are not lying! his eyes repeated. I sweat.... his skin began. Watch Unger! Johnson said. The Dreamer floated. If wires suspended him, Johnson could not seethem. If any known force lifted him, Johnson could not detect thatforce. All he could say for certain was that Unger floated. Yaaah! The silence of a room was broken by the enraged scream of aVenusian being jarred out of his dream. Damn it! A human voice said. A wave as sharp as the tip of a sword swept through the room. Unger fell. He was ten feet high when he started to fall. With a bone-breaking,body-jarring thud, the Dreamer fell. Hard. There was a split second of startled silence in the Dreaming Room. Thesilence went. Voices came. Who did that? What happened? That human hidden there did it! He broke the Dreaming! Anger markedthe voices. Although the language was Venusian, Johnson got most of themeaning. His hand dived under his coat for the gun holstered there. Athis left, Caldwell was muttering thickly. What—what happened? I wasback in the lab on Earth— Caldwell's voice held a plaintive note, asif some pleasant dream had been interrupted. On Johnson's right, Vee Vee seemed to flow to life. Her arms came uparound his neck. He was instantly prepared for anything. Her lips camehungrily against his lips, pressed very hard, then gently drew away. What— he gasped. I had to do it now, darling, she answered. There may not be a later. Johnson had no time to ask her what she meant. Somewhere in the backof the room a human screamed. He jerked around. Back there a knot ofVenusians were attacking a man. It's Martin! Caldwell shouted. He is here! In Johnson's hand as he came to his feet the zit gun throbbed. He firedblindly at the mass of Venusians. Caldwell was firing too. The softthrob of the guns was not audible above the uproar from the crowd.Struck by the gas-driven corvel charges, Venusians were falling. Butthere seemed to be an endless number of them. Vee Vee? Johnson suddenly realized that she had disappeared. She hadslid out of his sight. Vee Vee! Johnson's voice became a shout. To hell with the woman! Caldwell grunted. Martin's the importantone. Zit, zit, zit, Caldwell moved toward the rear, shooting as he went.Johnson followed. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Jonny Johnson is one of Earth’s foremost scientists, but no one on Venus is supposed to know that. He and another man, Caldwell, have come looking for another human named Martin, and it would be quite dangerous for him and them if anyone knew they were there. Johnson enters a bar known for providing patrons with dreams, and meets a gorgeous and dangerous woman named Vee Vee. Vee Vee attempts to use a tactic known as the Karmer nerve paralysis on Johnson, which he swiftly blocks. They enter the Room of the Dreamer together, even though they don’t trust each other (and Caldwell has tipped off Johnson to watch out for her because she has been asking about Martin). As they enter the room and Johnson and Vee Vee lob threats back and forth, she reveals that she knows who he is but says she will keep his secret. The Dreamer, Unger, enters the room and the dreaming commences. It seems to affect everyone, including Johnson, who sees a spaceship and then is upset that he can’t get it back. He has the odd sensation of different bodily organs speaking to him and trying to convince him what he’s seeing is real as he watches Unger levitate high into the air. Unger falls, hard, and the crowd gets very upset and murmurs suggest a human is at fault. Vee Vee suddenly kisses Johnson, saying she might not be able to later. He is puzzled by this, until he sees that Martin is in the room and the crowd is converging on him. Johnson and Caldwell fire their effective but not fatal zit guns into the crowd as Johnson calls out Vee Vee’s name and Caldwell tells him to forget about her. As the passage ends they are trying to get through the frantic throng of people to reach Martin.

Who is Johnson and what does he do/what happens to him in the story? [SEP] <s> The CONJURER of VENUS By CONAN T. TROY A world-famed Earth scientist had disappeared on Venus. When Johnson found him, he found too the secret to that globe-shaking mystery—the fabulous Room of The Dreaming. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city dripped with rain. Crossing the street toward the dive,Johnson got rain in his eyes, his nose, and his ears. That was the waywith the rain here. It came at you from all directions. There had beenoccasions when Johnson had thought the rain was falling straight up.Otherwise, how had the insides of his pants gotten wet? On Venus, everything came at you from all directions, it seemed toJohnson. Opening the door of the joint, it was noise instead of rainthat came at him, the wild frantic beat of a Venusian rhumba, thenotes pounding and jumping through the smoke and perfume clouded room.Feeling states came at him, intangible, but to his trained senses,perceptible emotional nuances of hate, love, fear, and rage. But mostlylove. Since this place had been designed to excite the senses of bothhumans and Venusians, the love feelings were heavily tinged withstraight sex. He sniffed at them, feeling them somewhere inside of him,aware of them but aware also that here was apprehension, and plain fear. Caldwell, sitting in a booth next to the door, glanced up as Johnsonentered but neither Caldwell's facial expression or his eyes revealedthat he had ever seen this human before. Nor did Johnson seem torecognize Caldwell. Is the mighty human wanting liquor, a woman or dreams? His voicewas all soft syllables of liquid sound. The Venusian equivalent of aheadwaiter was bowing to him. I'll have a tarmur to start, Johnson said. How are the dreamstonight? Ze vill be the most wonserful of all sonight. The great Unger hisselfwill be here to do ze dreaming. There is no ozzer one who has quitehis touch at dreaming, mighty one. The headwaiter spread his handsin a gesture indicating ecstasy. It is my great regret that I must doze work tonight instead of being wiz ze dreamers. Ah, ze great Ungerhisself! The headwaiter kissed the tips of his fingers. Um, Johnson said. The great Unger! His voice expressed surprise,just the right amount of it. I'll have a tarmur to start but when doesthe dreaming commence? In one zonar or maybe less. Shall I make ze reservations for ze mightyone? As he was speaking, the headwaiter was deftly conducting Johnsonto the bar. Not just yet, Johnson said. See me a little later. But certainly. The headwaiter was gone into the throng. Johnson wasat the bar. Behind it, a Venusian was bowing to him. Tarmur, Johnsonsaid. The green drink was set before him. He held it up to the light,admiring the slow rise of the tiny golden bubbles in it. To him,watching the bubbles rise was perhaps more important than drinkingitself. Beautiful, aren't they? a soft voice said. He glanced to his right.A girl had slid into the stool beside him. She wore a green dress cutvery low at the throat. Her skin had the pleasant tan recently onEarth. Her hair was a shade of abundant brown and her eyes were blue,the color of the skies of Earth. A necklace circled her throat andbelow the necklace ... Johnson felt his pulse quicken, for two reasons.Women such as this one had been quickening the pulse of men since thedays of Adam. The second reason concerned her presence here in thisplace where no woman in her right mind ever came unescorted. Her eyessmiled up at him unafraid. Didn't she know there were men present herein this space port city who would snatch her bodily from the barstool and carry her away for sleeping purposes? And Venusians werehere who would cut her pretty throat for the sake of the necklace thatcircled it? They are beautiful, he said, smiling. Thank you. I was referring to the bubbles. You were talking about my eyes, she answered, unperturbed. How did you know? I mean.... I am very knowing, the girl said, smiling. Are you sufficiently knowing to be here? For an instant, as if doubt crossed her mind, the smile flickered. Thenit came again, stronger. Aren't you here? Johnson choked as bubbles from the tarmur seemed to go suddenly up hisnose. My dear child ... he sputtered. I am not a child, she answered with a firm sureness that left nodoubt in his mind that she knew what she was saying. And my name isVee Vee. Vee Vee? Um. That is.... Don't you think it's a nice name? I certainly do. Probably the rest of it is even nicer. There is no more of it. Just Vee Vee. Like Topsy, I just grew. <doc-sep>What the devil are you doing here on Venus and here in this place? Growing. The blue eyes were unafraid. Sombrely, Johnson regarded her. What was she doing here? Was she inthe employ of the Venusians? If she was being planted on him, thenhis purpose here was suspected. He shrugged the thought aside. If hispurpose here was suspected, there would be no point in planting a womanon him. There would only be the minor matter of slipping a knife into his back. In this city, as on all of Venus, humans died easily. No one questionedthe motives of the killer. You look as if you were considering some very grave matter, Vee Veesaid. Not any longer, he laughed. You have decided them? Yes. Every last one of them? Oh, there might be one or two matters undecided somewhere, say out onthe periphery of the galaxy. But we will solve them when we get tothem. He waved vaguely toward the roof and the sky of space hiddenbehind the clouds that lay over the roof, glanced around as a man easedhimself into an empty stool on his left. The man was Caldwell. Zlock! Caldwell said, to the bartender. Make it snappy. Gotta havezlock. Finest damn drink in the solar system. Caldwell's voice wasthick, his tongue heavy. Johnson's eyes went back to the girl but outof the corner of them he watched Caldwell's hand lying on the bar. Thefingers were beating a quick nervous tattoo on the yellow wood. I haven't seen him, Caldwell's fingers beat out their tattoo. But Ithink he is, or was, here. Um, Johnson said, his eyes on Vee Vee. How— Because that girl was asking for him, Caldwell's fingers answered.Watch that girl! Picking up the zlock, he lurched away from the bar. Your friend is not as drunk as he seems, Vee Vee said, watchingCaldwell. My friend? Do you mean that drunk? I never saw him— Lying is one of the deadly sins. Her eyes twinkled at him. Under themerriment that danced in them there was ice. Johnson felt cold. The reservations for ze dreaming, great one? The headwaiter wasbowing and scraping in front of him. The great one has decided, yes? The dreaming! Vee Vee looked suddenly alert. Of course. We must seethe dreaming. Everyone wants to see the dreaming. We will go, won't wedarling? She hooked her hand into Johnson's elbow. Certainly, Johnson said. The decision was made on the spur of themoment. That there was danger in it, he did not doubt. But there mightbe something else. And he might be there. Oh. But very good. Ze great Unger, you will love him! The headwaiterclutched the gold coins that Johnson extended, bowed himself out ofsight. Say, I want to know more— Johnson began. His words were drowned ina blast of trumpets. The band that had been playing went into suddensilence. Waves of perfume began to flow into the place. The perfumeswere blended, but one aroma was prominent among them, the sweet,cloying, soul-stirring perfume of the Dreamer. In the suddenly hushed place little sounds began to appear as Venusiansand humans began to shift their feet and their bodies in anticipationof what was to happen. The trumpets flared again. On one side of the place, a big door began to swing slowly open. Frombeyond that slowly opening door came music, soft, muted strains thatsounded like lutes from heaven. Vee Vee, her hand on Johnson's elbow, rose. Johnson stood up withher. He got the surprise of his life as her fingers clenched, digginginto his muscles. Pain shot through his arm, paralyzing it and almostparalyzing him. He knew instantly that she was using the Karmer nerveblock paralysis on him. His left hand moved with lightning speed, thetips of his fingers striking savagely against her shoulder. She gasped, her face whitened as pain shot through her in response tothe thrust of his finger tips. Her hand that had been digging into hiselbow lost its grip, dropped away and hung limp at her side. Grabbingit, she began to massage it. You—you— Hot anger and shock were in her voice. You're the firstman I ever knew who could break the Karmer nerve paralysis. And you're the first woman who ever tried it on me. But— Shall we go watch the dreaming? He took the arm that still hung limpat her side and tucked it into his elbow. If you try to use the Karmer grip on me again I'll break your arm, hesaid. His voice was low but there was a wealth of meaning in it. I won't do it again, the girl said stoutly. I never make the samemistake twice. Good, Johnson said. The second time we break our victim's neck, Vee Vee said. What a sweet, charming child you— I told you before, I'm not a child. Child vampire, Johnson said. Let me finish my sentences before youinterrupt. She was silent. A smile, struggling to appear on her face, seemed tosay she held no malice. Her fingers tightened on Johnson's arm. Hetensed, expecting the nerve block grip again. Instead with the tips ofher fingers she gently patted his arm. There, there, darling, relax, she said. I know a better way to getyou than by using the Karmer grip. What way? Her eyes sparkled. Eve's way, she answered. Um! Surprise sounded in his grunt. But apples don't grow on Venus. Eve's daughters don't use apples any more, darling. Come along. Moving toward the open door that led to the Room of the Dreaming,Johnson saw that Caldwell had risen and was following them. Caldwell'sface was writhing in apprehensive agony and he was making warningsigns. Johnson ignored them. With Vee Vee's fingers lightly patting hisarm, they moved into the Room of the Dreaming. II It was a huge, semi-illumined room, with tier on tier of circling rampsrising up from an open space at the bottom. There ought to have beena stage there at the bottom, but there wasn't. Instead there was anopen space, a mat, and a head rest. Up at the top of the circling rampsthe room was in darkness, a fit hiding place for ghosts or Venusianwerewolves. Pillows and a thick rug covered the circling ramps. The soul-quickening Perfume of the Dreamer was stronger here. Thethrobbing of the lutes was louder. It was Venusian music the lutes wereplaying. Human ears found it inharmonious at first, but as they becameaccustomed to it, they began to detect rhythms and melodies that humanminds had not known existed. The room was pleasantly cool but it hadthe feel of dampness. A world that was rarely without pelting rainwould have the feel of dampness in its dreaming rooms. The music playing strange harmonies in his ears, the perfume sendingtingling feelings through his nose, Johnson entered the Room of theDreamer. He suspected that other forces, unknown to him, were catchinghold of his senses. He had been in dreaming rooms many times before buthe had not grown accustomed to them. He wondered if any human everdid. A touch of chill always came over him as he crossed the threshold.In entering these places, it was as if some unknown nerve centerinside the human organism was touched by something, some force, someradiation, some subtlety, that quite escaped radiation. He felt thecoldness now. Vee Vee's fingers left off patting his arm. Do you feel it, darling? Yes. What is it? How would I know? Please! Her voice grew sharp. I think Johnny Johnson ought to know. Johnny! How do you know my name? Shouldn't I recognize one of Earth's foremost scientists, even if heis incognito on Venus? Her voice had a teasing quality in it. But— And who besides Johnny Johnson would recognize the Karmer nerve gripand be able to break it instantly? Hell— John Michael Johnson, known as Johnny to his friends, Earth's foremostexpert in the field of electro-magnetic radiations within the humanbody! Her words were needles of icy fact, each one jabbing deeper anddeeper into him. And how would I make certain you were Johnny Johnson, except by seeingif you could break the Karmer nerve grip? If you could break it, thenthere was no doubt who you were! Her words went on and on. Who are you? His words were blasts of sound. Please, darling, you are making a scene. I am sure this is the lastthing you really want to do. He looked quickly around them. The Venusians and humans moving intothis room seemed to be paying no attention to him. His gaze came backto her. Again she patted his arm. Relax, darling. Your secrets are safe withme. A gray color came up inside his soul. But—but— His voice wassuddenly weak. The fingers on his arm were very gentle. No harm will come to you. AmI not with you? That's what I'm afraid of! he snapped at her. If he had had achoice, he might have drawn back. But with circumstances as theywere—his life, Caldwell's life, possibly Vee Vee's life hung in thebalance. Didn't she know that this was true? And as for Martin—ButCaldwell had said that she had been asking about Martin. Whatconnection did she have with that frantic human genius he sought here? Johnson felt his skin crawl. He moved toward a nest of cushions ona ramp, found a Venusian was beating him to them, deftly changed toanother nest, found it. Vee Vee flowed to the floor on his right, movedcushions to make him more comfortable. She moved in an easy sort of waythat was all flowing movement. He sat down. Someone bumped him on theleft. Sorry, bud. Didn't mean to bump into you. Caldwell's voice was stillthick and heavy. He sprawled to the floor on Johnson's left. Underthe man's coat, Johnson caught a glimpse of a slight bulge, the zitgun hidden there. His left arm pressed against his own coat, feelinghis own zit gun. Operating under gas pressure, throwing a charge ofgas-driven corvel, the zit guns were not only almost noiseless inoperation but they knocked out a human or a Venusian in a matter ofseconds. True, the person they knocked unconscious would be all right the nextday. For this reason, many people did not regard the zit guns aseffective weapons, but Johnson had a fondness for them. The feel of thelittle weapon inside his coat sent a surge of comfort through him. The music picked up a beat, perfume seemed to flow even more freelythrough the air, the lights dimmed almost to darkness, a single brightspotlight appeared in the ceiling, casting a circle of brilliantillumination on the mat and the headrest at the bottom of the room. Thecurtain rose. <doc-sep>Unger stood in the middle of the spot of light. Johnson felt his chest muscles contract, then relax. Vee Vee's fingerssought his arm, not to harm him but running to him for protection. Hecaught the flutter of her breathing. On his left, Caldwell stiffenedand became a rock. Johnson had not seen Unger appear. One second the circle of lighthad been empty, the next second the Venusian, smiling with all theimpassivity of a bland Buddha, was in the light. He weighed threehundred pounds if he weighed an ounce, he was clad in a long robethat would impede movement. He had appeared in the bright beam of thespotlight as if by magic. Vee Vee's fingers dug deeper into Johnson's arm. How— Shhh. Nobody knows. No human knew the answer to that trick. Unless perhaps Martin— Unger bowed. A little ripple of something that was not quite soundpassed through the audience. Unger bowed again. He stretched himselfflat on the mat, adjusted the rest to support his head, and apparentlywent to sleep. Johnson saw the Dreamer's eyes close, watched the chesttake on the even, regular rhythm of sleep. The music changed, a slow dreamy tempo crept into it. Vee Vee's fingersdug at Johnson's arm as if they were trying to dig under his hide forprotection. She was shivering. He reached for her hand, patted it. Shedrew closer to him. A few minutes earlier, she had been a very certain young woman, ableto take care of herself, and handle anyone around her. Now she wassuddenly uncertain, suddenly scared. In the Room of the Dreaming, shehad suddenly become a frightened child looking for protection. Haven't you ever seen this before? he whispered. N—o. She shivered again. Oh, Johnny.... Under the circle of light pouring down from the ceiling, the Dreamerlay motionless. Johnson found himself with the tendency to hold hisbreath. He was waiting, waiting, waiting—for what? The whole situationwas senseless, silly, but under its apparent lack of coherence, hesensed a pattern. Perhaps the path to the far-off stars passed thisway, through such scented and musical and impossible places as theseRooms of the Dreamers. Certainly Martin thought so. And Johnson himselfwas not prepared to disagree. Around him, he saw that the Venusians were already going ... going ...going.... Some of them were already gone. This was an old experienceto them. They went rapidly. Humans went more slowly. The Venusian watchers had relaxed. They looked as if they were asleep,perhaps in a hypnotic trance, lulled into this state by the musicand the perfume, and by something else. It was this something elsethat sent Johnson's thoughts pounding. The Venusians were like opiumsmokers. But he was not smoking opium. He was not in a hypnotic trance.He was wide awake and very much alert. He was ... watching a space ship float in an endless void . As Unger had come into the spotlight, so the space ship had come intohis vision, out of nowhere, out of nothingness. The room, the Dreamer,the sound of the music, the sweetness of the perfume, Vee Vee andCaldwell were gone. They were no longer in his reality. They were notin the range of his vision. It was as if they did not exist. Yet heknew they did exist, the memory of them, and of other things, was outon the periphery of his universe, perhaps of the universe. All he saw was the space ship. It was a wonderful thing, perhaps the most beautiful sight he had seenin his life. At the sight of it, a deep glow sprang inside of him. Back when he had been a kid he had dreamed of flight to the far-offstars. He had made models of space ships. In a way, they had shaped hisdestiny, had made him what he was. They had brought him where he wasthis night, to the Dream Room of a Venusian tavern. The vision of the space ship floating in the void entranced andthrilled him. Something told him that this was real; that here and nowhe was making contact with a vision that belonged to time. He started to his feet. Fingers gripped his arm. Please, darling. You startled me. Don't move. Vee Vee's voice. Whowas Vee Vee? The fingers dug into his arm. Pain came up in him. The space shipvanished. He looked with startled eyes at Vee Vee, at the Dream Room,at Unger, dreaming on the mat under the spot. You ... you startled me, Vee Vee whispered. She released the grip onhis arm. But, didn't you see it? See what? The space ship! No. No. She seemed startled and a little terrified and half asleep.I ... I was watching something else. When you moved I broke contactwith my dream. Your dream? He asked a question but she did not answer it. Sit down, darling,and look at your damned space ship. Her voice was a taut whisper ofsound in the darkened room. Johnson settled down. A glance to his lefttold him that Caldwell was still sitting like a chunk of stone.... TheVenusians were quiet. The music had shifted. A slow languorous beatof hidden drums filled the room. There was another sound present, ahigh-speed whirring. It was, somehow, a familiar sound, but Johnson hadnot heard it before in this place. He thought about the space ship he had seen. The vision would not come. He shook his head and tried again. Beside him, Vee Vee was silent, her face ecstatic, like the face of awoman in love. He tried again for the space ship. It would not come. Anger came up instead. Somehow he had the impression that the whirring sound which keptintruding into his consciousness was stopping the vision. So far as he could tell, he was the only one present who was notdreaming, who was not in a state of trance. His gaze went to Unger, the Dreamer.... Cold flowed over him. Unger was slowly rising from the mat. The bland face and the body in the robe were slowly floating upward! III An invisible force seemed to twitch at Johnson's skin, nipping it hereand there with a multitude of tiny pinches, like invisible fleas bitinghim. This is it! a voice whispered in his mind. This is what you came toVenus to see. This ... this.... The first voice went into silence.Another voice took its place. This is another damned vision! the second voice said. This ...this is something that is not real, that is not possible! No VenusianDreamer, and no one else, can levitate, can defy the laws of gravity,can float upward toward the ceiling. Your damned eyes are tricking you! We are not tricking you! the eyes hotly insisted. It is happening.We are seeing it. We are reporting accurately to you. That VenusianBuddha is levitating. We, your eyes, do not lie to you! You lied about the space ship! the second voice said. We did not lie about the space ship! the eyes insisted. When ourmaster saw that ship we were out of focus, we were not reporting. Someother sense, some other organ, may have lied, but we did not. I— Johnson whispered. I am your skin, another voice whispered. I am covered with sweat. We are your adrenals. We are pouring forth adrenalin. I am your pancreas. I am gearing you for action. I am your thyroid. I.... A multitude of tiny voices seemed to whisper through him. It was as ifthe parts of his body had suddenly found voices and were reporting tohim what they were doing. These were voices out of his training dayswhen he had learned the names of these functions and how to use them. Be quiet! he said roughly. The little voices seemed to blend into a single chorus. Action,Master! Do something. Quiet! Johnson ordered. But hurry. We are excited. There is a time to be excited and a time to hurry. In this situation,if action is taken before the time for it—if that time ever comes—wecan all die. Die? the chorus quavered. Yes, Johnson said. Now be quiet. When the time goes we will all gotogether. The chorus went into muted silence. But just under the threshold thelittle voices were a multitude of tiny fretful pressures. I hear a whirring sound, his ears reported. Please! Johnson said. In the front of the room Unger floated ten feet above the floor. Master, we are not lying! his eyes repeated. I sweat.... his skin began. Watch Unger! Johnson said. The Dreamer floated. If wires suspended him, Johnson could not seethem. If any known force lifted him, Johnson could not detect thatforce. All he could say for certain was that Unger floated. Yaaah! The silence of a room was broken by the enraged scream of aVenusian being jarred out of his dream. Damn it! A human voice said. A wave as sharp as the tip of a sword swept through the room. Unger fell. He was ten feet high when he started to fall. With a bone-breaking,body-jarring thud, the Dreamer fell. Hard. There was a split second of startled silence in the Dreaming Room. Thesilence went. Voices came. Who did that? What happened? That human hidden there did it! He broke the Dreaming! Anger markedthe voices. Although the language was Venusian, Johnson got most of themeaning. His hand dived under his coat for the gun holstered there. Athis left, Caldwell was muttering thickly. What—what happened? I wasback in the lab on Earth— Caldwell's voice held a plaintive note, asif some pleasant dream had been interrupted. On Johnson's right, Vee Vee seemed to flow to life. Her arms came uparound his neck. He was instantly prepared for anything. Her lips camehungrily against his lips, pressed very hard, then gently drew away. What— he gasped. I had to do it now, darling, she answered. There may not be a later. Johnson had no time to ask her what she meant. Somewhere in the backof the room a human screamed. He jerked around. Back there a knot ofVenusians were attacking a man. It's Martin! Caldwell shouted. He is here! In Johnson's hand as he came to his feet the zit gun throbbed. He firedblindly at the mass of Venusians. Caldwell was firing too. The softthrob of the guns was not audible above the uproar from the crowd.Struck by the gas-driven corvel charges, Venusians were falling. Butthere seemed to be an endless number of them. Vee Vee? Johnson suddenly realized that she had disappeared. She hadslid out of his sight. Vee Vee! Johnson's voice became a shout. To hell with the woman! Caldwell grunted. Martin's the importantone. Zit, zit, zit, Caldwell moved toward the rear, shooting as he went.Johnson followed. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Johnson and what does he do/what happens to him in the story?

Johnson, whose full name is John Michael Johnson, is described by Vee Vee as one of Earth’s foremost scientists, and an expert in the field of electro-magnetic radiation in human bodies. He is the protagonist of the story, a human man who has apparently come to Venus in search of another human named Martin. He goes to a bar that has a Room of the Dreamer. Before he enters it, he encounters Vee Vee. She incites both lust and anxiety in Johnson, as he is attracted to her but doesn’t think she should be alone at a Venusian bar. After she attempts to use Karmer’s nerve paralysis on him, he blocks her and threatens her not to do it again. They go into the Room of the Dreamer, where Johnson discovers that Vee Vee knows who he is. The Unger enters and the dreaming begins. Johnson sees a spaceship before him and the room seems to disappear behind him. Johnson is upset when the spaceship disappears and he can’t get it back. He sees Unger starting to levitate and all of Johnson’s various body parts seem to talk to him. When Unger falls, Vee Vee kisses Johnson. He is confused and then realizes that Martin is there and is being attacked. As the passage ends, Johnson and Caldwell are shooting people with their zit guns and trying to get toward Martin as Johnson calls out to Vee Vee.

Who is Vee Vee and what does she do/what happens to her in the story? [SEP] <s> The CONJURER of VENUS By CONAN T. TROY A world-famed Earth scientist had disappeared on Venus. When Johnson found him, he found too the secret to that globe-shaking mystery—the fabulous Room of The Dreaming. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city dripped with rain. Crossing the street toward the dive,Johnson got rain in his eyes, his nose, and his ears. That was the waywith the rain here. It came at you from all directions. There had beenoccasions when Johnson had thought the rain was falling straight up.Otherwise, how had the insides of his pants gotten wet? On Venus, everything came at you from all directions, it seemed toJohnson. Opening the door of the joint, it was noise instead of rainthat came at him, the wild frantic beat of a Venusian rhumba, thenotes pounding and jumping through the smoke and perfume clouded room.Feeling states came at him, intangible, but to his trained senses,perceptible emotional nuances of hate, love, fear, and rage. But mostlylove. Since this place had been designed to excite the senses of bothhumans and Venusians, the love feelings were heavily tinged withstraight sex. He sniffed at them, feeling them somewhere inside of him,aware of them but aware also that here was apprehension, and plain fear. Caldwell, sitting in a booth next to the door, glanced up as Johnsonentered but neither Caldwell's facial expression or his eyes revealedthat he had ever seen this human before. Nor did Johnson seem torecognize Caldwell. Is the mighty human wanting liquor, a woman or dreams? His voicewas all soft syllables of liquid sound. The Venusian equivalent of aheadwaiter was bowing to him. I'll have a tarmur to start, Johnson said. How are the dreamstonight? Ze vill be the most wonserful of all sonight. The great Unger hisselfwill be here to do ze dreaming. There is no ozzer one who has quitehis touch at dreaming, mighty one. The headwaiter spread his handsin a gesture indicating ecstasy. It is my great regret that I must doze work tonight instead of being wiz ze dreamers. Ah, ze great Ungerhisself! The headwaiter kissed the tips of his fingers. Um, Johnson said. The great Unger! His voice expressed surprise,just the right amount of it. I'll have a tarmur to start but when doesthe dreaming commence? In one zonar or maybe less. Shall I make ze reservations for ze mightyone? As he was speaking, the headwaiter was deftly conducting Johnsonto the bar. Not just yet, Johnson said. See me a little later. But certainly. The headwaiter was gone into the throng. Johnson wasat the bar. Behind it, a Venusian was bowing to him. Tarmur, Johnsonsaid. The green drink was set before him. He held it up to the light,admiring the slow rise of the tiny golden bubbles in it. To him,watching the bubbles rise was perhaps more important than drinkingitself. Beautiful, aren't they? a soft voice said. He glanced to his right.A girl had slid into the stool beside him. She wore a green dress cutvery low at the throat. Her skin had the pleasant tan recently onEarth. Her hair was a shade of abundant brown and her eyes were blue,the color of the skies of Earth. A necklace circled her throat andbelow the necklace ... Johnson felt his pulse quicken, for two reasons.Women such as this one had been quickening the pulse of men since thedays of Adam. The second reason concerned her presence here in thisplace where no woman in her right mind ever came unescorted. Her eyessmiled up at him unafraid. Didn't she know there were men present herein this space port city who would snatch her bodily from the barstool and carry her away for sleeping purposes? And Venusians werehere who would cut her pretty throat for the sake of the necklace thatcircled it? They are beautiful, he said, smiling. Thank you. I was referring to the bubbles. You were talking about my eyes, she answered, unperturbed. How did you know? I mean.... I am very knowing, the girl said, smiling. Are you sufficiently knowing to be here? For an instant, as if doubt crossed her mind, the smile flickered. Thenit came again, stronger. Aren't you here? Johnson choked as bubbles from the tarmur seemed to go suddenly up hisnose. My dear child ... he sputtered. I am not a child, she answered with a firm sureness that left nodoubt in his mind that she knew what she was saying. And my name isVee Vee. Vee Vee? Um. That is.... Don't you think it's a nice name? I certainly do. Probably the rest of it is even nicer. There is no more of it. Just Vee Vee. Like Topsy, I just grew. <doc-sep>What the devil are you doing here on Venus and here in this place? Growing. The blue eyes were unafraid. Sombrely, Johnson regarded her. What was she doing here? Was she inthe employ of the Venusians? If she was being planted on him, thenhis purpose here was suspected. He shrugged the thought aside. If hispurpose here was suspected, there would be no point in planting a womanon him. There would only be the minor matter of slipping a knife into his back. In this city, as on all of Venus, humans died easily. No one questionedthe motives of the killer. You look as if you were considering some very grave matter, Vee Veesaid. Not any longer, he laughed. You have decided them? Yes. Every last one of them? Oh, there might be one or two matters undecided somewhere, say out onthe periphery of the galaxy. But we will solve them when we get tothem. He waved vaguely toward the roof and the sky of space hiddenbehind the clouds that lay over the roof, glanced around as a man easedhimself into an empty stool on his left. The man was Caldwell. Zlock! Caldwell said, to the bartender. Make it snappy. Gotta havezlock. Finest damn drink in the solar system. Caldwell's voice wasthick, his tongue heavy. Johnson's eyes went back to the girl but outof the corner of them he watched Caldwell's hand lying on the bar. Thefingers were beating a quick nervous tattoo on the yellow wood. I haven't seen him, Caldwell's fingers beat out their tattoo. But Ithink he is, or was, here. Um, Johnson said, his eyes on Vee Vee. How— Because that girl was asking for him, Caldwell's fingers answered.Watch that girl! Picking up the zlock, he lurched away from the bar. Your friend is not as drunk as he seems, Vee Vee said, watchingCaldwell. My friend? Do you mean that drunk? I never saw him— Lying is one of the deadly sins. Her eyes twinkled at him. Under themerriment that danced in them there was ice. Johnson felt cold. The reservations for ze dreaming, great one? The headwaiter wasbowing and scraping in front of him. The great one has decided, yes? The dreaming! Vee Vee looked suddenly alert. Of course. We must seethe dreaming. Everyone wants to see the dreaming. We will go, won't wedarling? She hooked her hand into Johnson's elbow. Certainly, Johnson said. The decision was made on the spur of themoment. That there was danger in it, he did not doubt. But there mightbe something else. And he might be there. Oh. But very good. Ze great Unger, you will love him! The headwaiterclutched the gold coins that Johnson extended, bowed himself out ofsight. Say, I want to know more— Johnson began. His words were drowned ina blast of trumpets. The band that had been playing went into suddensilence. Waves of perfume began to flow into the place. The perfumeswere blended, but one aroma was prominent among them, the sweet,cloying, soul-stirring perfume of the Dreamer. In the suddenly hushed place little sounds began to appear as Venusiansand humans began to shift their feet and their bodies in anticipationof what was to happen. The trumpets flared again. On one side of the place, a big door began to swing slowly open. Frombeyond that slowly opening door came music, soft, muted strains thatsounded like lutes from heaven. Vee Vee, her hand on Johnson's elbow, rose. Johnson stood up withher. He got the surprise of his life as her fingers clenched, digginginto his muscles. Pain shot through his arm, paralyzing it and almostparalyzing him. He knew instantly that she was using the Karmer nerveblock paralysis on him. His left hand moved with lightning speed, thetips of his fingers striking savagely against her shoulder. She gasped, her face whitened as pain shot through her in response tothe thrust of his finger tips. Her hand that had been digging into hiselbow lost its grip, dropped away and hung limp at her side. Grabbingit, she began to massage it. You—you— Hot anger and shock were in her voice. You're the firstman I ever knew who could break the Karmer nerve paralysis. And you're the first woman who ever tried it on me. But— Shall we go watch the dreaming? He took the arm that still hung limpat her side and tucked it into his elbow. If you try to use the Karmer grip on me again I'll break your arm, hesaid. His voice was low but there was a wealth of meaning in it. I won't do it again, the girl said stoutly. I never make the samemistake twice. Good, Johnson said. The second time we break our victim's neck, Vee Vee said. What a sweet, charming child you— I told you before, I'm not a child. Child vampire, Johnson said. Let me finish my sentences before youinterrupt. She was silent. A smile, struggling to appear on her face, seemed tosay she held no malice. Her fingers tightened on Johnson's arm. Hetensed, expecting the nerve block grip again. Instead with the tips ofher fingers she gently patted his arm. There, there, darling, relax, she said. I know a better way to getyou than by using the Karmer grip. What way? Her eyes sparkled. Eve's way, she answered. Um! Surprise sounded in his grunt. But apples don't grow on Venus. Eve's daughters don't use apples any more, darling. Come along. Moving toward the open door that led to the Room of the Dreaming,Johnson saw that Caldwell had risen and was following them. Caldwell'sface was writhing in apprehensive agony and he was making warningsigns. Johnson ignored them. With Vee Vee's fingers lightly patting hisarm, they moved into the Room of the Dreaming. II It was a huge, semi-illumined room, with tier on tier of circling rampsrising up from an open space at the bottom. There ought to have beena stage there at the bottom, but there wasn't. Instead there was anopen space, a mat, and a head rest. Up at the top of the circling rampsthe room was in darkness, a fit hiding place for ghosts or Venusianwerewolves. Pillows and a thick rug covered the circling ramps. The soul-quickening Perfume of the Dreamer was stronger here. Thethrobbing of the lutes was louder. It was Venusian music the lutes wereplaying. Human ears found it inharmonious at first, but as they becameaccustomed to it, they began to detect rhythms and melodies that humanminds had not known existed. The room was pleasantly cool but it hadthe feel of dampness. A world that was rarely without pelting rainwould have the feel of dampness in its dreaming rooms. The music playing strange harmonies in his ears, the perfume sendingtingling feelings through his nose, Johnson entered the Room of theDreamer. He suspected that other forces, unknown to him, were catchinghold of his senses. He had been in dreaming rooms many times before buthe had not grown accustomed to them. He wondered if any human everdid. A touch of chill always came over him as he crossed the threshold.In entering these places, it was as if some unknown nerve centerinside the human organism was touched by something, some force, someradiation, some subtlety, that quite escaped radiation. He felt thecoldness now. Vee Vee's fingers left off patting his arm. Do you feel it, darling? Yes. What is it? How would I know? Please! Her voice grew sharp. I think Johnny Johnson ought to know. Johnny! How do you know my name? Shouldn't I recognize one of Earth's foremost scientists, even if heis incognito on Venus? Her voice had a teasing quality in it. But— And who besides Johnny Johnson would recognize the Karmer nerve gripand be able to break it instantly? Hell— John Michael Johnson, known as Johnny to his friends, Earth's foremostexpert in the field of electro-magnetic radiations within the humanbody! Her words were needles of icy fact, each one jabbing deeper anddeeper into him. And how would I make certain you were Johnny Johnson, except by seeingif you could break the Karmer nerve grip? If you could break it, thenthere was no doubt who you were! Her words went on and on. Who are you? His words were blasts of sound. Please, darling, you are making a scene. I am sure this is the lastthing you really want to do. He looked quickly around them. The Venusians and humans moving intothis room seemed to be paying no attention to him. His gaze came backto her. Again she patted his arm. Relax, darling. Your secrets are safe withme. A gray color came up inside his soul. But—but— His voice wassuddenly weak. The fingers on his arm were very gentle. No harm will come to you. AmI not with you? That's what I'm afraid of! he snapped at her. If he had had achoice, he might have drawn back. But with circumstances as theywere—his life, Caldwell's life, possibly Vee Vee's life hung in thebalance. Didn't she know that this was true? And as for Martin—ButCaldwell had said that she had been asking about Martin. Whatconnection did she have with that frantic human genius he sought here? Johnson felt his skin crawl. He moved toward a nest of cushions ona ramp, found a Venusian was beating him to them, deftly changed toanother nest, found it. Vee Vee flowed to the floor on his right, movedcushions to make him more comfortable. She moved in an easy sort of waythat was all flowing movement. He sat down. Someone bumped him on theleft. Sorry, bud. Didn't mean to bump into you. Caldwell's voice was stillthick and heavy. He sprawled to the floor on Johnson's left. Underthe man's coat, Johnson caught a glimpse of a slight bulge, the zitgun hidden there. His left arm pressed against his own coat, feelinghis own zit gun. Operating under gas pressure, throwing a charge ofgas-driven corvel, the zit guns were not only almost noiseless inoperation but they knocked out a human or a Venusian in a matter ofseconds. True, the person they knocked unconscious would be all right the nextday. For this reason, many people did not regard the zit guns aseffective weapons, but Johnson had a fondness for them. The feel of thelittle weapon inside his coat sent a surge of comfort through him. The music picked up a beat, perfume seemed to flow even more freelythrough the air, the lights dimmed almost to darkness, a single brightspotlight appeared in the ceiling, casting a circle of brilliantillumination on the mat and the headrest at the bottom of the room. Thecurtain rose. <doc-sep>Unger stood in the middle of the spot of light. Johnson felt his chest muscles contract, then relax. Vee Vee's fingerssought his arm, not to harm him but running to him for protection. Hecaught the flutter of her breathing. On his left, Caldwell stiffenedand became a rock. Johnson had not seen Unger appear. One second the circle of lighthad been empty, the next second the Venusian, smiling with all theimpassivity of a bland Buddha, was in the light. He weighed threehundred pounds if he weighed an ounce, he was clad in a long robethat would impede movement. He had appeared in the bright beam of thespotlight as if by magic. Vee Vee's fingers dug deeper into Johnson's arm. How— Shhh. Nobody knows. No human knew the answer to that trick. Unless perhaps Martin— Unger bowed. A little ripple of something that was not quite soundpassed through the audience. Unger bowed again. He stretched himselfflat on the mat, adjusted the rest to support his head, and apparentlywent to sleep. Johnson saw the Dreamer's eyes close, watched the chesttake on the even, regular rhythm of sleep. The music changed, a slow dreamy tempo crept into it. Vee Vee's fingersdug at Johnson's arm as if they were trying to dig under his hide forprotection. She was shivering. He reached for her hand, patted it. Shedrew closer to him. A few minutes earlier, she had been a very certain young woman, ableto take care of herself, and handle anyone around her. Now she wassuddenly uncertain, suddenly scared. In the Room of the Dreaming, shehad suddenly become a frightened child looking for protection. Haven't you ever seen this before? he whispered. N—o. She shivered again. Oh, Johnny.... Under the circle of light pouring down from the ceiling, the Dreamerlay motionless. Johnson found himself with the tendency to hold hisbreath. He was waiting, waiting, waiting—for what? The whole situationwas senseless, silly, but under its apparent lack of coherence, hesensed a pattern. Perhaps the path to the far-off stars passed thisway, through such scented and musical and impossible places as theseRooms of the Dreamers. Certainly Martin thought so. And Johnson himselfwas not prepared to disagree. Around him, he saw that the Venusians were already going ... going ...going.... Some of them were already gone. This was an old experienceto them. They went rapidly. Humans went more slowly. The Venusian watchers had relaxed. They looked as if they were asleep,perhaps in a hypnotic trance, lulled into this state by the musicand the perfume, and by something else. It was this something elsethat sent Johnson's thoughts pounding. The Venusians were like opiumsmokers. But he was not smoking opium. He was not in a hypnotic trance.He was wide awake and very much alert. He was ... watching a space ship float in an endless void . As Unger had come into the spotlight, so the space ship had come intohis vision, out of nowhere, out of nothingness. The room, the Dreamer,the sound of the music, the sweetness of the perfume, Vee Vee andCaldwell were gone. They were no longer in his reality. They were notin the range of his vision. It was as if they did not exist. Yet heknew they did exist, the memory of them, and of other things, was outon the periphery of his universe, perhaps of the universe. All he saw was the space ship. It was a wonderful thing, perhaps the most beautiful sight he had seenin his life. At the sight of it, a deep glow sprang inside of him. Back when he had been a kid he had dreamed of flight to the far-offstars. He had made models of space ships. In a way, they had shaped hisdestiny, had made him what he was. They had brought him where he wasthis night, to the Dream Room of a Venusian tavern. The vision of the space ship floating in the void entranced andthrilled him. Something told him that this was real; that here and nowhe was making contact with a vision that belonged to time. He started to his feet. Fingers gripped his arm. Please, darling. You startled me. Don't move. Vee Vee's voice. Whowas Vee Vee? The fingers dug into his arm. Pain came up in him. The space shipvanished. He looked with startled eyes at Vee Vee, at the Dream Room,at Unger, dreaming on the mat under the spot. You ... you startled me, Vee Vee whispered. She released the grip onhis arm. But, didn't you see it? See what? The space ship! No. No. She seemed startled and a little terrified and half asleep.I ... I was watching something else. When you moved I broke contactwith my dream. Your dream? He asked a question but she did not answer it. Sit down, darling,and look at your damned space ship. Her voice was a taut whisper ofsound in the darkened room. Johnson settled down. A glance to his lefttold him that Caldwell was still sitting like a chunk of stone.... TheVenusians were quiet. The music had shifted. A slow languorous beatof hidden drums filled the room. There was another sound present, ahigh-speed whirring. It was, somehow, a familiar sound, but Johnson hadnot heard it before in this place. He thought about the space ship he had seen. The vision would not come. He shook his head and tried again. Beside him, Vee Vee was silent, her face ecstatic, like the face of awoman in love. He tried again for the space ship. It would not come. Anger came up instead. Somehow he had the impression that the whirring sound which keptintruding into his consciousness was stopping the vision. So far as he could tell, he was the only one present who was notdreaming, who was not in a state of trance. His gaze went to Unger, the Dreamer.... Cold flowed over him. Unger was slowly rising from the mat. The bland face and the body in the robe were slowly floating upward! III An invisible force seemed to twitch at Johnson's skin, nipping it hereand there with a multitude of tiny pinches, like invisible fleas bitinghim. This is it! a voice whispered in his mind. This is what you came toVenus to see. This ... this.... The first voice went into silence.Another voice took its place. This is another damned vision! the second voice said. This ...this is something that is not real, that is not possible! No VenusianDreamer, and no one else, can levitate, can defy the laws of gravity,can float upward toward the ceiling. Your damned eyes are tricking you! We are not tricking you! the eyes hotly insisted. It is happening.We are seeing it. We are reporting accurately to you. That VenusianBuddha is levitating. We, your eyes, do not lie to you! You lied about the space ship! the second voice said. We did not lie about the space ship! the eyes insisted. When ourmaster saw that ship we were out of focus, we were not reporting. Someother sense, some other organ, may have lied, but we did not. I— Johnson whispered. I am your skin, another voice whispered. I am covered with sweat. We are your adrenals. We are pouring forth adrenalin. I am your pancreas. I am gearing you for action. I am your thyroid. I.... A multitude of tiny voices seemed to whisper through him. It was as ifthe parts of his body had suddenly found voices and were reporting tohim what they were doing. These were voices out of his training dayswhen he had learned the names of these functions and how to use them. Be quiet! he said roughly. The little voices seemed to blend into a single chorus. Action,Master! Do something. Quiet! Johnson ordered. But hurry. We are excited. There is a time to be excited and a time to hurry. In this situation,if action is taken before the time for it—if that time ever comes—wecan all die. Die? the chorus quavered. Yes, Johnson said. Now be quiet. When the time goes we will all gotogether. The chorus went into muted silence. But just under the threshold thelittle voices were a multitude of tiny fretful pressures. I hear a whirring sound, his ears reported. Please! Johnson said. In the front of the room Unger floated ten feet above the floor. Master, we are not lying! his eyes repeated. I sweat.... his skin began. Watch Unger! Johnson said. The Dreamer floated. If wires suspended him, Johnson could not seethem. If any known force lifted him, Johnson could not detect thatforce. All he could say for certain was that Unger floated. Yaaah! The silence of a room was broken by the enraged scream of aVenusian being jarred out of his dream. Damn it! A human voice said. A wave as sharp as the tip of a sword swept through the room. Unger fell. He was ten feet high when he started to fall. With a bone-breaking,body-jarring thud, the Dreamer fell. Hard. There was a split second of startled silence in the Dreaming Room. Thesilence went. Voices came. Who did that? What happened? That human hidden there did it! He broke the Dreaming! Anger markedthe voices. Although the language was Venusian, Johnson got most of themeaning. His hand dived under his coat for the gun holstered there. Athis left, Caldwell was muttering thickly. What—what happened? I wasback in the lab on Earth— Caldwell's voice held a plaintive note, asif some pleasant dream had been interrupted. On Johnson's right, Vee Vee seemed to flow to life. Her arms came uparound his neck. He was instantly prepared for anything. Her lips camehungrily against his lips, pressed very hard, then gently drew away. What— he gasped. I had to do it now, darling, she answered. There may not be a later. Johnson had no time to ask her what she meant. Somewhere in the backof the room a human screamed. He jerked around. Back there a knot ofVenusians were attacking a man. It's Martin! Caldwell shouted. He is here! In Johnson's hand as he came to his feet the zit gun throbbed. He firedblindly at the mass of Venusians. Caldwell was firing too. The softthrob of the guns was not audible above the uproar from the crowd.Struck by the gas-driven corvel charges, Venusians were falling. Butthere seemed to be an endless number of them. Vee Vee? Johnson suddenly realized that she had disappeared. She hadslid out of his sight. Vee Vee! Johnson's voice became a shout. To hell with the woman! Caldwell grunted. Martin's the importantone. Zit, zit, zit, Caldwell moved toward the rear, shooting as he went.Johnson followed. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Vee Vee and what does she do/what happens to her in the story?

Vee Vee is a woman described as very beautiful, with auburn hair, blue eyes and tanned skin. She wears a low-cut green dress and necklace and seems out of place at the dream bar, but unafraid. She introduces herself to Johnson and gets him to escort her to the Room of the Dreamer, even after Caldwell warns him that she has been asking for Martin. She attempts to use Karmer’s nerve paralysis on Johnson and he blocks it. Johnson says she is a child vampire and brings her into the Room of Dreaming; she says next time she’ll use Eve’s trick against him. She says his name and when he questions her, it turns out that she knows exactly who he is and what he does. She claims to have tried the paralysis trick to see if he would block it so she would know if it was him. Self-assured though she was before, she becomes quite frightened in the Room of the Dreamer. After Unger falls and chaos breaks out, she kisses Johnson and says she did it because she might not be able to later. Though he calls for her as he and Caldwell make their way towards Martin, Vee Vee’s whereabouts are unknown at the end of the passage.

Describe the setting(s) of the story. [SEP] <s> The CONJURER of VENUS By CONAN T. TROY A world-famed Earth scientist had disappeared on Venus. When Johnson found him, he found too the secret to that globe-shaking mystery—the fabulous Room of The Dreaming. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city dripped with rain. Crossing the street toward the dive,Johnson got rain in his eyes, his nose, and his ears. That was the waywith the rain here. It came at you from all directions. There had beenoccasions when Johnson had thought the rain was falling straight up.Otherwise, how had the insides of his pants gotten wet? On Venus, everything came at you from all directions, it seemed toJohnson. Opening the door of the joint, it was noise instead of rainthat came at him, the wild frantic beat of a Venusian rhumba, thenotes pounding and jumping through the smoke and perfume clouded room.Feeling states came at him, intangible, but to his trained senses,perceptible emotional nuances of hate, love, fear, and rage. But mostlylove. Since this place had been designed to excite the senses of bothhumans and Venusians, the love feelings were heavily tinged withstraight sex. He sniffed at them, feeling them somewhere inside of him,aware of them but aware also that here was apprehension, and plain fear. Caldwell, sitting in a booth next to the door, glanced up as Johnsonentered but neither Caldwell's facial expression or his eyes revealedthat he had ever seen this human before. Nor did Johnson seem torecognize Caldwell. Is the mighty human wanting liquor, a woman or dreams? His voicewas all soft syllables of liquid sound. The Venusian equivalent of aheadwaiter was bowing to him. I'll have a tarmur to start, Johnson said. How are the dreamstonight? Ze vill be the most wonserful of all sonight. The great Unger hisselfwill be here to do ze dreaming. There is no ozzer one who has quitehis touch at dreaming, mighty one. The headwaiter spread his handsin a gesture indicating ecstasy. It is my great regret that I must doze work tonight instead of being wiz ze dreamers. Ah, ze great Ungerhisself! The headwaiter kissed the tips of his fingers. Um, Johnson said. The great Unger! His voice expressed surprise,just the right amount of it. I'll have a tarmur to start but when doesthe dreaming commence? In one zonar or maybe less. Shall I make ze reservations for ze mightyone? As he was speaking, the headwaiter was deftly conducting Johnsonto the bar. Not just yet, Johnson said. See me a little later. But certainly. The headwaiter was gone into the throng. Johnson wasat the bar. Behind it, a Venusian was bowing to him. Tarmur, Johnsonsaid. The green drink was set before him. He held it up to the light,admiring the slow rise of the tiny golden bubbles in it. To him,watching the bubbles rise was perhaps more important than drinkingitself. Beautiful, aren't they? a soft voice said. He glanced to his right.A girl had slid into the stool beside him. She wore a green dress cutvery low at the throat. Her skin had the pleasant tan recently onEarth. Her hair was a shade of abundant brown and her eyes were blue,the color of the skies of Earth. A necklace circled her throat andbelow the necklace ... Johnson felt his pulse quicken, for two reasons.Women such as this one had been quickening the pulse of men since thedays of Adam. The second reason concerned her presence here in thisplace where no woman in her right mind ever came unescorted. Her eyessmiled up at him unafraid. Didn't she know there were men present herein this space port city who would snatch her bodily from the barstool and carry her away for sleeping purposes? And Venusians werehere who would cut her pretty throat for the sake of the necklace thatcircled it? They are beautiful, he said, smiling. Thank you. I was referring to the bubbles. You were talking about my eyes, she answered, unperturbed. How did you know? I mean.... I am very knowing, the girl said, smiling. Are you sufficiently knowing to be here? For an instant, as if doubt crossed her mind, the smile flickered. Thenit came again, stronger. Aren't you here? Johnson choked as bubbles from the tarmur seemed to go suddenly up hisnose. My dear child ... he sputtered. I am not a child, she answered with a firm sureness that left nodoubt in his mind that she knew what she was saying. And my name isVee Vee. Vee Vee? Um. That is.... Don't you think it's a nice name? I certainly do. Probably the rest of it is even nicer. There is no more of it. Just Vee Vee. Like Topsy, I just grew. <doc-sep>What the devil are you doing here on Venus and here in this place? Growing. The blue eyes were unafraid. Sombrely, Johnson regarded her. What was she doing here? Was she inthe employ of the Venusians? If she was being planted on him, thenhis purpose here was suspected. He shrugged the thought aside. If hispurpose here was suspected, there would be no point in planting a womanon him. There would only be the minor matter of slipping a knife into his back. In this city, as on all of Venus, humans died easily. No one questionedthe motives of the killer. You look as if you were considering some very grave matter, Vee Veesaid. Not any longer, he laughed. You have decided them? Yes. Every last one of them? Oh, there might be one or two matters undecided somewhere, say out onthe periphery of the galaxy. But we will solve them when we get tothem. He waved vaguely toward the roof and the sky of space hiddenbehind the clouds that lay over the roof, glanced around as a man easedhimself into an empty stool on his left. The man was Caldwell. Zlock! Caldwell said, to the bartender. Make it snappy. Gotta havezlock. Finest damn drink in the solar system. Caldwell's voice wasthick, his tongue heavy. Johnson's eyes went back to the girl but outof the corner of them he watched Caldwell's hand lying on the bar. Thefingers were beating a quick nervous tattoo on the yellow wood. I haven't seen him, Caldwell's fingers beat out their tattoo. But Ithink he is, or was, here. Um, Johnson said, his eyes on Vee Vee. How— Because that girl was asking for him, Caldwell's fingers answered.Watch that girl! Picking up the zlock, he lurched away from the bar. Your friend is not as drunk as he seems, Vee Vee said, watchingCaldwell. My friend? Do you mean that drunk? I never saw him— Lying is one of the deadly sins. Her eyes twinkled at him. Under themerriment that danced in them there was ice. Johnson felt cold. The reservations for ze dreaming, great one? The headwaiter wasbowing and scraping in front of him. The great one has decided, yes? The dreaming! Vee Vee looked suddenly alert. Of course. We must seethe dreaming. Everyone wants to see the dreaming. We will go, won't wedarling? She hooked her hand into Johnson's elbow. Certainly, Johnson said. The decision was made on the spur of themoment. That there was danger in it, he did not doubt. But there mightbe something else. And he might be there. Oh. But very good. Ze great Unger, you will love him! The headwaiterclutched the gold coins that Johnson extended, bowed himself out ofsight. Say, I want to know more— Johnson began. His words were drowned ina blast of trumpets. The band that had been playing went into suddensilence. Waves of perfume began to flow into the place. The perfumeswere blended, but one aroma was prominent among them, the sweet,cloying, soul-stirring perfume of the Dreamer. In the suddenly hushed place little sounds began to appear as Venusiansand humans began to shift their feet and their bodies in anticipationof what was to happen. The trumpets flared again. On one side of the place, a big door began to swing slowly open. Frombeyond that slowly opening door came music, soft, muted strains thatsounded like lutes from heaven. Vee Vee, her hand on Johnson's elbow, rose. Johnson stood up withher. He got the surprise of his life as her fingers clenched, digginginto his muscles. Pain shot through his arm, paralyzing it and almostparalyzing him. He knew instantly that she was using the Karmer nerveblock paralysis on him. His left hand moved with lightning speed, thetips of his fingers striking savagely against her shoulder. She gasped, her face whitened as pain shot through her in response tothe thrust of his finger tips. Her hand that had been digging into hiselbow lost its grip, dropped away and hung limp at her side. Grabbingit, she began to massage it. You—you— Hot anger and shock were in her voice. You're the firstman I ever knew who could break the Karmer nerve paralysis. And you're the first woman who ever tried it on me. But— Shall we go watch the dreaming? He took the arm that still hung limpat her side and tucked it into his elbow. If you try to use the Karmer grip on me again I'll break your arm, hesaid. His voice was low but there was a wealth of meaning in it. I won't do it again, the girl said stoutly. I never make the samemistake twice. Good, Johnson said. The second time we break our victim's neck, Vee Vee said. What a sweet, charming child you— I told you before, I'm not a child. Child vampire, Johnson said. Let me finish my sentences before youinterrupt. She was silent. A smile, struggling to appear on her face, seemed tosay she held no malice. Her fingers tightened on Johnson's arm. Hetensed, expecting the nerve block grip again. Instead with the tips ofher fingers she gently patted his arm. There, there, darling, relax, she said. I know a better way to getyou than by using the Karmer grip. What way? Her eyes sparkled. Eve's way, she answered. Um! Surprise sounded in his grunt. But apples don't grow on Venus. Eve's daughters don't use apples any more, darling. Come along. Moving toward the open door that led to the Room of the Dreaming,Johnson saw that Caldwell had risen and was following them. Caldwell'sface was writhing in apprehensive agony and he was making warningsigns. Johnson ignored them. With Vee Vee's fingers lightly patting hisarm, they moved into the Room of the Dreaming. II It was a huge, semi-illumined room, with tier on tier of circling rampsrising up from an open space at the bottom. There ought to have beena stage there at the bottom, but there wasn't. Instead there was anopen space, a mat, and a head rest. Up at the top of the circling rampsthe room was in darkness, a fit hiding place for ghosts or Venusianwerewolves. Pillows and a thick rug covered the circling ramps. The soul-quickening Perfume of the Dreamer was stronger here. Thethrobbing of the lutes was louder. It was Venusian music the lutes wereplaying. Human ears found it inharmonious at first, but as they becameaccustomed to it, they began to detect rhythms and melodies that humanminds had not known existed. The room was pleasantly cool but it hadthe feel of dampness. A world that was rarely without pelting rainwould have the feel of dampness in its dreaming rooms. The music playing strange harmonies in his ears, the perfume sendingtingling feelings through his nose, Johnson entered the Room of theDreamer. He suspected that other forces, unknown to him, were catchinghold of his senses. He had been in dreaming rooms many times before buthe had not grown accustomed to them. He wondered if any human everdid. A touch of chill always came over him as he crossed the threshold.In entering these places, it was as if some unknown nerve centerinside the human organism was touched by something, some force, someradiation, some subtlety, that quite escaped radiation. He felt thecoldness now. Vee Vee's fingers left off patting his arm. Do you feel it, darling? Yes. What is it? How would I know? Please! Her voice grew sharp. I think Johnny Johnson ought to know. Johnny! How do you know my name? Shouldn't I recognize one of Earth's foremost scientists, even if heis incognito on Venus? Her voice had a teasing quality in it. But— And who besides Johnny Johnson would recognize the Karmer nerve gripand be able to break it instantly? Hell— John Michael Johnson, known as Johnny to his friends, Earth's foremostexpert in the field of electro-magnetic radiations within the humanbody! Her words were needles of icy fact, each one jabbing deeper anddeeper into him. And how would I make certain you were Johnny Johnson, except by seeingif you could break the Karmer nerve grip? If you could break it, thenthere was no doubt who you were! Her words went on and on. Who are you? His words were blasts of sound. Please, darling, you are making a scene. I am sure this is the lastthing you really want to do. He looked quickly around them. The Venusians and humans moving intothis room seemed to be paying no attention to him. His gaze came backto her. Again she patted his arm. Relax, darling. Your secrets are safe withme. A gray color came up inside his soul. But—but— His voice wassuddenly weak. The fingers on his arm were very gentle. No harm will come to you. AmI not with you? That's what I'm afraid of! he snapped at her. If he had had achoice, he might have drawn back. But with circumstances as theywere—his life, Caldwell's life, possibly Vee Vee's life hung in thebalance. Didn't she know that this was true? And as for Martin—ButCaldwell had said that she had been asking about Martin. Whatconnection did she have with that frantic human genius he sought here? Johnson felt his skin crawl. He moved toward a nest of cushions ona ramp, found a Venusian was beating him to them, deftly changed toanother nest, found it. Vee Vee flowed to the floor on his right, movedcushions to make him more comfortable. She moved in an easy sort of waythat was all flowing movement. He sat down. Someone bumped him on theleft. Sorry, bud. Didn't mean to bump into you. Caldwell's voice was stillthick and heavy. He sprawled to the floor on Johnson's left. Underthe man's coat, Johnson caught a glimpse of a slight bulge, the zitgun hidden there. His left arm pressed against his own coat, feelinghis own zit gun. Operating under gas pressure, throwing a charge ofgas-driven corvel, the zit guns were not only almost noiseless inoperation but they knocked out a human or a Venusian in a matter ofseconds. True, the person they knocked unconscious would be all right the nextday. For this reason, many people did not regard the zit guns aseffective weapons, but Johnson had a fondness for them. The feel of thelittle weapon inside his coat sent a surge of comfort through him. The music picked up a beat, perfume seemed to flow even more freelythrough the air, the lights dimmed almost to darkness, a single brightspotlight appeared in the ceiling, casting a circle of brilliantillumination on the mat and the headrest at the bottom of the room. Thecurtain rose. <doc-sep>Unger stood in the middle of the spot of light. Johnson felt his chest muscles contract, then relax. Vee Vee's fingerssought his arm, not to harm him but running to him for protection. Hecaught the flutter of her breathing. On his left, Caldwell stiffenedand became a rock. Johnson had not seen Unger appear. One second the circle of lighthad been empty, the next second the Venusian, smiling with all theimpassivity of a bland Buddha, was in the light. He weighed threehundred pounds if he weighed an ounce, he was clad in a long robethat would impede movement. He had appeared in the bright beam of thespotlight as if by magic. Vee Vee's fingers dug deeper into Johnson's arm. How— Shhh. Nobody knows. No human knew the answer to that trick. Unless perhaps Martin— Unger bowed. A little ripple of something that was not quite soundpassed through the audience. Unger bowed again. He stretched himselfflat on the mat, adjusted the rest to support his head, and apparentlywent to sleep. Johnson saw the Dreamer's eyes close, watched the chesttake on the even, regular rhythm of sleep. The music changed, a slow dreamy tempo crept into it. Vee Vee's fingersdug at Johnson's arm as if they were trying to dig under his hide forprotection. She was shivering. He reached for her hand, patted it. Shedrew closer to him. A few minutes earlier, she had been a very certain young woman, ableto take care of herself, and handle anyone around her. Now she wassuddenly uncertain, suddenly scared. In the Room of the Dreaming, shehad suddenly become a frightened child looking for protection. Haven't you ever seen this before? he whispered. N—o. She shivered again. Oh, Johnny.... Under the circle of light pouring down from the ceiling, the Dreamerlay motionless. Johnson found himself with the tendency to hold hisbreath. He was waiting, waiting, waiting—for what? The whole situationwas senseless, silly, but under its apparent lack of coherence, hesensed a pattern. Perhaps the path to the far-off stars passed thisway, through such scented and musical and impossible places as theseRooms of the Dreamers. Certainly Martin thought so. And Johnson himselfwas not prepared to disagree. Around him, he saw that the Venusians were already going ... going ...going.... Some of them were already gone. This was an old experienceto them. They went rapidly. Humans went more slowly. The Venusian watchers had relaxed. They looked as if they were asleep,perhaps in a hypnotic trance, lulled into this state by the musicand the perfume, and by something else. It was this something elsethat sent Johnson's thoughts pounding. The Venusians were like opiumsmokers. But he was not smoking opium. He was not in a hypnotic trance.He was wide awake and very much alert. He was ... watching a space ship float in an endless void . As Unger had come into the spotlight, so the space ship had come intohis vision, out of nowhere, out of nothingness. The room, the Dreamer,the sound of the music, the sweetness of the perfume, Vee Vee andCaldwell were gone. They were no longer in his reality. They were notin the range of his vision. It was as if they did not exist. Yet heknew they did exist, the memory of them, and of other things, was outon the periphery of his universe, perhaps of the universe. All he saw was the space ship. It was a wonderful thing, perhaps the most beautiful sight he had seenin his life. At the sight of it, a deep glow sprang inside of him. Back when he had been a kid he had dreamed of flight to the far-offstars. He had made models of space ships. In a way, they had shaped hisdestiny, had made him what he was. They had brought him where he wasthis night, to the Dream Room of a Venusian tavern. The vision of the space ship floating in the void entranced andthrilled him. Something told him that this was real; that here and nowhe was making contact with a vision that belonged to time. He started to his feet. Fingers gripped his arm. Please, darling. You startled me. Don't move. Vee Vee's voice. Whowas Vee Vee? The fingers dug into his arm. Pain came up in him. The space shipvanished. He looked with startled eyes at Vee Vee, at the Dream Room,at Unger, dreaming on the mat under the spot. You ... you startled me, Vee Vee whispered. She released the grip onhis arm. But, didn't you see it? See what? The space ship! No. No. She seemed startled and a little terrified and half asleep.I ... I was watching something else. When you moved I broke contactwith my dream. Your dream? He asked a question but she did not answer it. Sit down, darling,and look at your damned space ship. Her voice was a taut whisper ofsound in the darkened room. Johnson settled down. A glance to his lefttold him that Caldwell was still sitting like a chunk of stone.... TheVenusians were quiet. The music had shifted. A slow languorous beatof hidden drums filled the room. There was another sound present, ahigh-speed whirring. It was, somehow, a familiar sound, but Johnson hadnot heard it before in this place. He thought about the space ship he had seen. The vision would not come. He shook his head and tried again. Beside him, Vee Vee was silent, her face ecstatic, like the face of awoman in love. He tried again for the space ship. It would not come. Anger came up instead. Somehow he had the impression that the whirring sound which keptintruding into his consciousness was stopping the vision. So far as he could tell, he was the only one present who was notdreaming, who was not in a state of trance. His gaze went to Unger, the Dreamer.... Cold flowed over him. Unger was slowly rising from the mat. The bland face and the body in the robe were slowly floating upward! III An invisible force seemed to twitch at Johnson's skin, nipping it hereand there with a multitude of tiny pinches, like invisible fleas bitinghim. This is it! a voice whispered in his mind. This is what you came toVenus to see. This ... this.... The first voice went into silence.Another voice took its place. This is another damned vision! the second voice said. This ...this is something that is not real, that is not possible! No VenusianDreamer, and no one else, can levitate, can defy the laws of gravity,can float upward toward the ceiling. Your damned eyes are tricking you! We are not tricking you! the eyes hotly insisted. It is happening.We are seeing it. We are reporting accurately to you. That VenusianBuddha is levitating. We, your eyes, do not lie to you! You lied about the space ship! the second voice said. We did not lie about the space ship! the eyes insisted. When ourmaster saw that ship we were out of focus, we were not reporting. Someother sense, some other organ, may have lied, but we did not. I— Johnson whispered. I am your skin, another voice whispered. I am covered with sweat. We are your adrenals. We are pouring forth adrenalin. I am your pancreas. I am gearing you for action. I am your thyroid. I.... A multitude of tiny voices seemed to whisper through him. It was as ifthe parts of his body had suddenly found voices and were reporting tohim what they were doing. These were voices out of his training dayswhen he had learned the names of these functions and how to use them. Be quiet! he said roughly. The little voices seemed to blend into a single chorus. Action,Master! Do something. Quiet! Johnson ordered. But hurry. We are excited. There is a time to be excited and a time to hurry. In this situation,if action is taken before the time for it—if that time ever comes—wecan all die. Die? the chorus quavered. Yes, Johnson said. Now be quiet. When the time goes we will all gotogether. The chorus went into muted silence. But just under the threshold thelittle voices were a multitude of tiny fretful pressures. I hear a whirring sound, his ears reported. Please! Johnson said. In the front of the room Unger floated ten feet above the floor. Master, we are not lying! his eyes repeated. I sweat.... his skin began. Watch Unger! Johnson said. The Dreamer floated. If wires suspended him, Johnson could not seethem. If any known force lifted him, Johnson could not detect thatforce. All he could say for certain was that Unger floated. Yaaah! The silence of a room was broken by the enraged scream of aVenusian being jarred out of his dream. Damn it! A human voice said. A wave as sharp as the tip of a sword swept through the room. Unger fell. He was ten feet high when he started to fall. With a bone-breaking,body-jarring thud, the Dreamer fell. Hard. There was a split second of startled silence in the Dreaming Room. Thesilence went. Voices came. Who did that? What happened? That human hidden there did it! He broke the Dreaming! Anger markedthe voices. Although the language was Venusian, Johnson got most of themeaning. His hand dived under his coat for the gun holstered there. Athis left, Caldwell was muttering thickly. What—what happened? I wasback in the lab on Earth— Caldwell's voice held a plaintive note, asif some pleasant dream had been interrupted. On Johnson's right, Vee Vee seemed to flow to life. Her arms came uparound his neck. He was instantly prepared for anything. Her lips camehungrily against his lips, pressed very hard, then gently drew away. What— he gasped. I had to do it now, darling, she answered. There may not be a later. Johnson had no time to ask her what she meant. Somewhere in the backof the room a human screamed. He jerked around. Back there a knot ofVenusians were attacking a man. It's Martin! Caldwell shouted. He is here! In Johnson's hand as he came to his feet the zit gun throbbed. He firedblindly at the mass of Venusians. Caldwell was firing too. The softthrob of the guns was not audible above the uproar from the crowd.Struck by the gas-driven corvel charges, Venusians were falling. Butthere seemed to be an endless number of them. Vee Vee? Johnson suddenly realized that she had disappeared. She hadslid out of his sight. Vee Vee! Johnson's voice became a shout. To hell with the woman! Caldwell grunted. Martin's the importantone. Zit, zit, zit, Caldwell moved toward the rear, shooting as he went.Johnson followed. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting(s) of the story.

The story takes place on Venus at an unspecified point in the future. At the very beginning, the setting is outside on a rainy evening. On Venus, the rain falls in all directions, possibly including straight up. Johnson says that everything on Venus feels like it’s coming at him from all directions. He soon enters the club, a perfumed room with loud Venusian music, a bar that Johnson makes his way to, and “feeling states” that hit Johnson immediately; specifically feelings of love and sex designed to entice humans and Venusians. When they enter the Room of the Dreamer, the perfume becomes stronger and the music louder, playing harmonies that seem new to the ear. The room is massive and only semi-illuminated, with many tiered, carpet and pillow-lined ramps circling up from an empty space with only a mat and headrest. It feels pleasantly cool but also slightly damp, and guests are greeted by a strange, tangible energy.

Describe what the story tells us about the culture on Venus. [SEP] <s> The CONJURER of VENUS By CONAN T. TROY A world-famed Earth scientist had disappeared on Venus. When Johnson found him, he found too the secret to that globe-shaking mystery—the fabulous Room of The Dreaming. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city dripped with rain. Crossing the street toward the dive,Johnson got rain in his eyes, his nose, and his ears. That was the waywith the rain here. It came at you from all directions. There had beenoccasions when Johnson had thought the rain was falling straight up.Otherwise, how had the insides of his pants gotten wet? On Venus, everything came at you from all directions, it seemed toJohnson. Opening the door of the joint, it was noise instead of rainthat came at him, the wild frantic beat of a Venusian rhumba, thenotes pounding and jumping through the smoke and perfume clouded room.Feeling states came at him, intangible, but to his trained senses,perceptible emotional nuances of hate, love, fear, and rage. But mostlylove. Since this place had been designed to excite the senses of bothhumans and Venusians, the love feelings were heavily tinged withstraight sex. He sniffed at them, feeling them somewhere inside of him,aware of them but aware also that here was apprehension, and plain fear. Caldwell, sitting in a booth next to the door, glanced up as Johnsonentered but neither Caldwell's facial expression or his eyes revealedthat he had ever seen this human before. Nor did Johnson seem torecognize Caldwell. Is the mighty human wanting liquor, a woman or dreams? His voicewas all soft syllables of liquid sound. The Venusian equivalent of aheadwaiter was bowing to him. I'll have a tarmur to start, Johnson said. How are the dreamstonight? Ze vill be the most wonserful of all sonight. The great Unger hisselfwill be here to do ze dreaming. There is no ozzer one who has quitehis touch at dreaming, mighty one. The headwaiter spread his handsin a gesture indicating ecstasy. It is my great regret that I must doze work tonight instead of being wiz ze dreamers. Ah, ze great Ungerhisself! The headwaiter kissed the tips of his fingers. Um, Johnson said. The great Unger! His voice expressed surprise,just the right amount of it. I'll have a tarmur to start but when doesthe dreaming commence? In one zonar or maybe less. Shall I make ze reservations for ze mightyone? As he was speaking, the headwaiter was deftly conducting Johnsonto the bar. Not just yet, Johnson said. See me a little later. But certainly. The headwaiter was gone into the throng. Johnson wasat the bar. Behind it, a Venusian was bowing to him. Tarmur, Johnsonsaid. The green drink was set before him. He held it up to the light,admiring the slow rise of the tiny golden bubbles in it. To him,watching the bubbles rise was perhaps more important than drinkingitself. Beautiful, aren't they? a soft voice said. He glanced to his right.A girl had slid into the stool beside him. She wore a green dress cutvery low at the throat. Her skin had the pleasant tan recently onEarth. Her hair was a shade of abundant brown and her eyes were blue,the color of the skies of Earth. A necklace circled her throat andbelow the necklace ... Johnson felt his pulse quicken, for two reasons.Women such as this one had been quickening the pulse of men since thedays of Adam. The second reason concerned her presence here in thisplace where no woman in her right mind ever came unescorted. Her eyessmiled up at him unafraid. Didn't she know there were men present herein this space port city who would snatch her bodily from the barstool and carry her away for sleeping purposes? And Venusians werehere who would cut her pretty throat for the sake of the necklace thatcircled it? They are beautiful, he said, smiling. Thank you. I was referring to the bubbles. You were talking about my eyes, she answered, unperturbed. How did you know? I mean.... I am very knowing, the girl said, smiling. Are you sufficiently knowing to be here? For an instant, as if doubt crossed her mind, the smile flickered. Thenit came again, stronger. Aren't you here? Johnson choked as bubbles from the tarmur seemed to go suddenly up hisnose. My dear child ... he sputtered. I am not a child, she answered with a firm sureness that left nodoubt in his mind that she knew what she was saying. And my name isVee Vee. Vee Vee? Um. That is.... Don't you think it's a nice name? I certainly do. Probably the rest of it is even nicer. There is no more of it. Just Vee Vee. Like Topsy, I just grew. <doc-sep>What the devil are you doing here on Venus and here in this place? Growing. The blue eyes were unafraid. Sombrely, Johnson regarded her. What was she doing here? Was she inthe employ of the Venusians? If she was being planted on him, thenhis purpose here was suspected. He shrugged the thought aside. If hispurpose here was suspected, there would be no point in planting a womanon him. There would only be the minor matter of slipping a knife into his back. In this city, as on all of Venus, humans died easily. No one questionedthe motives of the killer. You look as if you were considering some very grave matter, Vee Veesaid. Not any longer, he laughed. You have decided them? Yes. Every last one of them? Oh, there might be one or two matters undecided somewhere, say out onthe periphery of the galaxy. But we will solve them when we get tothem. He waved vaguely toward the roof and the sky of space hiddenbehind the clouds that lay over the roof, glanced around as a man easedhimself into an empty stool on his left. The man was Caldwell. Zlock! Caldwell said, to the bartender. Make it snappy. Gotta havezlock. Finest damn drink in the solar system. Caldwell's voice wasthick, his tongue heavy. Johnson's eyes went back to the girl but outof the corner of them he watched Caldwell's hand lying on the bar. Thefingers were beating a quick nervous tattoo on the yellow wood. I haven't seen him, Caldwell's fingers beat out their tattoo. But Ithink he is, or was, here. Um, Johnson said, his eyes on Vee Vee. How— Because that girl was asking for him, Caldwell's fingers answered.Watch that girl! Picking up the zlock, he lurched away from the bar. Your friend is not as drunk as he seems, Vee Vee said, watchingCaldwell. My friend? Do you mean that drunk? I never saw him— Lying is one of the deadly sins. Her eyes twinkled at him. Under themerriment that danced in them there was ice. Johnson felt cold. The reservations for ze dreaming, great one? The headwaiter wasbowing and scraping in front of him. The great one has decided, yes? The dreaming! Vee Vee looked suddenly alert. Of course. We must seethe dreaming. Everyone wants to see the dreaming. We will go, won't wedarling? She hooked her hand into Johnson's elbow. Certainly, Johnson said. The decision was made on the spur of themoment. That there was danger in it, he did not doubt. But there mightbe something else. And he might be there. Oh. But very good. Ze great Unger, you will love him! The headwaiterclutched the gold coins that Johnson extended, bowed himself out ofsight. Say, I want to know more— Johnson began. His words were drowned ina blast of trumpets. The band that had been playing went into suddensilence. Waves of perfume began to flow into the place. The perfumeswere blended, but one aroma was prominent among them, the sweet,cloying, soul-stirring perfume of the Dreamer. In the suddenly hushed place little sounds began to appear as Venusiansand humans began to shift their feet and their bodies in anticipationof what was to happen. The trumpets flared again. On one side of the place, a big door began to swing slowly open. Frombeyond that slowly opening door came music, soft, muted strains thatsounded like lutes from heaven. Vee Vee, her hand on Johnson's elbow, rose. Johnson stood up withher. He got the surprise of his life as her fingers clenched, digginginto his muscles. Pain shot through his arm, paralyzing it and almostparalyzing him. He knew instantly that she was using the Karmer nerveblock paralysis on him. His left hand moved with lightning speed, thetips of his fingers striking savagely against her shoulder. She gasped, her face whitened as pain shot through her in response tothe thrust of his finger tips. Her hand that had been digging into hiselbow lost its grip, dropped away and hung limp at her side. Grabbingit, she began to massage it. You—you— Hot anger and shock were in her voice. You're the firstman I ever knew who could break the Karmer nerve paralysis. And you're the first woman who ever tried it on me. But— Shall we go watch the dreaming? He took the arm that still hung limpat her side and tucked it into his elbow. If you try to use the Karmer grip on me again I'll break your arm, hesaid. His voice was low but there was a wealth of meaning in it. I won't do it again, the girl said stoutly. I never make the samemistake twice. Good, Johnson said. The second time we break our victim's neck, Vee Vee said. What a sweet, charming child you— I told you before, I'm not a child. Child vampire, Johnson said. Let me finish my sentences before youinterrupt. She was silent. A smile, struggling to appear on her face, seemed tosay she held no malice. Her fingers tightened on Johnson's arm. Hetensed, expecting the nerve block grip again. Instead with the tips ofher fingers she gently patted his arm. There, there, darling, relax, she said. I know a better way to getyou than by using the Karmer grip. What way? Her eyes sparkled. Eve's way, she answered. Um! Surprise sounded in his grunt. But apples don't grow on Venus. Eve's daughters don't use apples any more, darling. Come along. Moving toward the open door that led to the Room of the Dreaming,Johnson saw that Caldwell had risen and was following them. Caldwell'sface was writhing in apprehensive agony and he was making warningsigns. Johnson ignored them. With Vee Vee's fingers lightly patting hisarm, they moved into the Room of the Dreaming. II It was a huge, semi-illumined room, with tier on tier of circling rampsrising up from an open space at the bottom. There ought to have beena stage there at the bottom, but there wasn't. Instead there was anopen space, a mat, and a head rest. Up at the top of the circling rampsthe room was in darkness, a fit hiding place for ghosts or Venusianwerewolves. Pillows and a thick rug covered the circling ramps. The soul-quickening Perfume of the Dreamer was stronger here. Thethrobbing of the lutes was louder. It was Venusian music the lutes wereplaying. Human ears found it inharmonious at first, but as they becameaccustomed to it, they began to detect rhythms and melodies that humanminds had not known existed. The room was pleasantly cool but it hadthe feel of dampness. A world that was rarely without pelting rainwould have the feel of dampness in its dreaming rooms. The music playing strange harmonies in his ears, the perfume sendingtingling feelings through his nose, Johnson entered the Room of theDreamer. He suspected that other forces, unknown to him, were catchinghold of his senses. He had been in dreaming rooms many times before buthe had not grown accustomed to them. He wondered if any human everdid. A touch of chill always came over him as he crossed the threshold.In entering these places, it was as if some unknown nerve centerinside the human organism was touched by something, some force, someradiation, some subtlety, that quite escaped radiation. He felt thecoldness now. Vee Vee's fingers left off patting his arm. Do you feel it, darling? Yes. What is it? How would I know? Please! Her voice grew sharp. I think Johnny Johnson ought to know. Johnny! How do you know my name? Shouldn't I recognize one of Earth's foremost scientists, even if heis incognito on Venus? Her voice had a teasing quality in it. But— And who besides Johnny Johnson would recognize the Karmer nerve gripand be able to break it instantly? Hell— John Michael Johnson, known as Johnny to his friends, Earth's foremostexpert in the field of electro-magnetic radiations within the humanbody! Her words were needles of icy fact, each one jabbing deeper anddeeper into him. And how would I make certain you were Johnny Johnson, except by seeingif you could break the Karmer nerve grip? If you could break it, thenthere was no doubt who you were! Her words went on and on. Who are you? His words were blasts of sound. Please, darling, you are making a scene. I am sure this is the lastthing you really want to do. He looked quickly around them. The Venusians and humans moving intothis room seemed to be paying no attention to him. His gaze came backto her. Again she patted his arm. Relax, darling. Your secrets are safe withme. A gray color came up inside his soul. But—but— His voice wassuddenly weak. The fingers on his arm were very gentle. No harm will come to you. AmI not with you? That's what I'm afraid of! he snapped at her. If he had had achoice, he might have drawn back. But with circumstances as theywere—his life, Caldwell's life, possibly Vee Vee's life hung in thebalance. Didn't she know that this was true? And as for Martin—ButCaldwell had said that she had been asking about Martin. Whatconnection did she have with that frantic human genius he sought here? Johnson felt his skin crawl. He moved toward a nest of cushions ona ramp, found a Venusian was beating him to them, deftly changed toanother nest, found it. Vee Vee flowed to the floor on his right, movedcushions to make him more comfortable. She moved in an easy sort of waythat was all flowing movement. He sat down. Someone bumped him on theleft. Sorry, bud. Didn't mean to bump into you. Caldwell's voice was stillthick and heavy. He sprawled to the floor on Johnson's left. Underthe man's coat, Johnson caught a glimpse of a slight bulge, the zitgun hidden there. His left arm pressed against his own coat, feelinghis own zit gun. Operating under gas pressure, throwing a charge ofgas-driven corvel, the zit guns were not only almost noiseless inoperation but they knocked out a human or a Venusian in a matter ofseconds. True, the person they knocked unconscious would be all right the nextday. For this reason, many people did not regard the zit guns aseffective weapons, but Johnson had a fondness for them. The feel of thelittle weapon inside his coat sent a surge of comfort through him. The music picked up a beat, perfume seemed to flow even more freelythrough the air, the lights dimmed almost to darkness, a single brightspotlight appeared in the ceiling, casting a circle of brilliantillumination on the mat and the headrest at the bottom of the room. Thecurtain rose. <doc-sep>Unger stood in the middle of the spot of light. Johnson felt his chest muscles contract, then relax. Vee Vee's fingerssought his arm, not to harm him but running to him for protection. Hecaught the flutter of her breathing. On his left, Caldwell stiffenedand became a rock. Johnson had not seen Unger appear. One second the circle of lighthad been empty, the next second the Venusian, smiling with all theimpassivity of a bland Buddha, was in the light. He weighed threehundred pounds if he weighed an ounce, he was clad in a long robethat would impede movement. He had appeared in the bright beam of thespotlight as if by magic. Vee Vee's fingers dug deeper into Johnson's arm. How— Shhh. Nobody knows. No human knew the answer to that trick. Unless perhaps Martin— Unger bowed. A little ripple of something that was not quite soundpassed through the audience. Unger bowed again. He stretched himselfflat on the mat, adjusted the rest to support his head, and apparentlywent to sleep. Johnson saw the Dreamer's eyes close, watched the chesttake on the even, regular rhythm of sleep. The music changed, a slow dreamy tempo crept into it. Vee Vee's fingersdug at Johnson's arm as if they were trying to dig under his hide forprotection. She was shivering. He reached for her hand, patted it. Shedrew closer to him. A few minutes earlier, she had been a very certain young woman, ableto take care of herself, and handle anyone around her. Now she wassuddenly uncertain, suddenly scared. In the Room of the Dreaming, shehad suddenly become a frightened child looking for protection. Haven't you ever seen this before? he whispered. N—o. She shivered again. Oh, Johnny.... Under the circle of light pouring down from the ceiling, the Dreamerlay motionless. Johnson found himself with the tendency to hold hisbreath. He was waiting, waiting, waiting—for what? The whole situationwas senseless, silly, but under its apparent lack of coherence, hesensed a pattern. Perhaps the path to the far-off stars passed thisway, through such scented and musical and impossible places as theseRooms of the Dreamers. Certainly Martin thought so. And Johnson himselfwas not prepared to disagree. Around him, he saw that the Venusians were already going ... going ...going.... Some of them were already gone. This was an old experienceto them. They went rapidly. Humans went more slowly. The Venusian watchers had relaxed. They looked as if they were asleep,perhaps in a hypnotic trance, lulled into this state by the musicand the perfume, and by something else. It was this something elsethat sent Johnson's thoughts pounding. The Venusians were like opiumsmokers. But he was not smoking opium. He was not in a hypnotic trance.He was wide awake and very much alert. He was ... watching a space ship float in an endless void . As Unger had come into the spotlight, so the space ship had come intohis vision, out of nowhere, out of nothingness. The room, the Dreamer,the sound of the music, the sweetness of the perfume, Vee Vee andCaldwell were gone. They were no longer in his reality. They were notin the range of his vision. It was as if they did not exist. Yet heknew they did exist, the memory of them, and of other things, was outon the periphery of his universe, perhaps of the universe. All he saw was the space ship. It was a wonderful thing, perhaps the most beautiful sight he had seenin his life. At the sight of it, a deep glow sprang inside of him. Back when he had been a kid he had dreamed of flight to the far-offstars. He had made models of space ships. In a way, they had shaped hisdestiny, had made him what he was. They had brought him where he wasthis night, to the Dream Room of a Venusian tavern. The vision of the space ship floating in the void entranced andthrilled him. Something told him that this was real; that here and nowhe was making contact with a vision that belonged to time. He started to his feet. Fingers gripped his arm. Please, darling. You startled me. Don't move. Vee Vee's voice. Whowas Vee Vee? The fingers dug into his arm. Pain came up in him. The space shipvanished. He looked with startled eyes at Vee Vee, at the Dream Room,at Unger, dreaming on the mat under the spot. You ... you startled me, Vee Vee whispered. She released the grip onhis arm. But, didn't you see it? See what? The space ship! No. No. She seemed startled and a little terrified and half asleep.I ... I was watching something else. When you moved I broke contactwith my dream. Your dream? He asked a question but she did not answer it. Sit down, darling,and look at your damned space ship. Her voice was a taut whisper ofsound in the darkened room. Johnson settled down. A glance to his lefttold him that Caldwell was still sitting like a chunk of stone.... TheVenusians were quiet. The music had shifted. A slow languorous beatof hidden drums filled the room. There was another sound present, ahigh-speed whirring. It was, somehow, a familiar sound, but Johnson hadnot heard it before in this place. He thought about the space ship he had seen. The vision would not come. He shook his head and tried again. Beside him, Vee Vee was silent, her face ecstatic, like the face of awoman in love. He tried again for the space ship. It would not come. Anger came up instead. Somehow he had the impression that the whirring sound which keptintruding into his consciousness was stopping the vision. So far as he could tell, he was the only one present who was notdreaming, who was not in a state of trance. His gaze went to Unger, the Dreamer.... Cold flowed over him. Unger was slowly rising from the mat. The bland face and the body in the robe were slowly floating upward! III An invisible force seemed to twitch at Johnson's skin, nipping it hereand there with a multitude of tiny pinches, like invisible fleas bitinghim. This is it! a voice whispered in his mind. This is what you came toVenus to see. This ... this.... The first voice went into silence.Another voice took its place. This is another damned vision! the second voice said. This ...this is something that is not real, that is not possible! No VenusianDreamer, and no one else, can levitate, can defy the laws of gravity,can float upward toward the ceiling. Your damned eyes are tricking you! We are not tricking you! the eyes hotly insisted. It is happening.We are seeing it. We are reporting accurately to you. That VenusianBuddha is levitating. We, your eyes, do not lie to you! You lied about the space ship! the second voice said. We did not lie about the space ship! the eyes insisted. When ourmaster saw that ship we were out of focus, we were not reporting. Someother sense, some other organ, may have lied, but we did not. I— Johnson whispered. I am your skin, another voice whispered. I am covered with sweat. We are your adrenals. We are pouring forth adrenalin. I am your pancreas. I am gearing you for action. I am your thyroid. I.... A multitude of tiny voices seemed to whisper through him. It was as ifthe parts of his body had suddenly found voices and were reporting tohim what they were doing. These were voices out of his training dayswhen he had learned the names of these functions and how to use them. Be quiet! he said roughly. The little voices seemed to blend into a single chorus. Action,Master! Do something. Quiet! Johnson ordered. But hurry. We are excited. There is a time to be excited and a time to hurry. In this situation,if action is taken before the time for it—if that time ever comes—wecan all die. Die? the chorus quavered. Yes, Johnson said. Now be quiet. When the time goes we will all gotogether. The chorus went into muted silence. But just under the threshold thelittle voices were a multitude of tiny fretful pressures. I hear a whirring sound, his ears reported. Please! Johnson said. In the front of the room Unger floated ten feet above the floor. Master, we are not lying! his eyes repeated. I sweat.... his skin began. Watch Unger! Johnson said. The Dreamer floated. If wires suspended him, Johnson could not seethem. If any known force lifted him, Johnson could not detect thatforce. All he could say for certain was that Unger floated. Yaaah! The silence of a room was broken by the enraged scream of aVenusian being jarred out of his dream. Damn it! A human voice said. A wave as sharp as the tip of a sword swept through the room. Unger fell. He was ten feet high when he started to fall. With a bone-breaking,body-jarring thud, the Dreamer fell. Hard. There was a split second of startled silence in the Dreaming Room. Thesilence went. Voices came. Who did that? What happened? That human hidden there did it! He broke the Dreaming! Anger markedthe voices. Although the language was Venusian, Johnson got most of themeaning. His hand dived under his coat for the gun holstered there. Athis left, Caldwell was muttering thickly. What—what happened? I wasback in the lab on Earth— Caldwell's voice held a plaintive note, asif some pleasant dream had been interrupted. On Johnson's right, Vee Vee seemed to flow to life. Her arms came uparound his neck. He was instantly prepared for anything. Her lips camehungrily against his lips, pressed very hard, then gently drew away. What— he gasped. I had to do it now, darling, she answered. There may not be a later. Johnson had no time to ask her what she meant. Somewhere in the backof the room a human screamed. He jerked around. Back there a knot ofVenusians were attacking a man. It's Martin! Caldwell shouted. He is here! In Johnson's hand as he came to his feet the zit gun throbbed. He firedblindly at the mass of Venusians. Caldwell was firing too. The softthrob of the guns was not audible above the uproar from the crowd.Struck by the gas-driven corvel charges, Venusians were falling. Butthere seemed to be an endless number of them. Vee Vee? Johnson suddenly realized that she had disappeared. She hadslid out of his sight. Vee Vee! Johnson's voice became a shout. To hell with the woman! Caldwell grunted. Martin's the importantone. Zit, zit, zit, Caldwell moved toward the rear, shooting as he went.Johnson followed. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe what the story tells us about the culture on Venus.

The culture on Venus is complex and futuristic, and seems to cater to both Venusians and humans. Women don’t appear to have a particularly high status. A bar like the one the story takes place in is apparently not safe for unaccompanied women, based on Johnson’s initial reaction to her being there alone; he worries that Earth men might abduct her for sex and that Venusians might kill her to steal her jewelry. When Johnson enters, the head waiter asks if he wants liquor, women, or dreams, implying that sex work or some other transactional use of “women” is at play there. Through its use of “feeling states”, the Venusian nightlife appears to have commodified the emotions that people already possess in an attempt to entice, confuse, and manipulate. The popularity of “dreaming” further shows an emphasis on escape and illusion in this culture. The drinks served also seem as much a visual experience as a drinking experience: the bar seems to want to stimulate all senses.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Venus Is a Man's World BY WILLIAM TENN Illustrated by GENE FAWCETTE [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.] Actually, there wouldn't be too much difference if women took over the Earth altogether. But not for some men and most boys! I've always said that even if Sis is seven years older than me—and agirl besides—she don't always know what's best. Put me on a spaceshipjam-packed with three hundred females just aching to get themselveshusbands in the one place they're still to be had—the planetVenus—and you know I'll be in trouble. Bad trouble. With the law, which is the worst a boy can get into. Twenty minutes after we lifted from the Sahara Spaceport, I wriggledout of my acceleration hammock and started for the door of our cabin. Now you be careful, Ferdinand, Sis called after me as she opened abook called Family Problems of the Frontier Woman . Remember you'rea nice boy. Don't make me ashamed of you. I tore down the corridor. Most of the cabins had purple lights on infront of the doors, showing that the girls were still inside theirhammocks. That meant only the ship's crew was up and about. Ship'screws are men; women are too busy with important things like governmentto run ships. I felt free all over—and happy. Now was my chance toreally see the Eleanor Roosevelt ! <doc-sep>It was hard to believe I was traveling in space at last. Ahead andbehind me, all the way up to where the companionway curved in outof sight, there was nothing but smooth black wall and smooth whitedoors—on and on and on. Gee , I thought excitedly, this is one bigship ! Of course, every once in a while I would run across a big scene ofstars in the void set in the wall; but they were only pictures. Nothingthat gave the feel of great empty space like I'd read about in The BoyRocketeers , no portholes, no visiplates, nothing. So when I came to the crossway, I stopped for a second, then turnedleft. To the right, see, there was Deck Four, then Deck Three, leadinginward past the engine fo'c'sle to the main jets and the grav helixgoing purr-purr-purrty-purr in the comforting way big machinery haswhen it's happy and oiled. But to the left, the crossway led all theway to the outside level which ran just under the hull. There wereportholes on the hull. I'd studied all that out in our cabin, long before we'd lifted, onthe transparent model of the ship hanging like a big cigar from theceiling. Sis had studied it too, but she was looking for places likethe dining salon and the library and Lifeboat 68 where we should go incase of emergency. I looked for the important things. As I trotted along the crossway, I sort of wished that Sis hadn'tdecided to go after a husband on a luxury liner. On a cargo ship, now,I'd be climbing from deck to deck on a ladder instead of having gravityunderfoot all the time just like I was home on the bottom of the Gulfof Mexico. But women always know what's right, and a boy can only makefaces and do what they say, same as the men have to do. Still, it was pretty exciting to press my nose against the slots in thewall and see the sliding panels that could come charging out and blockthe crossway into an airtight fit in case a meteor or something smashedinto the ship. And all along there were glass cases with spacesuitsstanding in them, like those knights they used to have back in theMiddle Ages. In the event of disaster affecting the oxygen content ofcompanionway, they had the words etched into the glass, break glasswith hammer upon wall, remove spacesuit and proceed to don it in thefollowing fashion. I read the following fashion until I knew it by heart. Boy , I saidto myself, I hope we have that kind of disaster. I'd sure like to getinto one of those! Bet it would be more fun than those diving suitsback in Undersea! And all the time I was alone. That was the best part. <doc-sep>Then I passed Deck Twelve and there was a big sign. Notice! Passengersnot permitted past this point! A big sign in red. I peeked around the corner. I knew it—the next deck was the hull. Icould see the portholes. Every twelve feet, they were, filled with thevelvet of space and the dancing of more stars than I'd ever dreamedexisted in the Universe. There wasn't anyone on the deck, as far as I could see. And thisdistance from the grav helix, the ship seemed mighty quiet and lonely.If I just took one quick look.... But I thought of what Sis would say and I turned around obediently.Then I saw the big red sign again. Passengers not permitted— Well! Didn't I know from my civics class that only women could be EarthCitizens these days? Sure, ever since the Male Desuffrage Act. Anddidn't I know that you had to be a citizen of a planet in order toget an interplanetary passport? Sis had explained it all to me in thecareful, patient way she always talks politics and things like that tomen. Technically, Ferdinand, I'm the only passenger in our family. Youcan't be one, because, not being a citizen, you can't acquire an EarthPassport. However, you'll be going to Venus on the strength of thisclause—'Miss Evelyn Sparling and all dependent male members of family,this number not to exceed the registered quota of sub-regulationspertaining'—and so on. I want you to understand these matters, so thatyou will grow into a man who takes an active interest in world affairs.No matter what you hear, women really like and appreciate such men. Of course, I never pay much attention to Sis when she says such dumbthings. I'm old enough, I guess, to know that it isn't what Women like and appreciate that counts when it comes to people gettingmarried. If it were, Sis and three hundred other pretty girls like herwouldn't be on their way to Venus to hook husbands. Still, if I wasn't a passenger, the sign didn't have anything to dowith me. I knew what Sis could say to that , but at least it was anargument I could use if it ever came up. So I broke the law. I was glad I did. The stars were exciting enough, but away off tothe left, about five times as big as I'd ever seen it, except in themovies, was the Moon, a great blob of gray and white pockmarks holdingoff the black of space. I was hoping to see the Earth, but I figured itmust be on the other side of the ship or behind us. I pressed my noseagainst the port and saw the tiny flicker of a spaceliner taking off,Marsbound. I wished I was on that one! Then I noticed, a little farther down the companionway, a stretch ofblank wall where there should have been portholes. High up on thewall in glowing red letters were the words, Lifeboat 47. Passengers:Thirty-two. Crew: Eleven. Unauthorized personnel keep away! Another one of those signs. <doc-sep>I crept up to the porthole nearest it and could just barely make outthe stern jets where it was plastered against the hull. Then I walkedunder the sign and tried to figure the way you were supposed to getinto it. There was a very thin line going around in a big circle that Iknew must be the door. But I couldn't see any knobs or switches to openit with. Not even a button you could press. That meant it was a sonic lock like the kind we had on the outer keepsback home in Undersea. But knock or voice? I tried the two knockcombinations I knew, and nothing happened. I only remembered one voicekey—might as well see if that's it, I figured. Twenty, Twenty-three. Open Sesame. For a second, I thought I'd hit it just right out of all the millionpossible combinations—The door clicked inward toward a black hole, anda hairy hand as broad as my shoulders shot out of the hole. It closedaround my throat and plucked me inside as if I'd been a baby sardine. I bounced once on the hard lifeboat floor. Before I got my breath andsat up, the door had been shut again. When the light came on, I foundmyself staring up the muzzle of a highly polished blaster and into thecold blue eyes of the biggest man I'd ever seen. He was wearing a one-piece suit made of some scaly green stuff thatlooked hard and soft at the same time. His boots were made of it too, and so was the hood hanging down hisback. And his face was brown. Not just ordinary tan, you understand, but thedeep, dark, burned-all-the-way-in brown I'd seen on the lifeguardsin New Orleans whenever we took a surface vacation—the kind of tanthat comes from day after broiling day under a really hot Sun. Hishair looked as if it had once been blond, but now there were just longcombed-out waves with a yellowish tinge that boiled all the way downto his shoulders. I hadn't seen hair like that on a man except maybe in history books;every man I'd ever known had his hair cropped in the fashionablesoup-bowl style. I was staring at his hair, almost forgetting about theblaster which I knew it was against the law for him to have at all,when I suddenly got scared right through. His eyes. They didn't blink and there seemed to be no expression around them.Just coldness. Maybe it was the kind of clothes he was wearing that didit, but all of a sudden I was reminded of a crocodile I'd seen in asurface zoo that had stared quietly at me for twenty minutes until itopened two long tooth-studded jaws. Green shatas! he said suddenly. Only a tadpole. I must be gettingjumpy enough to splash. Then he shoved the blaster away in a holster made of the same scalyleather, crossed his arms on his chest and began to study me. I gruntedto my feet, feeling a lot better. The coldness had gone out of his eyes. I held out my hand the way Sis had taught me. My name is FerdinandSparling. I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr.—Mr.— Hope for your sake, he said to me, that you aren't what youseem—tadpole brother to one of them husbandless anura. What? A 'nuran is a female looking to nest. Anura is a herd of same. Comefrom Flatfolk ways. Flatfolk are the Venusian natives, aren't they? Are you a Venusian?What part of Venus do you come from? Why did you say you hope— He chuckled and swung me up into one of the bunks that lined thelifeboat. Questions you ask, he said in his soft voice. Venus is asharp enough place for a dryhorn, let alone a tadpole dryhorn with aboss-minded sister. I'm not a dryleg, I told him proudly. We're from Undersea. Dryhorn , I said, not dryleg. And what's Undersea? Well, in Undersea we called foreigners and newcomers drylegs. Justlike on Venus, I guess, you call them dryhorns. And then I told himhow Undersea had been built on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, whenthe mineral resources of the land began to give out and engineersfigured that a lot could still be reached from the sea bottoms. <doc-sep>He nodded. He'd heard about the sea-bottom mining cities that werebubbling under protective domes in every one of the Earth's oceans justabout the same time settlements were springing up on the planets. He looked impressed when I told him about Mom and Pop being one of thefirst couples to get married in Undersea. He looked thoughtful when Itold him how Sis and I had been born there and spent half our childhoodlistening to the pressure pumps. He raised his eyebrows and lookeddisgusted when I told how Mom, as Undersea representative on the WorldCouncil, had been one of the framers of the Male Desuffrage Act afterthe Third Atomic War had resulted in the Maternal Revolution. <doc-sep>He almost squeezed my arm when I got to the time Mom and Pop were blownup in a surfacing boat. Well, after the funeral, there was a little money, so Sis decided wemight as well use it to migrate. There was no future for her on Earth,she figured. You know, the three-out-of-four. How's that? The three-out-of-four. No more than three women out of every four onEarth can expect to find husbands. Not enough men to go around. Wayback in the Twentieth Century, it began to be felt, Sis says, what withthe wars and all. Then the wars went on and a lot more men began to dieor get no good from the radioactivity. Then the best men went to theplanets, Sis says, until by now even if a woman can scrounge a personalhusband, he's not much to boast about. The stranger nodded violently. Not on Earth, he isn't. Those busybodyanura make sure of that. What a place! Suffering gridniks, I had abellyful! He told me about it. Women were scarce on Venus, and he hadn't beenable to find any who were willing to come out to his lonely littleislands; he had decided to go to Earth where there was supposed to be asurplus. Naturally, having been born and brought up on a very primitiveplanet, he didn't know it's a woman's world, like the older boys inschool used to say. The moment he landed on Earth he was in trouble. He didn't know he hadto register at a government-operated hotel for transient males; hethrew a bartender through a thick plastic window for saying somethingnasty about the length of his hair; and imagine !—he not onlyresisted arrest, resulting in three hospitalized policemen, but hesassed the judge in open court! Told me a man wasn't supposed to say anything except through femaleattorneys. Told her that where I came from, a man spoke his piecewhen he'd a mind to, and his woman walked by his side. What happened? I asked breathlessly. Oh, Guilty of This and Contempt of That. That blown-up brinosaur tookmy last munit for fines, then explained that she was remitting therest because I was a foreigner and uneducated. His eyes grew dark fora moment. He chuckled again. But I wasn't going to serve all thosefancy little prison sentences. Forcible Citizenship Indoctrination,they call it? Shook the dead-dry dust of the misbegotten, God forsakenmother world from my feet forever. The women on it deserve their men.My pockets were folded from the fines, and the paddlefeet were lookingfor me so close I didn't dare radio for more munit. So I stowed away. <doc-sep>For a moment, I didn't understand him. When I did, I was almost ill.Y-you mean, I choked, th-that you're b-breaking the law right now?And I'm with you while you're doing it? He leaned over the edge of the bunk and stared at me very seriously.What breed of tadpole are they turning out these days? Besides, whatbusiness do you have this close to the hull? After a moment of sober reflection, I nodded. You're right. I've alsobecome a male outside the law. We're in this together. He guffawed. Then he sat up and began cleaning his blaster. I foundmyself drawn to the bright killer-tube with exactly the fascination Sisinsists such things have always had for men. Ferdinand your label? That's not right for a sprouting tadpole. I'llcall you Ford. My name's Butt. Butt Lee Brown. I liked the sound of Ford. Is Butt a nickname, too? Yeah. Short for Alberta, but I haven't found a man who can draw ablaster fast enough to call me that. You see, Pop came over in theeighties—the big wave of immigrants when they evacuated Ontario. Namedall us boys after Canadian provinces. I was the youngest, so I got thename they were saving for a girl. You had a lot of brothers, Mr. Butt? He grinned with a mighty set of teeth. Oh, a nestful. Of course, theywere all killed in the Blue Chicago Rising by the MacGregor boys—allexcept me and Saskatchewan. Then Sas and me hunted the MacGregors down.Took a heap of time; we didn't float Jock MacGregor's ugly face downthe Tuscany till both of us were pretty near grown up. I walked up close to where I could see the tiny bright copper coils ofthe blaster above the firing button. Have you killed a lot of men withthat, Mr. Butt? Butt. Just plain Butt to you, Ford. He frowned and sighted atthe light globe. No more'n twelve—not counting five governmentpaddlefeet, of course. I'm a peaceable planter. Way I figure it,violence never accomplishes much that's important. My brother Sas,now— <doc-sep>He had just begun to work into a wonderful anecdote about his brotherwhen the dinner gong rang. Butt told me to scat. He said I was agrowing tadpole and needed my vitamins. And he mentioned, veryoff-hand, that he wouldn't at all object if I brought him some freshfruit. It seemed there was nothing but processed foods in the lifeboatand Butt was used to a farmer's diet. Trouble was, he was a special kind of farmer. Ordinary fruit would havebeen pretty easy to sneak into my pockets at meals. I even found a wayto handle the kelp and giant watercress Mr. Brown liked, but thingslike seaweed salt and Venusian mud-grapes just had too strong a smell.Twice, the mechanical hamper refused to accept my jacket for launderingand I had to wash it myself. But I learned so many wonderful thingsabout Venus every time I visited that stowaway.... I learned three wild-wave songs of the Flatfolk and what it is that thenative Venusians hate so much; I learned how you tell the differencebetween a lousy government paddlefoot from New Kalamazoo and theslaptoe slinker who is the planter's friend. After a lot of begging,Butt Lee Brown explained the workings of his blaster, explained itso carefully that I could name every part and tell what it did fromthe tiny round electrodes to the long spirals of transformer. But nomatter what, he would never let me hold it. Sorry, Ford, old tad, he would drawl, spinning around and around inthe control swivel-chair at the nose of the lifeboat. But way I lookat it, a man who lets somebody else handle his blaster is like thegiant whose heart was in an egg that an enemy found. When you've grownenough so's your pop feels you ought to have a weapon, why, then's thetime to learn it and you might's well learn fast. Before then, you'replain too young to be even near it. I don't have a father to give me one when I come of age. I don't evenhave an older brother as head of my family like your brother Labrador.All I have is Sis. And she — She'll marry some fancy dryhorn who's never been farther South thanthe Polar Coast. And she'll stay head of the family, if I know herbreed of green shata. Bossy, opinionated. By the way, Fordie, hesaid, rising and stretching so the fish-leather bounced and rippled offhis biceps, that sister. She ever.... And he'd be off again, cross-examining me about Evelyn. I sat in theswivel chair he'd vacated and tried to answer his questions. But therewas a lot of stuff I didn't know. Evelyn was a healthy girl, forinstance; how healthy, exactly, I had no way of finding out. Yes, I'dtell him, my aunts on both sides of my family each had had more thanthe average number of children. No, we'd never done any farming tospeak of, back in Undersea, but—yes, I'd guess Evelyn knew about asmuch as any girl there when it came to diving equipment and pressurepump regulation. How would I know that stuff would lead to trouble for me? <doc-sep>Sis had insisted I come along to the geography lecture. Most of theother girls who were going to Venus for husbands talked to each otherduring the lecture, but not my sister! She hung on every word, tooknotes even, and asked enough questions to make the perspiring purserreally work in those orientation periods. I am very sorry, Miss Sparling, he said with pretty heavy sarcasm,but I cannot remember any of the agricultural products of the MacroContinent. Since the human population is well below one per thousandsquare miles, it can readily be understood that the quantity oftilled soil, land or sub-surface, is so small that—Wait, I remembersomething. The Macro Continent exports a fruit though not exactly anedible one. The wild dunging drug is harvested there by criminalspeculators. Contrary to belief on Earth, the traffic has been growingin recent years. In fact— Pardon me, sir, I broke in, but doesn't dunging come only fromLeif Erickson Island off the Moscow Peninsula of the Macro Continent?You remember, purser—Wang Li's third exploration, where he proved theisland and the peninsula didn't meet for most of the year? The purser nodded slowly. I forgot, he admitted. Sorry, ladies, butthe boy's right. Please make the correction in your notes. But Sis was the only one who took notes, and she didn't take that one.She stared at me for a moment, biting her lower lip thoughtfully, whileI got sicker and sicker. Then she shut her pad with the final gestureof the right hand that Mom used to use just before challenging theopposition to come right down on the Council floor and debate it outwith her. Ferdinand, Sis said, let's go back to our cabin. The moment she sat me down and walked slowly around me, I knew I wasin for it. I've been reading up on Venusian geography in the ship'slibrary, I told her in a hurry. No doubt, she said drily. She shook her night-black hair out. Butyou aren't going to tell me that you read about dunging in the ship'slibrary. The books there have been censored by a government agent ofEarth against the possibility that they might be read by susceptibleyoung male minds like yours. She would not have allowed—this TerranAgent— Paddlefoot, I sneered. Sis sat down hard in our zoom-air chair. Now that's a term, she saidcarefully, that is used only by Venusian riffraff. They're not! Not what? Riffraff, I had to answer, knowing I was getting in deeper all thetime and not being able to help it. I mustn't give Mr. Brown away!They're trappers and farmers, pioneers and explorers, who're buildingVenus. And it takes a real man to build on a hot, hungry hell likeVenus. Does it, now? she said, looking at me as if I were beginning to growa second pair of ears. Tell me more. You can't have meek, law-abiding, women-ruled men when you startcivilization on a new planet. You've got to have men who aren't afraidto make their own law if necessary—with their own guns. That's wherelaw begins; the books get written up later. You're going to tell , Ferdinand, what evil, criminal male isspeaking through your mouth! Nobody! I insisted. They're my own ideas! They are remarkably well-organized for a young boy's ideas. A boywho, I might add, has previously shown a ridiculous but nonethelessentirely masculine boredom with political philosophy. I plan to have agovernment career on that new planet you talk about, Ferdinand—afterI have found a good, steady husband, of course—and I don't lookforward to a masculinist radical in the family. Now, who has beenfilling your head with all this nonsense? <doc-sep>I was sweating. Sis has that deadly bulldog approach when she feelssomeone is lying. I pulled my pulpast handkerchief from my pocket towipe my face. Something rattled to the floor. What is this picture of me doing in your pocket, Ferdinand? A trap seemed to be hinging noisily into place. One of the passengerswanted to see how you looked in a bathing suit. The passengers on this ship are all female. I can't imagine any ofthem that curious about my appearance. Ferdinand, it's a man who hasbeen giving you these anti-social ideas, isn't it? A war-mongeringmasculinist like all the frustrated men who want to engage ingovernment and don't have the vaguest idea how to. Except, of course,in their ancient, bloody ways. Ferdinand, who has been perverting thatsunny and carefree soul of yours? Nobody! Nobody! Ferdinand, there's no point in lying! I demand— I told you, Sis. I told you! And don't call me Ferdinand. Call meFord. Ford? Ford? Now, you listen to me, Ferdinand.... After that it was all over but the confession. That came in a fewmoments. I couldn't fool Sis. She just knew me too well, I decidedmiserably. Besides, she was a girl. All the same, I wouldn't get Mr. Butt Lee Brown into trouble if I couldhelp it. I made Sis promise she wouldn't turn him in if I took her tohim. And the quick, nodding way she said she would made me feel just alittle better. The door opened on the signal, Sesame. When Butt saw somebody waswith me, he jumped and the ten-inch blaster barrel grew out of hisfingers. Then he recognized Sis from the pictures. He stepped to one side and, with the same sweeping gesture, holsteredhis blaster and pushed his green hood off. It was Sis's turn to jumpwhen she saw the wild mass of hair rolling down his back. An honor, Miss Sparling, he said in that rumbly voice. Please comeright in. There's a hurry-up draft. So Sis went in and I followed right after her. Mr. Brown closed thedoor. I tried to catch his eye so I could give him some kind of hint orexplanation, but he had taken a couple of his big strides and was inthe control section with Sis. She didn't give ground, though; I'll saythat for her. She only came to his chest, but she had her arms crossedsternly. First, Mr. Brown, she began, like talking to a cluck of a kid inclass, you realize that you are not only committing the politicalcrime of traveling without a visa, and the criminal one of stowing awaywithout paying your fare, but the moral delinquency of consuming storesintended for the personnel of this ship solely in emergency? <doc-sep>He opened his mouth to its maximum width and raised an enormous hand.Then he let the air out and dropped his arm. I take it you either have no defense or care to make none, Sis addedcaustically. Butt laughed slowly and carefully as if he were going over each word.Wonder if all the anura talk like that. And you want to foul upVenus. We haven't done so badly on Earth, after the mess you men made ofpolitics. It needed a revolution of the mothers before— Needed nothing. Everyone wanted peace. Earth is a weary old world. It's a world of strong moral fiber compared to yours, Mr. Alberta LeeBrown. Hearing his rightful name made him move suddenly and tower overher. Sis said with a certain amount of hurry and change of tone, What do you have to say about stowing away and using up lifeboat stores? <doc-sep>He cocked his head and considered a moment. Look, he said finally,I have more than enough munit to pay for round trip tickets, but Icouldn't get a return visa because of that brinosaur judge and allthe charges she hung on me. Had to stow away. Picked the EleanorRoosevelt because a couple of the boys in the crew are friends of mineand they were willing to help. But this lifeboat—don't you know thatevery passenger ship carries four times as many lifeboats as it needs?Not to mention the food I didn't eat because it stuck in my throat? Yes, she said bitterly. You had this boy steal fresh fruit for you.I suppose you didn't know that under space regulations that makes himequally guilty? No, Sis, he didn't, I was beginning to argue. All he wanted— Sure I knew. Also know that if I'm picked up as a stowaway, I'll besent back to Earth to serve out those fancy little sentences. Well, you're guilty of them, aren't you? He waved his hands at her impatiently. I'm not talking law, female;I'm talking sense. Listen! I'm in trouble because I went to Earth tolook for a wife. You're standing here right now because you're on yourway to Venus for a husband. So let's. Sis actually staggered back. Let's? Let's what ? Are—are you daringto suggest that—that— Now, Miss Sparling, no hoopla. I'm saying let's get married, and youknow it. You figured out from what the boy told you that I was chewingon you for a wife. You're healthy and strong, got good heredity, youknow how to operate sub-surface machinery, you've lived underwater, andyour disposition's no worse than most of the anura I've seen. Prolificstock, too. I was so excited I just had to yell: Gee, Sis, say yes ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Ferdinand is a young man accompanying his sister Evelyn on a spaceliner called the Eleanor Roosevelt with 300 hundred other women. The final destination of the spaceship is Venus, where the women hope to find a husband. Although women are in charge, the crew of the ship is all men. Ferdinand decides to explore the ship, and he encounters a large red sign forbidding passengers from entering the next deck. Despite being hesitant at first, he decides to break the law anyway because he is technically not a passenger on the ship. Ferdinand is amazed to see the stars, the moon, and another spaceliner take off in space. Unfazed by the next sign that tells unauthorized personnel to leave, he goes to the porthole and tries to figure out a way to open it by trying various methods. Suddenly, the door opens, and a large man plucks him inside by the throat. The man recognizes him as a brother to one of the Anura, which he defines as a herd of women looking for mates. Ferdinand explains his childhood in the Undersea and his parents, to which the other man listens intently. He also mentions that he and his sister have left Earth because she realized there would be no future there. All men have either died in wars, become negatively affected by radioactivity, or gone off to the planets. Then, the older man explains that there are little to no women on Venus, and he had no idea that women were in charge when he first went to Earth to find a wife. He had been arrested and was charged but decided to become a stowaway instead. The man, who introduces himself as Alberta (Butt) Lee Brown, gives Ferdinand the nickname Ford and talks more about his past. Eventually, he asks more about Evelyn, and Ferdinand does not overthink his intentions when he answers. Later, Evelyn then forces Ferdinand to go to a geography lecture with her, where she continuously asks questions and takes notes. However, she does not write down his answer after he corrects the purser and instead takes him back to the cabin to lecture him. They begin to debate, and Ferdinand begins to use the words and knowledge he learned from Butt. Evelyn is suspicious that somebody has been feeding him rebellious opinions, and she begins to hound him for answers after seeing he has a photo of her in his pocket. He then takes Evelyn to see Butt, and she begins to lecture him about breaking the law. While the both of them debate over Butt’s status as a criminal and stowaway, he suddenly suggests that they should get married. Evelyn is surprised by his proposal, and Ferdinand eagerly urges her to accept it.

Who is Evelyn Sparling, and what are her traits in the story? [SEP] <s> Venus Is a Man's World BY WILLIAM TENN Illustrated by GENE FAWCETTE [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.] Actually, there wouldn't be too much difference if women took over the Earth altogether. But not for some men and most boys! I've always said that even if Sis is seven years older than me—and agirl besides—she don't always know what's best. Put me on a spaceshipjam-packed with three hundred females just aching to get themselveshusbands in the one place they're still to be had—the planetVenus—and you know I'll be in trouble. Bad trouble. With the law, which is the worst a boy can get into. Twenty minutes after we lifted from the Sahara Spaceport, I wriggledout of my acceleration hammock and started for the door of our cabin. Now you be careful, Ferdinand, Sis called after me as she opened abook called Family Problems of the Frontier Woman . Remember you'rea nice boy. Don't make me ashamed of you. I tore down the corridor. Most of the cabins had purple lights on infront of the doors, showing that the girls were still inside theirhammocks. That meant only the ship's crew was up and about. Ship'screws are men; women are too busy with important things like governmentto run ships. I felt free all over—and happy. Now was my chance toreally see the Eleanor Roosevelt ! <doc-sep>It was hard to believe I was traveling in space at last. Ahead andbehind me, all the way up to where the companionway curved in outof sight, there was nothing but smooth black wall and smooth whitedoors—on and on and on. Gee , I thought excitedly, this is one bigship ! Of course, every once in a while I would run across a big scene ofstars in the void set in the wall; but they were only pictures. Nothingthat gave the feel of great empty space like I'd read about in The BoyRocketeers , no portholes, no visiplates, nothing. So when I came to the crossway, I stopped for a second, then turnedleft. To the right, see, there was Deck Four, then Deck Three, leadinginward past the engine fo'c'sle to the main jets and the grav helixgoing purr-purr-purrty-purr in the comforting way big machinery haswhen it's happy and oiled. But to the left, the crossway led all theway to the outside level which ran just under the hull. There wereportholes on the hull. I'd studied all that out in our cabin, long before we'd lifted, onthe transparent model of the ship hanging like a big cigar from theceiling. Sis had studied it too, but she was looking for places likethe dining salon and the library and Lifeboat 68 where we should go incase of emergency. I looked for the important things. As I trotted along the crossway, I sort of wished that Sis hadn'tdecided to go after a husband on a luxury liner. On a cargo ship, now,I'd be climbing from deck to deck on a ladder instead of having gravityunderfoot all the time just like I was home on the bottom of the Gulfof Mexico. But women always know what's right, and a boy can only makefaces and do what they say, same as the men have to do. Still, it was pretty exciting to press my nose against the slots in thewall and see the sliding panels that could come charging out and blockthe crossway into an airtight fit in case a meteor or something smashedinto the ship. And all along there were glass cases with spacesuitsstanding in them, like those knights they used to have back in theMiddle Ages. In the event of disaster affecting the oxygen content ofcompanionway, they had the words etched into the glass, break glasswith hammer upon wall, remove spacesuit and proceed to don it in thefollowing fashion. I read the following fashion until I knew it by heart. Boy , I saidto myself, I hope we have that kind of disaster. I'd sure like to getinto one of those! Bet it would be more fun than those diving suitsback in Undersea! And all the time I was alone. That was the best part. <doc-sep>Then I passed Deck Twelve and there was a big sign. Notice! Passengersnot permitted past this point! A big sign in red. I peeked around the corner. I knew it—the next deck was the hull. Icould see the portholes. Every twelve feet, they were, filled with thevelvet of space and the dancing of more stars than I'd ever dreamedexisted in the Universe. There wasn't anyone on the deck, as far as I could see. And thisdistance from the grav helix, the ship seemed mighty quiet and lonely.If I just took one quick look.... But I thought of what Sis would say and I turned around obediently.Then I saw the big red sign again. Passengers not permitted— Well! Didn't I know from my civics class that only women could be EarthCitizens these days? Sure, ever since the Male Desuffrage Act. Anddidn't I know that you had to be a citizen of a planet in order toget an interplanetary passport? Sis had explained it all to me in thecareful, patient way she always talks politics and things like that tomen. Technically, Ferdinand, I'm the only passenger in our family. Youcan't be one, because, not being a citizen, you can't acquire an EarthPassport. However, you'll be going to Venus on the strength of thisclause—'Miss Evelyn Sparling and all dependent male members of family,this number not to exceed the registered quota of sub-regulationspertaining'—and so on. I want you to understand these matters, so thatyou will grow into a man who takes an active interest in world affairs.No matter what you hear, women really like and appreciate such men. Of course, I never pay much attention to Sis when she says such dumbthings. I'm old enough, I guess, to know that it isn't what Women like and appreciate that counts when it comes to people gettingmarried. If it were, Sis and three hundred other pretty girls like herwouldn't be on their way to Venus to hook husbands. Still, if I wasn't a passenger, the sign didn't have anything to dowith me. I knew what Sis could say to that , but at least it was anargument I could use if it ever came up. So I broke the law. I was glad I did. The stars were exciting enough, but away off tothe left, about five times as big as I'd ever seen it, except in themovies, was the Moon, a great blob of gray and white pockmarks holdingoff the black of space. I was hoping to see the Earth, but I figured itmust be on the other side of the ship or behind us. I pressed my noseagainst the port and saw the tiny flicker of a spaceliner taking off,Marsbound. I wished I was on that one! Then I noticed, a little farther down the companionway, a stretch ofblank wall where there should have been portholes. High up on thewall in glowing red letters were the words, Lifeboat 47. Passengers:Thirty-two. Crew: Eleven. Unauthorized personnel keep away! Another one of those signs. <doc-sep>I crept up to the porthole nearest it and could just barely make outthe stern jets where it was plastered against the hull. Then I walkedunder the sign and tried to figure the way you were supposed to getinto it. There was a very thin line going around in a big circle that Iknew must be the door. But I couldn't see any knobs or switches to openit with. Not even a button you could press. That meant it was a sonic lock like the kind we had on the outer keepsback home in Undersea. But knock or voice? I tried the two knockcombinations I knew, and nothing happened. I only remembered one voicekey—might as well see if that's it, I figured. Twenty, Twenty-three. Open Sesame. For a second, I thought I'd hit it just right out of all the millionpossible combinations—The door clicked inward toward a black hole, anda hairy hand as broad as my shoulders shot out of the hole. It closedaround my throat and plucked me inside as if I'd been a baby sardine. I bounced once on the hard lifeboat floor. Before I got my breath andsat up, the door had been shut again. When the light came on, I foundmyself staring up the muzzle of a highly polished blaster and into thecold blue eyes of the biggest man I'd ever seen. He was wearing a one-piece suit made of some scaly green stuff thatlooked hard and soft at the same time. His boots were made of it too, and so was the hood hanging down hisback. And his face was brown. Not just ordinary tan, you understand, but thedeep, dark, burned-all-the-way-in brown I'd seen on the lifeguardsin New Orleans whenever we took a surface vacation—the kind of tanthat comes from day after broiling day under a really hot Sun. Hishair looked as if it had once been blond, but now there were just longcombed-out waves with a yellowish tinge that boiled all the way downto his shoulders. I hadn't seen hair like that on a man except maybe in history books;every man I'd ever known had his hair cropped in the fashionablesoup-bowl style. I was staring at his hair, almost forgetting about theblaster which I knew it was against the law for him to have at all,when I suddenly got scared right through. His eyes. They didn't blink and there seemed to be no expression around them.Just coldness. Maybe it was the kind of clothes he was wearing that didit, but all of a sudden I was reminded of a crocodile I'd seen in asurface zoo that had stared quietly at me for twenty minutes until itopened two long tooth-studded jaws. Green shatas! he said suddenly. Only a tadpole. I must be gettingjumpy enough to splash. Then he shoved the blaster away in a holster made of the same scalyleather, crossed his arms on his chest and began to study me. I gruntedto my feet, feeling a lot better. The coldness had gone out of his eyes. I held out my hand the way Sis had taught me. My name is FerdinandSparling. I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr.—Mr.— Hope for your sake, he said to me, that you aren't what youseem—tadpole brother to one of them husbandless anura. What? A 'nuran is a female looking to nest. Anura is a herd of same. Comefrom Flatfolk ways. Flatfolk are the Venusian natives, aren't they? Are you a Venusian?What part of Venus do you come from? Why did you say you hope— He chuckled and swung me up into one of the bunks that lined thelifeboat. Questions you ask, he said in his soft voice. Venus is asharp enough place for a dryhorn, let alone a tadpole dryhorn with aboss-minded sister. I'm not a dryleg, I told him proudly. We're from Undersea. Dryhorn , I said, not dryleg. And what's Undersea? Well, in Undersea we called foreigners and newcomers drylegs. Justlike on Venus, I guess, you call them dryhorns. And then I told himhow Undersea had been built on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, whenthe mineral resources of the land began to give out and engineersfigured that a lot could still be reached from the sea bottoms. <doc-sep>He nodded. He'd heard about the sea-bottom mining cities that werebubbling under protective domes in every one of the Earth's oceans justabout the same time settlements were springing up on the planets. He looked impressed when I told him about Mom and Pop being one of thefirst couples to get married in Undersea. He looked thoughtful when Itold him how Sis and I had been born there and spent half our childhoodlistening to the pressure pumps. He raised his eyebrows and lookeddisgusted when I told how Mom, as Undersea representative on the WorldCouncil, had been one of the framers of the Male Desuffrage Act afterthe Third Atomic War had resulted in the Maternal Revolution. <doc-sep>He almost squeezed my arm when I got to the time Mom and Pop were blownup in a surfacing boat. Well, after the funeral, there was a little money, so Sis decided wemight as well use it to migrate. There was no future for her on Earth,she figured. You know, the three-out-of-four. How's that? The three-out-of-four. No more than three women out of every four onEarth can expect to find husbands. Not enough men to go around. Wayback in the Twentieth Century, it began to be felt, Sis says, what withthe wars and all. Then the wars went on and a lot more men began to dieor get no good from the radioactivity. Then the best men went to theplanets, Sis says, until by now even if a woman can scrounge a personalhusband, he's not much to boast about. The stranger nodded violently. Not on Earth, he isn't. Those busybodyanura make sure of that. What a place! Suffering gridniks, I had abellyful! He told me about it. Women were scarce on Venus, and he hadn't beenable to find any who were willing to come out to his lonely littleislands; he had decided to go to Earth where there was supposed to be asurplus. Naturally, having been born and brought up on a very primitiveplanet, he didn't know it's a woman's world, like the older boys inschool used to say. The moment he landed on Earth he was in trouble. He didn't know he hadto register at a government-operated hotel for transient males; hethrew a bartender through a thick plastic window for saying somethingnasty about the length of his hair; and imagine !—he not onlyresisted arrest, resulting in three hospitalized policemen, but hesassed the judge in open court! Told me a man wasn't supposed to say anything except through femaleattorneys. Told her that where I came from, a man spoke his piecewhen he'd a mind to, and his woman walked by his side. What happened? I asked breathlessly. Oh, Guilty of This and Contempt of That. That blown-up brinosaur tookmy last munit for fines, then explained that she was remitting therest because I was a foreigner and uneducated. His eyes grew dark fora moment. He chuckled again. But I wasn't going to serve all thosefancy little prison sentences. Forcible Citizenship Indoctrination,they call it? Shook the dead-dry dust of the misbegotten, God forsakenmother world from my feet forever. The women on it deserve their men.My pockets were folded from the fines, and the paddlefeet were lookingfor me so close I didn't dare radio for more munit. So I stowed away. <doc-sep>For a moment, I didn't understand him. When I did, I was almost ill.Y-you mean, I choked, th-that you're b-breaking the law right now?And I'm with you while you're doing it? He leaned over the edge of the bunk and stared at me very seriously.What breed of tadpole are they turning out these days? Besides, whatbusiness do you have this close to the hull? After a moment of sober reflection, I nodded. You're right. I've alsobecome a male outside the law. We're in this together. He guffawed. Then he sat up and began cleaning his blaster. I foundmyself drawn to the bright killer-tube with exactly the fascination Sisinsists such things have always had for men. Ferdinand your label? That's not right for a sprouting tadpole. I'llcall you Ford. My name's Butt. Butt Lee Brown. I liked the sound of Ford. Is Butt a nickname, too? Yeah. Short for Alberta, but I haven't found a man who can draw ablaster fast enough to call me that. You see, Pop came over in theeighties—the big wave of immigrants when they evacuated Ontario. Namedall us boys after Canadian provinces. I was the youngest, so I got thename they were saving for a girl. You had a lot of brothers, Mr. Butt? He grinned with a mighty set of teeth. Oh, a nestful. Of course, theywere all killed in the Blue Chicago Rising by the MacGregor boys—allexcept me and Saskatchewan. Then Sas and me hunted the MacGregors down.Took a heap of time; we didn't float Jock MacGregor's ugly face downthe Tuscany till both of us were pretty near grown up. I walked up close to where I could see the tiny bright copper coils ofthe blaster above the firing button. Have you killed a lot of men withthat, Mr. Butt? Butt. Just plain Butt to you, Ford. He frowned and sighted atthe light globe. No more'n twelve—not counting five governmentpaddlefeet, of course. I'm a peaceable planter. Way I figure it,violence never accomplishes much that's important. My brother Sas,now— <doc-sep>He had just begun to work into a wonderful anecdote about his brotherwhen the dinner gong rang. Butt told me to scat. He said I was agrowing tadpole and needed my vitamins. And he mentioned, veryoff-hand, that he wouldn't at all object if I brought him some freshfruit. It seemed there was nothing but processed foods in the lifeboatand Butt was used to a farmer's diet. Trouble was, he was a special kind of farmer. Ordinary fruit would havebeen pretty easy to sneak into my pockets at meals. I even found a wayto handle the kelp and giant watercress Mr. Brown liked, but thingslike seaweed salt and Venusian mud-grapes just had too strong a smell.Twice, the mechanical hamper refused to accept my jacket for launderingand I had to wash it myself. But I learned so many wonderful thingsabout Venus every time I visited that stowaway.... I learned three wild-wave songs of the Flatfolk and what it is that thenative Venusians hate so much; I learned how you tell the differencebetween a lousy government paddlefoot from New Kalamazoo and theslaptoe slinker who is the planter's friend. After a lot of begging,Butt Lee Brown explained the workings of his blaster, explained itso carefully that I could name every part and tell what it did fromthe tiny round electrodes to the long spirals of transformer. But nomatter what, he would never let me hold it. Sorry, Ford, old tad, he would drawl, spinning around and around inthe control swivel-chair at the nose of the lifeboat. But way I lookat it, a man who lets somebody else handle his blaster is like thegiant whose heart was in an egg that an enemy found. When you've grownenough so's your pop feels you ought to have a weapon, why, then's thetime to learn it and you might's well learn fast. Before then, you'replain too young to be even near it. I don't have a father to give me one when I come of age. I don't evenhave an older brother as head of my family like your brother Labrador.All I have is Sis. And she — She'll marry some fancy dryhorn who's never been farther South thanthe Polar Coast. And she'll stay head of the family, if I know herbreed of green shata. Bossy, opinionated. By the way, Fordie, hesaid, rising and stretching so the fish-leather bounced and rippled offhis biceps, that sister. She ever.... And he'd be off again, cross-examining me about Evelyn. I sat in theswivel chair he'd vacated and tried to answer his questions. But therewas a lot of stuff I didn't know. Evelyn was a healthy girl, forinstance; how healthy, exactly, I had no way of finding out. Yes, I'dtell him, my aunts on both sides of my family each had had more thanthe average number of children. No, we'd never done any farming tospeak of, back in Undersea, but—yes, I'd guess Evelyn knew about asmuch as any girl there when it came to diving equipment and pressurepump regulation. How would I know that stuff would lead to trouble for me? <doc-sep>Sis had insisted I come along to the geography lecture. Most of theother girls who were going to Venus for husbands talked to each otherduring the lecture, but not my sister! She hung on every word, tooknotes even, and asked enough questions to make the perspiring purserreally work in those orientation periods. I am very sorry, Miss Sparling, he said with pretty heavy sarcasm,but I cannot remember any of the agricultural products of the MacroContinent. Since the human population is well below one per thousandsquare miles, it can readily be understood that the quantity oftilled soil, land or sub-surface, is so small that—Wait, I remembersomething. The Macro Continent exports a fruit though not exactly anedible one. The wild dunging drug is harvested there by criminalspeculators. Contrary to belief on Earth, the traffic has been growingin recent years. In fact— Pardon me, sir, I broke in, but doesn't dunging come only fromLeif Erickson Island off the Moscow Peninsula of the Macro Continent?You remember, purser—Wang Li's third exploration, where he proved theisland and the peninsula didn't meet for most of the year? The purser nodded slowly. I forgot, he admitted. Sorry, ladies, butthe boy's right. Please make the correction in your notes. But Sis was the only one who took notes, and she didn't take that one.She stared at me for a moment, biting her lower lip thoughtfully, whileI got sicker and sicker. Then she shut her pad with the final gestureof the right hand that Mom used to use just before challenging theopposition to come right down on the Council floor and debate it outwith her. Ferdinand, Sis said, let's go back to our cabin. The moment she sat me down and walked slowly around me, I knew I wasin for it. I've been reading up on Venusian geography in the ship'slibrary, I told her in a hurry. No doubt, she said drily. She shook her night-black hair out. Butyou aren't going to tell me that you read about dunging in the ship'slibrary. The books there have been censored by a government agent ofEarth against the possibility that they might be read by susceptibleyoung male minds like yours. She would not have allowed—this TerranAgent— Paddlefoot, I sneered. Sis sat down hard in our zoom-air chair. Now that's a term, she saidcarefully, that is used only by Venusian riffraff. They're not! Not what? Riffraff, I had to answer, knowing I was getting in deeper all thetime and not being able to help it. I mustn't give Mr. Brown away!They're trappers and farmers, pioneers and explorers, who're buildingVenus. And it takes a real man to build on a hot, hungry hell likeVenus. Does it, now? she said, looking at me as if I were beginning to growa second pair of ears. Tell me more. You can't have meek, law-abiding, women-ruled men when you startcivilization on a new planet. You've got to have men who aren't afraidto make their own law if necessary—with their own guns. That's wherelaw begins; the books get written up later. You're going to tell , Ferdinand, what evil, criminal male isspeaking through your mouth! Nobody! I insisted. They're my own ideas! They are remarkably well-organized for a young boy's ideas. A boywho, I might add, has previously shown a ridiculous but nonethelessentirely masculine boredom with political philosophy. I plan to have agovernment career on that new planet you talk about, Ferdinand—afterI have found a good, steady husband, of course—and I don't lookforward to a masculinist radical in the family. Now, who has beenfilling your head with all this nonsense? <doc-sep>I was sweating. Sis has that deadly bulldog approach when she feelssomeone is lying. I pulled my pulpast handkerchief from my pocket towipe my face. Something rattled to the floor. What is this picture of me doing in your pocket, Ferdinand? A trap seemed to be hinging noisily into place. One of the passengerswanted to see how you looked in a bathing suit. The passengers on this ship are all female. I can't imagine any ofthem that curious about my appearance. Ferdinand, it's a man who hasbeen giving you these anti-social ideas, isn't it? A war-mongeringmasculinist like all the frustrated men who want to engage ingovernment and don't have the vaguest idea how to. Except, of course,in their ancient, bloody ways. Ferdinand, who has been perverting thatsunny and carefree soul of yours? Nobody! Nobody! Ferdinand, there's no point in lying! I demand— I told you, Sis. I told you! And don't call me Ferdinand. Call meFord. Ford? Ford? Now, you listen to me, Ferdinand.... After that it was all over but the confession. That came in a fewmoments. I couldn't fool Sis. She just knew me too well, I decidedmiserably. Besides, she was a girl. All the same, I wouldn't get Mr. Butt Lee Brown into trouble if I couldhelp it. I made Sis promise she wouldn't turn him in if I took her tohim. And the quick, nodding way she said she would made me feel just alittle better. The door opened on the signal, Sesame. When Butt saw somebody waswith me, he jumped and the ten-inch blaster barrel grew out of hisfingers. Then he recognized Sis from the pictures. He stepped to one side and, with the same sweeping gesture, holsteredhis blaster and pushed his green hood off. It was Sis's turn to jumpwhen she saw the wild mass of hair rolling down his back. An honor, Miss Sparling, he said in that rumbly voice. Please comeright in. There's a hurry-up draft. So Sis went in and I followed right after her. Mr. Brown closed thedoor. I tried to catch his eye so I could give him some kind of hint orexplanation, but he had taken a couple of his big strides and was inthe control section with Sis. She didn't give ground, though; I'll saythat for her. She only came to his chest, but she had her arms crossedsternly. First, Mr. Brown, she began, like talking to a cluck of a kid inclass, you realize that you are not only committing the politicalcrime of traveling without a visa, and the criminal one of stowing awaywithout paying your fare, but the moral delinquency of consuming storesintended for the personnel of this ship solely in emergency? <doc-sep>He opened his mouth to its maximum width and raised an enormous hand.Then he let the air out and dropped his arm. I take it you either have no defense or care to make none, Sis addedcaustically. Butt laughed slowly and carefully as if he were going over each word.Wonder if all the anura talk like that. And you want to foul upVenus. We haven't done so badly on Earth, after the mess you men made ofpolitics. It needed a revolution of the mothers before— Needed nothing. Everyone wanted peace. Earth is a weary old world. It's a world of strong moral fiber compared to yours, Mr. Alberta LeeBrown. Hearing his rightful name made him move suddenly and tower overher. Sis said with a certain amount of hurry and change of tone, What do you have to say about stowing away and using up lifeboat stores? <doc-sep>He cocked his head and considered a moment. Look, he said finally,I have more than enough munit to pay for round trip tickets, but Icouldn't get a return visa because of that brinosaur judge and allthe charges she hung on me. Had to stow away. Picked the EleanorRoosevelt because a couple of the boys in the crew are friends of mineand they were willing to help. But this lifeboat—don't you know thatevery passenger ship carries four times as many lifeboats as it needs?Not to mention the food I didn't eat because it stuck in my throat? Yes, she said bitterly. You had this boy steal fresh fruit for you.I suppose you didn't know that under space regulations that makes himequally guilty? No, Sis, he didn't, I was beginning to argue. All he wanted— Sure I knew. Also know that if I'm picked up as a stowaway, I'll besent back to Earth to serve out those fancy little sentences. Well, you're guilty of them, aren't you? He waved his hands at her impatiently. I'm not talking law, female;I'm talking sense. Listen! I'm in trouble because I went to Earth tolook for a wife. You're standing here right now because you're on yourway to Venus for a husband. So let's. Sis actually staggered back. Let's? Let's what ? Are—are you daringto suggest that—that— Now, Miss Sparling, no hoopla. I'm saying let's get married, and youknow it. You figured out from what the boy told you that I was chewingon you for a wife. You're healthy and strong, got good heredity, youknow how to operate sub-surface machinery, you've lived underwater, andyour disposition's no worse than most of the anura I've seen. Prolificstock, too. I was so excited I just had to yell: Gee, Sis, say yes ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Evelyn Sparling, and what are her traits in the story?

Evelyn Sparling is the older sister of Ferdinand Sparling. She is seven years older than him and was born in the Undersea. Her parents were one of the first people to get married in the Undersea, and her mom was an Undersea representative in the World Council. Furthermore, her mom was heavily involved in the Male Desuffrage Act and the Maternal Revolution before being blown up in a surfacing boat alongside her husband. Evelyn herself is proficient in operating sub-surface machinery, believes firmly in the ideals of women leading politics, and is also very focused on affairs that other women do not care much about. She is also skilled at detecting lies, seeing past Ferdinand’s lies that he spoke of to protect Butt’s identity. Moreover, she has a very assertive personality. She did not back down from correcting Ferdinand about the opinions he picked up from Butt, which she classifies as masculinist and anti-socialist. Even if Butt is an intimidating man, her righteousness still shines through when she begins to scold him for escaping Earth on the Eleanor Roosevelt and about how he is also implicating Ferdinand in breaking the law by having the younger boy deliver fruit to him. Despite Evelyn’s forceful nature, she does care for her younger brother and tells him what women appreciate in men.

Who is Alberta Lee Brown, and what are his traits in the story? [SEP] <s> Venus Is a Man's World BY WILLIAM TENN Illustrated by GENE FAWCETTE [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.] Actually, there wouldn't be too much difference if women took over the Earth altogether. But not for some men and most boys! I've always said that even if Sis is seven years older than me—and agirl besides—she don't always know what's best. Put me on a spaceshipjam-packed with three hundred females just aching to get themselveshusbands in the one place they're still to be had—the planetVenus—and you know I'll be in trouble. Bad trouble. With the law, which is the worst a boy can get into. Twenty minutes after we lifted from the Sahara Spaceport, I wriggledout of my acceleration hammock and started for the door of our cabin. Now you be careful, Ferdinand, Sis called after me as she opened abook called Family Problems of the Frontier Woman . Remember you'rea nice boy. Don't make me ashamed of you. I tore down the corridor. Most of the cabins had purple lights on infront of the doors, showing that the girls were still inside theirhammocks. That meant only the ship's crew was up and about. Ship'screws are men; women are too busy with important things like governmentto run ships. I felt free all over—and happy. Now was my chance toreally see the Eleanor Roosevelt ! <doc-sep>It was hard to believe I was traveling in space at last. Ahead andbehind me, all the way up to where the companionway curved in outof sight, there was nothing but smooth black wall and smooth whitedoors—on and on and on. Gee , I thought excitedly, this is one bigship ! Of course, every once in a while I would run across a big scene ofstars in the void set in the wall; but they were only pictures. Nothingthat gave the feel of great empty space like I'd read about in The BoyRocketeers , no portholes, no visiplates, nothing. So when I came to the crossway, I stopped for a second, then turnedleft. To the right, see, there was Deck Four, then Deck Three, leadinginward past the engine fo'c'sle to the main jets and the grav helixgoing purr-purr-purrty-purr in the comforting way big machinery haswhen it's happy and oiled. But to the left, the crossway led all theway to the outside level which ran just under the hull. There wereportholes on the hull. I'd studied all that out in our cabin, long before we'd lifted, onthe transparent model of the ship hanging like a big cigar from theceiling. Sis had studied it too, but she was looking for places likethe dining salon and the library and Lifeboat 68 where we should go incase of emergency. I looked for the important things. As I trotted along the crossway, I sort of wished that Sis hadn'tdecided to go after a husband on a luxury liner. On a cargo ship, now,I'd be climbing from deck to deck on a ladder instead of having gravityunderfoot all the time just like I was home on the bottom of the Gulfof Mexico. But women always know what's right, and a boy can only makefaces and do what they say, same as the men have to do. Still, it was pretty exciting to press my nose against the slots in thewall and see the sliding panels that could come charging out and blockthe crossway into an airtight fit in case a meteor or something smashedinto the ship. And all along there were glass cases with spacesuitsstanding in them, like those knights they used to have back in theMiddle Ages. In the event of disaster affecting the oxygen content ofcompanionway, they had the words etched into the glass, break glasswith hammer upon wall, remove spacesuit and proceed to don it in thefollowing fashion. I read the following fashion until I knew it by heart. Boy , I saidto myself, I hope we have that kind of disaster. I'd sure like to getinto one of those! Bet it would be more fun than those diving suitsback in Undersea! And all the time I was alone. That was the best part. <doc-sep>Then I passed Deck Twelve and there was a big sign. Notice! Passengersnot permitted past this point! A big sign in red. I peeked around the corner. I knew it—the next deck was the hull. Icould see the portholes. Every twelve feet, they were, filled with thevelvet of space and the dancing of more stars than I'd ever dreamedexisted in the Universe. There wasn't anyone on the deck, as far as I could see. And thisdistance from the grav helix, the ship seemed mighty quiet and lonely.If I just took one quick look.... But I thought of what Sis would say and I turned around obediently.Then I saw the big red sign again. Passengers not permitted— Well! Didn't I know from my civics class that only women could be EarthCitizens these days? Sure, ever since the Male Desuffrage Act. Anddidn't I know that you had to be a citizen of a planet in order toget an interplanetary passport? Sis had explained it all to me in thecareful, patient way she always talks politics and things like that tomen. Technically, Ferdinand, I'm the only passenger in our family. Youcan't be one, because, not being a citizen, you can't acquire an EarthPassport. However, you'll be going to Venus on the strength of thisclause—'Miss Evelyn Sparling and all dependent male members of family,this number not to exceed the registered quota of sub-regulationspertaining'—and so on. I want you to understand these matters, so thatyou will grow into a man who takes an active interest in world affairs.No matter what you hear, women really like and appreciate such men. Of course, I never pay much attention to Sis when she says such dumbthings. I'm old enough, I guess, to know that it isn't what Women like and appreciate that counts when it comes to people gettingmarried. If it were, Sis and three hundred other pretty girls like herwouldn't be on their way to Venus to hook husbands. Still, if I wasn't a passenger, the sign didn't have anything to dowith me. I knew what Sis could say to that , but at least it was anargument I could use if it ever came up. So I broke the law. I was glad I did. The stars were exciting enough, but away off tothe left, about five times as big as I'd ever seen it, except in themovies, was the Moon, a great blob of gray and white pockmarks holdingoff the black of space. I was hoping to see the Earth, but I figured itmust be on the other side of the ship or behind us. I pressed my noseagainst the port and saw the tiny flicker of a spaceliner taking off,Marsbound. I wished I was on that one! Then I noticed, a little farther down the companionway, a stretch ofblank wall where there should have been portholes. High up on thewall in glowing red letters were the words, Lifeboat 47. Passengers:Thirty-two. Crew: Eleven. Unauthorized personnel keep away! Another one of those signs. <doc-sep>I crept up to the porthole nearest it and could just barely make outthe stern jets where it was plastered against the hull. Then I walkedunder the sign and tried to figure the way you were supposed to getinto it. There was a very thin line going around in a big circle that Iknew must be the door. But I couldn't see any knobs or switches to openit with. Not even a button you could press. That meant it was a sonic lock like the kind we had on the outer keepsback home in Undersea. But knock or voice? I tried the two knockcombinations I knew, and nothing happened. I only remembered one voicekey—might as well see if that's it, I figured. Twenty, Twenty-three. Open Sesame. For a second, I thought I'd hit it just right out of all the millionpossible combinations—The door clicked inward toward a black hole, anda hairy hand as broad as my shoulders shot out of the hole. It closedaround my throat and plucked me inside as if I'd been a baby sardine. I bounced once on the hard lifeboat floor. Before I got my breath andsat up, the door had been shut again. When the light came on, I foundmyself staring up the muzzle of a highly polished blaster and into thecold blue eyes of the biggest man I'd ever seen. He was wearing a one-piece suit made of some scaly green stuff thatlooked hard and soft at the same time. His boots were made of it too, and so was the hood hanging down hisback. And his face was brown. Not just ordinary tan, you understand, but thedeep, dark, burned-all-the-way-in brown I'd seen on the lifeguardsin New Orleans whenever we took a surface vacation—the kind of tanthat comes from day after broiling day under a really hot Sun. Hishair looked as if it had once been blond, but now there were just longcombed-out waves with a yellowish tinge that boiled all the way downto his shoulders. I hadn't seen hair like that on a man except maybe in history books;every man I'd ever known had his hair cropped in the fashionablesoup-bowl style. I was staring at his hair, almost forgetting about theblaster which I knew it was against the law for him to have at all,when I suddenly got scared right through. His eyes. They didn't blink and there seemed to be no expression around them.Just coldness. Maybe it was the kind of clothes he was wearing that didit, but all of a sudden I was reminded of a crocodile I'd seen in asurface zoo that had stared quietly at me for twenty minutes until itopened two long tooth-studded jaws. Green shatas! he said suddenly. Only a tadpole. I must be gettingjumpy enough to splash. Then he shoved the blaster away in a holster made of the same scalyleather, crossed his arms on his chest and began to study me. I gruntedto my feet, feeling a lot better. The coldness had gone out of his eyes. I held out my hand the way Sis had taught me. My name is FerdinandSparling. I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr.—Mr.— Hope for your sake, he said to me, that you aren't what youseem—tadpole brother to one of them husbandless anura. What? A 'nuran is a female looking to nest. Anura is a herd of same. Comefrom Flatfolk ways. Flatfolk are the Venusian natives, aren't they? Are you a Venusian?What part of Venus do you come from? Why did you say you hope— He chuckled and swung me up into one of the bunks that lined thelifeboat. Questions you ask, he said in his soft voice. Venus is asharp enough place for a dryhorn, let alone a tadpole dryhorn with aboss-minded sister. I'm not a dryleg, I told him proudly. We're from Undersea. Dryhorn , I said, not dryleg. And what's Undersea? Well, in Undersea we called foreigners and newcomers drylegs. Justlike on Venus, I guess, you call them dryhorns. And then I told himhow Undersea had been built on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, whenthe mineral resources of the land began to give out and engineersfigured that a lot could still be reached from the sea bottoms. <doc-sep>He nodded. He'd heard about the sea-bottom mining cities that werebubbling under protective domes in every one of the Earth's oceans justabout the same time settlements were springing up on the planets. He looked impressed when I told him about Mom and Pop being one of thefirst couples to get married in Undersea. He looked thoughtful when Itold him how Sis and I had been born there and spent half our childhoodlistening to the pressure pumps. He raised his eyebrows and lookeddisgusted when I told how Mom, as Undersea representative on the WorldCouncil, had been one of the framers of the Male Desuffrage Act afterthe Third Atomic War had resulted in the Maternal Revolution. <doc-sep>He almost squeezed my arm when I got to the time Mom and Pop were blownup in a surfacing boat. Well, after the funeral, there was a little money, so Sis decided wemight as well use it to migrate. There was no future for her on Earth,she figured. You know, the three-out-of-four. How's that? The three-out-of-four. No more than three women out of every four onEarth can expect to find husbands. Not enough men to go around. Wayback in the Twentieth Century, it began to be felt, Sis says, what withthe wars and all. Then the wars went on and a lot more men began to dieor get no good from the radioactivity. Then the best men went to theplanets, Sis says, until by now even if a woman can scrounge a personalhusband, he's not much to boast about. The stranger nodded violently. Not on Earth, he isn't. Those busybodyanura make sure of that. What a place! Suffering gridniks, I had abellyful! He told me about it. Women were scarce on Venus, and he hadn't beenable to find any who were willing to come out to his lonely littleislands; he had decided to go to Earth where there was supposed to be asurplus. Naturally, having been born and brought up on a very primitiveplanet, he didn't know it's a woman's world, like the older boys inschool used to say. The moment he landed on Earth he was in trouble. He didn't know he hadto register at a government-operated hotel for transient males; hethrew a bartender through a thick plastic window for saying somethingnasty about the length of his hair; and imagine !—he not onlyresisted arrest, resulting in three hospitalized policemen, but hesassed the judge in open court! Told me a man wasn't supposed to say anything except through femaleattorneys. Told her that where I came from, a man spoke his piecewhen he'd a mind to, and his woman walked by his side. What happened? I asked breathlessly. Oh, Guilty of This and Contempt of That. That blown-up brinosaur tookmy last munit for fines, then explained that she was remitting therest because I was a foreigner and uneducated. His eyes grew dark fora moment. He chuckled again. But I wasn't going to serve all thosefancy little prison sentences. Forcible Citizenship Indoctrination,they call it? Shook the dead-dry dust of the misbegotten, God forsakenmother world from my feet forever. The women on it deserve their men.My pockets were folded from the fines, and the paddlefeet were lookingfor me so close I didn't dare radio for more munit. So I stowed away. <doc-sep>For a moment, I didn't understand him. When I did, I was almost ill.Y-you mean, I choked, th-that you're b-breaking the law right now?And I'm with you while you're doing it? He leaned over the edge of the bunk and stared at me very seriously.What breed of tadpole are they turning out these days? Besides, whatbusiness do you have this close to the hull? After a moment of sober reflection, I nodded. You're right. I've alsobecome a male outside the law. We're in this together. He guffawed. Then he sat up and began cleaning his blaster. I foundmyself drawn to the bright killer-tube with exactly the fascination Sisinsists such things have always had for men. Ferdinand your label? That's not right for a sprouting tadpole. I'llcall you Ford. My name's Butt. Butt Lee Brown. I liked the sound of Ford. Is Butt a nickname, too? Yeah. Short for Alberta, but I haven't found a man who can draw ablaster fast enough to call me that. You see, Pop came over in theeighties—the big wave of immigrants when they evacuated Ontario. Namedall us boys after Canadian provinces. I was the youngest, so I got thename they were saving for a girl. You had a lot of brothers, Mr. Butt? He grinned with a mighty set of teeth. Oh, a nestful. Of course, theywere all killed in the Blue Chicago Rising by the MacGregor boys—allexcept me and Saskatchewan. Then Sas and me hunted the MacGregors down.Took a heap of time; we didn't float Jock MacGregor's ugly face downthe Tuscany till both of us were pretty near grown up. I walked up close to where I could see the tiny bright copper coils ofthe blaster above the firing button. Have you killed a lot of men withthat, Mr. Butt? Butt. Just plain Butt to you, Ford. He frowned and sighted atthe light globe. No more'n twelve—not counting five governmentpaddlefeet, of course. I'm a peaceable planter. Way I figure it,violence never accomplishes much that's important. My brother Sas,now— <doc-sep>He had just begun to work into a wonderful anecdote about his brotherwhen the dinner gong rang. Butt told me to scat. He said I was agrowing tadpole and needed my vitamins. And he mentioned, veryoff-hand, that he wouldn't at all object if I brought him some freshfruit. It seemed there was nothing but processed foods in the lifeboatand Butt was used to a farmer's diet. Trouble was, he was a special kind of farmer. Ordinary fruit would havebeen pretty easy to sneak into my pockets at meals. I even found a wayto handle the kelp and giant watercress Mr. Brown liked, but thingslike seaweed salt and Venusian mud-grapes just had too strong a smell.Twice, the mechanical hamper refused to accept my jacket for launderingand I had to wash it myself. But I learned so many wonderful thingsabout Venus every time I visited that stowaway.... I learned three wild-wave songs of the Flatfolk and what it is that thenative Venusians hate so much; I learned how you tell the differencebetween a lousy government paddlefoot from New Kalamazoo and theslaptoe slinker who is the planter's friend. After a lot of begging,Butt Lee Brown explained the workings of his blaster, explained itso carefully that I could name every part and tell what it did fromthe tiny round electrodes to the long spirals of transformer. But nomatter what, he would never let me hold it. Sorry, Ford, old tad, he would drawl, spinning around and around inthe control swivel-chair at the nose of the lifeboat. But way I lookat it, a man who lets somebody else handle his blaster is like thegiant whose heart was in an egg that an enemy found. When you've grownenough so's your pop feels you ought to have a weapon, why, then's thetime to learn it and you might's well learn fast. Before then, you'replain too young to be even near it. I don't have a father to give me one when I come of age. I don't evenhave an older brother as head of my family like your brother Labrador.All I have is Sis. And she — She'll marry some fancy dryhorn who's never been farther South thanthe Polar Coast. And she'll stay head of the family, if I know herbreed of green shata. Bossy, opinionated. By the way, Fordie, hesaid, rising and stretching so the fish-leather bounced and rippled offhis biceps, that sister. She ever.... And he'd be off again, cross-examining me about Evelyn. I sat in theswivel chair he'd vacated and tried to answer his questions. But therewas a lot of stuff I didn't know. Evelyn was a healthy girl, forinstance; how healthy, exactly, I had no way of finding out. Yes, I'dtell him, my aunts on both sides of my family each had had more thanthe average number of children. No, we'd never done any farming tospeak of, back in Undersea, but—yes, I'd guess Evelyn knew about asmuch as any girl there when it came to diving equipment and pressurepump regulation. How would I know that stuff would lead to trouble for me? <doc-sep>Sis had insisted I come along to the geography lecture. Most of theother girls who were going to Venus for husbands talked to each otherduring the lecture, but not my sister! She hung on every word, tooknotes even, and asked enough questions to make the perspiring purserreally work in those orientation periods. I am very sorry, Miss Sparling, he said with pretty heavy sarcasm,but I cannot remember any of the agricultural products of the MacroContinent. Since the human population is well below one per thousandsquare miles, it can readily be understood that the quantity oftilled soil, land or sub-surface, is so small that—Wait, I remembersomething. The Macro Continent exports a fruit though not exactly anedible one. The wild dunging drug is harvested there by criminalspeculators. Contrary to belief on Earth, the traffic has been growingin recent years. In fact— Pardon me, sir, I broke in, but doesn't dunging come only fromLeif Erickson Island off the Moscow Peninsula of the Macro Continent?You remember, purser—Wang Li's third exploration, where he proved theisland and the peninsula didn't meet for most of the year? The purser nodded slowly. I forgot, he admitted. Sorry, ladies, butthe boy's right. Please make the correction in your notes. But Sis was the only one who took notes, and she didn't take that one.She stared at me for a moment, biting her lower lip thoughtfully, whileI got sicker and sicker. Then she shut her pad with the final gestureof the right hand that Mom used to use just before challenging theopposition to come right down on the Council floor and debate it outwith her. Ferdinand, Sis said, let's go back to our cabin. The moment she sat me down and walked slowly around me, I knew I wasin for it. I've been reading up on Venusian geography in the ship'slibrary, I told her in a hurry. No doubt, she said drily. She shook her night-black hair out. Butyou aren't going to tell me that you read about dunging in the ship'slibrary. The books there have been censored by a government agent ofEarth against the possibility that they might be read by susceptibleyoung male minds like yours. She would not have allowed—this TerranAgent— Paddlefoot, I sneered. Sis sat down hard in our zoom-air chair. Now that's a term, she saidcarefully, that is used only by Venusian riffraff. They're not! Not what? Riffraff, I had to answer, knowing I was getting in deeper all thetime and not being able to help it. I mustn't give Mr. Brown away!They're trappers and farmers, pioneers and explorers, who're buildingVenus. And it takes a real man to build on a hot, hungry hell likeVenus. Does it, now? she said, looking at me as if I were beginning to growa second pair of ears. Tell me more. You can't have meek, law-abiding, women-ruled men when you startcivilization on a new planet. You've got to have men who aren't afraidto make their own law if necessary—with their own guns. That's wherelaw begins; the books get written up later. You're going to tell , Ferdinand, what evil, criminal male isspeaking through your mouth! Nobody! I insisted. They're my own ideas! They are remarkably well-organized for a young boy's ideas. A boywho, I might add, has previously shown a ridiculous but nonethelessentirely masculine boredom with political philosophy. I plan to have agovernment career on that new planet you talk about, Ferdinand—afterI have found a good, steady husband, of course—and I don't lookforward to a masculinist radical in the family. Now, who has beenfilling your head with all this nonsense? <doc-sep>I was sweating. Sis has that deadly bulldog approach when she feelssomeone is lying. I pulled my pulpast handkerchief from my pocket towipe my face. Something rattled to the floor. What is this picture of me doing in your pocket, Ferdinand? A trap seemed to be hinging noisily into place. One of the passengerswanted to see how you looked in a bathing suit. The passengers on this ship are all female. I can't imagine any ofthem that curious about my appearance. Ferdinand, it's a man who hasbeen giving you these anti-social ideas, isn't it? A war-mongeringmasculinist like all the frustrated men who want to engage ingovernment and don't have the vaguest idea how to. Except, of course,in their ancient, bloody ways. Ferdinand, who has been perverting thatsunny and carefree soul of yours? Nobody! Nobody! Ferdinand, there's no point in lying! I demand— I told you, Sis. I told you! And don't call me Ferdinand. Call meFord. Ford? Ford? Now, you listen to me, Ferdinand.... After that it was all over but the confession. That came in a fewmoments. I couldn't fool Sis. She just knew me too well, I decidedmiserably. Besides, she was a girl. All the same, I wouldn't get Mr. Butt Lee Brown into trouble if I couldhelp it. I made Sis promise she wouldn't turn him in if I took her tohim. And the quick, nodding way she said she would made me feel just alittle better. The door opened on the signal, Sesame. When Butt saw somebody waswith me, he jumped and the ten-inch blaster barrel grew out of hisfingers. Then he recognized Sis from the pictures. He stepped to one side and, with the same sweeping gesture, holsteredhis blaster and pushed his green hood off. It was Sis's turn to jumpwhen she saw the wild mass of hair rolling down his back. An honor, Miss Sparling, he said in that rumbly voice. Please comeright in. There's a hurry-up draft. So Sis went in and I followed right after her. Mr. Brown closed thedoor. I tried to catch his eye so I could give him some kind of hint orexplanation, but he had taken a couple of his big strides and was inthe control section with Sis. She didn't give ground, though; I'll saythat for her. She only came to his chest, but she had her arms crossedsternly. First, Mr. Brown, she began, like talking to a cluck of a kid inclass, you realize that you are not only committing the politicalcrime of traveling without a visa, and the criminal one of stowing awaywithout paying your fare, but the moral delinquency of consuming storesintended for the personnel of this ship solely in emergency? <doc-sep>He opened his mouth to its maximum width and raised an enormous hand.Then he let the air out and dropped his arm. I take it you either have no defense or care to make none, Sis addedcaustically. Butt laughed slowly and carefully as if he were going over each word.Wonder if all the anura talk like that. And you want to foul upVenus. We haven't done so badly on Earth, after the mess you men made ofpolitics. It needed a revolution of the mothers before— Needed nothing. Everyone wanted peace. Earth is a weary old world. It's a world of strong moral fiber compared to yours, Mr. Alberta LeeBrown. Hearing his rightful name made him move suddenly and tower overher. Sis said with a certain amount of hurry and change of tone, What do you have to say about stowing away and using up lifeboat stores? <doc-sep>He cocked his head and considered a moment. Look, he said finally,I have more than enough munit to pay for round trip tickets, but Icouldn't get a return visa because of that brinosaur judge and allthe charges she hung on me. Had to stow away. Picked the EleanorRoosevelt because a couple of the boys in the crew are friends of mineand they were willing to help. But this lifeboat—don't you know thatevery passenger ship carries four times as many lifeboats as it needs?Not to mention the food I didn't eat because it stuck in my throat? Yes, she said bitterly. You had this boy steal fresh fruit for you.I suppose you didn't know that under space regulations that makes himequally guilty? No, Sis, he didn't, I was beginning to argue. All he wanted— Sure I knew. Also know that if I'm picked up as a stowaway, I'll besent back to Earth to serve out those fancy little sentences. Well, you're guilty of them, aren't you? He waved his hands at her impatiently. I'm not talking law, female;I'm talking sense. Listen! I'm in trouble because I went to Earth tolook for a wife. You're standing here right now because you're on yourway to Venus for a husband. So let's. Sis actually staggered back. Let's? Let's what ? Are—are you daringto suggest that—that— Now, Miss Sparling, no hoopla. I'm saying let's get married, and youknow it. You figured out from what the boy told you that I was chewingon you for a wife. You're healthy and strong, got good heredity, youknow how to operate sub-surface machinery, you've lived underwater, andyour disposition's no worse than most of the anura I've seen. Prolificstock, too. I was so excited I just had to yell: Gee, Sis, say yes ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Alberta Lee Brown, and what are his traits in the story?

Alberta Lee Brown, nicknamed Butt, is the man from Venus who Ferdinand meets when he explores the spaceliner. Butt used to have a very large family, and his father immigrated in the eighties after being evacuated from Ontario. His family also consisted of many brothers, also named after Canadian provinces, Unfortunately, all of his brothers except Saskatchewan and him were murdered by the MacGregor boys in an incident known as the Blue Chicago Rising. He is not one to usually act brutally, but he has not hesitated to pull the trigger on people who have wronged him. Butt has great knowledge of his blaster and is capable of explaining everything about it to Ferdinant. Additionally, he tells Ferdinand that he has killed twelve people, excluding the five government personnel, and that he considers his brother as someone who is much more willing to resort to violence. Although he is usually level-headed, Butt is also a very blunt person. He is not afraid to tell Ferdinand what he thinks of Earth, and his actions of breaking the law as a criminal on the run show that he is more than willing to take dangerous risks if he disagrees with something. Butt also tends to act rashly, suggesting to Evelyn that they get married during their first meeting despite never having interacted with her before and only having an impression of her based on what Ferdinand told him earlier.

How do the societal structures on Earth differ from Venus in the story? [SEP] <s> Venus Is a Man's World BY WILLIAM TENN Illustrated by GENE FAWCETTE [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.] Actually, there wouldn't be too much difference if women took over the Earth altogether. But not for some men and most boys! I've always said that even if Sis is seven years older than me—and agirl besides—she don't always know what's best. Put me on a spaceshipjam-packed with three hundred females just aching to get themselveshusbands in the one place they're still to be had—the planetVenus—and you know I'll be in trouble. Bad trouble. With the law, which is the worst a boy can get into. Twenty minutes after we lifted from the Sahara Spaceport, I wriggledout of my acceleration hammock and started for the door of our cabin. Now you be careful, Ferdinand, Sis called after me as she opened abook called Family Problems of the Frontier Woman . Remember you'rea nice boy. Don't make me ashamed of you. I tore down the corridor. Most of the cabins had purple lights on infront of the doors, showing that the girls were still inside theirhammocks. That meant only the ship's crew was up and about. Ship'screws are men; women are too busy with important things like governmentto run ships. I felt free all over—and happy. Now was my chance toreally see the Eleanor Roosevelt ! <doc-sep>It was hard to believe I was traveling in space at last. Ahead andbehind me, all the way up to where the companionway curved in outof sight, there was nothing but smooth black wall and smooth whitedoors—on and on and on. Gee , I thought excitedly, this is one bigship ! Of course, every once in a while I would run across a big scene ofstars in the void set in the wall; but they were only pictures. Nothingthat gave the feel of great empty space like I'd read about in The BoyRocketeers , no portholes, no visiplates, nothing. So when I came to the crossway, I stopped for a second, then turnedleft. To the right, see, there was Deck Four, then Deck Three, leadinginward past the engine fo'c'sle to the main jets and the grav helixgoing purr-purr-purrty-purr in the comforting way big machinery haswhen it's happy and oiled. But to the left, the crossway led all theway to the outside level which ran just under the hull. There wereportholes on the hull. I'd studied all that out in our cabin, long before we'd lifted, onthe transparent model of the ship hanging like a big cigar from theceiling. Sis had studied it too, but she was looking for places likethe dining salon and the library and Lifeboat 68 where we should go incase of emergency. I looked for the important things. As I trotted along the crossway, I sort of wished that Sis hadn'tdecided to go after a husband on a luxury liner. On a cargo ship, now,I'd be climbing from deck to deck on a ladder instead of having gravityunderfoot all the time just like I was home on the bottom of the Gulfof Mexico. But women always know what's right, and a boy can only makefaces and do what they say, same as the men have to do. Still, it was pretty exciting to press my nose against the slots in thewall and see the sliding panels that could come charging out and blockthe crossway into an airtight fit in case a meteor or something smashedinto the ship. And all along there were glass cases with spacesuitsstanding in them, like those knights they used to have back in theMiddle Ages. In the event of disaster affecting the oxygen content ofcompanionway, they had the words etched into the glass, break glasswith hammer upon wall, remove spacesuit and proceed to don it in thefollowing fashion. I read the following fashion until I knew it by heart. Boy , I saidto myself, I hope we have that kind of disaster. I'd sure like to getinto one of those! Bet it would be more fun than those diving suitsback in Undersea! And all the time I was alone. That was the best part. <doc-sep>Then I passed Deck Twelve and there was a big sign. Notice! Passengersnot permitted past this point! A big sign in red. I peeked around the corner. I knew it—the next deck was the hull. Icould see the portholes. Every twelve feet, they were, filled with thevelvet of space and the dancing of more stars than I'd ever dreamedexisted in the Universe. There wasn't anyone on the deck, as far as I could see. And thisdistance from the grav helix, the ship seemed mighty quiet and lonely.If I just took one quick look.... But I thought of what Sis would say and I turned around obediently.Then I saw the big red sign again. Passengers not permitted— Well! Didn't I know from my civics class that only women could be EarthCitizens these days? Sure, ever since the Male Desuffrage Act. Anddidn't I know that you had to be a citizen of a planet in order toget an interplanetary passport? Sis had explained it all to me in thecareful, patient way she always talks politics and things like that tomen. Technically, Ferdinand, I'm the only passenger in our family. Youcan't be one, because, not being a citizen, you can't acquire an EarthPassport. However, you'll be going to Venus on the strength of thisclause—'Miss Evelyn Sparling and all dependent male members of family,this number not to exceed the registered quota of sub-regulationspertaining'—and so on. I want you to understand these matters, so thatyou will grow into a man who takes an active interest in world affairs.No matter what you hear, women really like and appreciate such men. Of course, I never pay much attention to Sis when she says such dumbthings. I'm old enough, I guess, to know that it isn't what Women like and appreciate that counts when it comes to people gettingmarried. If it were, Sis and three hundred other pretty girls like herwouldn't be on their way to Venus to hook husbands. Still, if I wasn't a passenger, the sign didn't have anything to dowith me. I knew what Sis could say to that , but at least it was anargument I could use if it ever came up. So I broke the law. I was glad I did. The stars were exciting enough, but away off tothe left, about five times as big as I'd ever seen it, except in themovies, was the Moon, a great blob of gray and white pockmarks holdingoff the black of space. I was hoping to see the Earth, but I figured itmust be on the other side of the ship or behind us. I pressed my noseagainst the port and saw the tiny flicker of a spaceliner taking off,Marsbound. I wished I was on that one! Then I noticed, a little farther down the companionway, a stretch ofblank wall where there should have been portholes. High up on thewall in glowing red letters were the words, Lifeboat 47. Passengers:Thirty-two. Crew: Eleven. Unauthorized personnel keep away! Another one of those signs. <doc-sep>I crept up to the porthole nearest it and could just barely make outthe stern jets where it was plastered against the hull. Then I walkedunder the sign and tried to figure the way you were supposed to getinto it. There was a very thin line going around in a big circle that Iknew must be the door. But I couldn't see any knobs or switches to openit with. Not even a button you could press. That meant it was a sonic lock like the kind we had on the outer keepsback home in Undersea. But knock or voice? I tried the two knockcombinations I knew, and nothing happened. I only remembered one voicekey—might as well see if that's it, I figured. Twenty, Twenty-three. Open Sesame. For a second, I thought I'd hit it just right out of all the millionpossible combinations—The door clicked inward toward a black hole, anda hairy hand as broad as my shoulders shot out of the hole. It closedaround my throat and plucked me inside as if I'd been a baby sardine. I bounced once on the hard lifeboat floor. Before I got my breath andsat up, the door had been shut again. When the light came on, I foundmyself staring up the muzzle of a highly polished blaster and into thecold blue eyes of the biggest man I'd ever seen. He was wearing a one-piece suit made of some scaly green stuff thatlooked hard and soft at the same time. His boots were made of it too, and so was the hood hanging down hisback. And his face was brown. Not just ordinary tan, you understand, but thedeep, dark, burned-all-the-way-in brown I'd seen on the lifeguardsin New Orleans whenever we took a surface vacation—the kind of tanthat comes from day after broiling day under a really hot Sun. Hishair looked as if it had once been blond, but now there were just longcombed-out waves with a yellowish tinge that boiled all the way downto his shoulders. I hadn't seen hair like that on a man except maybe in history books;every man I'd ever known had his hair cropped in the fashionablesoup-bowl style. I was staring at his hair, almost forgetting about theblaster which I knew it was against the law for him to have at all,when I suddenly got scared right through. His eyes. They didn't blink and there seemed to be no expression around them.Just coldness. Maybe it was the kind of clothes he was wearing that didit, but all of a sudden I was reminded of a crocodile I'd seen in asurface zoo that had stared quietly at me for twenty minutes until itopened two long tooth-studded jaws. Green shatas! he said suddenly. Only a tadpole. I must be gettingjumpy enough to splash. Then he shoved the blaster away in a holster made of the same scalyleather, crossed his arms on his chest and began to study me. I gruntedto my feet, feeling a lot better. The coldness had gone out of his eyes. I held out my hand the way Sis had taught me. My name is FerdinandSparling. I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr.—Mr.— Hope for your sake, he said to me, that you aren't what youseem—tadpole brother to one of them husbandless anura. What? A 'nuran is a female looking to nest. Anura is a herd of same. Comefrom Flatfolk ways. Flatfolk are the Venusian natives, aren't they? Are you a Venusian?What part of Venus do you come from? Why did you say you hope— He chuckled and swung me up into one of the bunks that lined thelifeboat. Questions you ask, he said in his soft voice. Venus is asharp enough place for a dryhorn, let alone a tadpole dryhorn with aboss-minded sister. I'm not a dryleg, I told him proudly. We're from Undersea. Dryhorn , I said, not dryleg. And what's Undersea? Well, in Undersea we called foreigners and newcomers drylegs. Justlike on Venus, I guess, you call them dryhorns. And then I told himhow Undersea had been built on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, whenthe mineral resources of the land began to give out and engineersfigured that a lot could still be reached from the sea bottoms. <doc-sep>He nodded. He'd heard about the sea-bottom mining cities that werebubbling under protective domes in every one of the Earth's oceans justabout the same time settlements were springing up on the planets. He looked impressed when I told him about Mom and Pop being one of thefirst couples to get married in Undersea. He looked thoughtful when Itold him how Sis and I had been born there and spent half our childhoodlistening to the pressure pumps. He raised his eyebrows and lookeddisgusted when I told how Mom, as Undersea representative on the WorldCouncil, had been one of the framers of the Male Desuffrage Act afterthe Third Atomic War had resulted in the Maternal Revolution. <doc-sep>He almost squeezed my arm when I got to the time Mom and Pop were blownup in a surfacing boat. Well, after the funeral, there was a little money, so Sis decided wemight as well use it to migrate. There was no future for her on Earth,she figured. You know, the three-out-of-four. How's that? The three-out-of-four. No more than three women out of every four onEarth can expect to find husbands. Not enough men to go around. Wayback in the Twentieth Century, it began to be felt, Sis says, what withthe wars and all. Then the wars went on and a lot more men began to dieor get no good from the radioactivity. Then the best men went to theplanets, Sis says, until by now even if a woman can scrounge a personalhusband, he's not much to boast about. The stranger nodded violently. Not on Earth, he isn't. Those busybodyanura make sure of that. What a place! Suffering gridniks, I had abellyful! He told me about it. Women were scarce on Venus, and he hadn't beenable to find any who were willing to come out to his lonely littleislands; he had decided to go to Earth where there was supposed to be asurplus. Naturally, having been born and brought up on a very primitiveplanet, he didn't know it's a woman's world, like the older boys inschool used to say. The moment he landed on Earth he was in trouble. He didn't know he hadto register at a government-operated hotel for transient males; hethrew a bartender through a thick plastic window for saying somethingnasty about the length of his hair; and imagine !—he not onlyresisted arrest, resulting in three hospitalized policemen, but hesassed the judge in open court! Told me a man wasn't supposed to say anything except through femaleattorneys. Told her that where I came from, a man spoke his piecewhen he'd a mind to, and his woman walked by his side. What happened? I asked breathlessly. Oh, Guilty of This and Contempt of That. That blown-up brinosaur tookmy last munit for fines, then explained that she was remitting therest because I was a foreigner and uneducated. His eyes grew dark fora moment. He chuckled again. But I wasn't going to serve all thosefancy little prison sentences. Forcible Citizenship Indoctrination,they call it? Shook the dead-dry dust of the misbegotten, God forsakenmother world from my feet forever. The women on it deserve their men.My pockets were folded from the fines, and the paddlefeet were lookingfor me so close I didn't dare radio for more munit. So I stowed away. <doc-sep>For a moment, I didn't understand him. When I did, I was almost ill.Y-you mean, I choked, th-that you're b-breaking the law right now?And I'm with you while you're doing it? He leaned over the edge of the bunk and stared at me very seriously.What breed of tadpole are they turning out these days? Besides, whatbusiness do you have this close to the hull? After a moment of sober reflection, I nodded. You're right. I've alsobecome a male outside the law. We're in this together. He guffawed. Then he sat up and began cleaning his blaster. I foundmyself drawn to the bright killer-tube with exactly the fascination Sisinsists such things have always had for men. Ferdinand your label? That's not right for a sprouting tadpole. I'llcall you Ford. My name's Butt. Butt Lee Brown. I liked the sound of Ford. Is Butt a nickname, too? Yeah. Short for Alberta, but I haven't found a man who can draw ablaster fast enough to call me that. You see, Pop came over in theeighties—the big wave of immigrants when they evacuated Ontario. Namedall us boys after Canadian provinces. I was the youngest, so I got thename they were saving for a girl. You had a lot of brothers, Mr. Butt? He grinned with a mighty set of teeth. Oh, a nestful. Of course, theywere all killed in the Blue Chicago Rising by the MacGregor boys—allexcept me and Saskatchewan. Then Sas and me hunted the MacGregors down.Took a heap of time; we didn't float Jock MacGregor's ugly face downthe Tuscany till both of us were pretty near grown up. I walked up close to where I could see the tiny bright copper coils ofthe blaster above the firing button. Have you killed a lot of men withthat, Mr. Butt? Butt. Just plain Butt to you, Ford. He frowned and sighted atthe light globe. No more'n twelve—not counting five governmentpaddlefeet, of course. I'm a peaceable planter. Way I figure it,violence never accomplishes much that's important. My brother Sas,now— <doc-sep>He had just begun to work into a wonderful anecdote about his brotherwhen the dinner gong rang. Butt told me to scat. He said I was agrowing tadpole and needed my vitamins. And he mentioned, veryoff-hand, that he wouldn't at all object if I brought him some freshfruit. It seemed there was nothing but processed foods in the lifeboatand Butt was used to a farmer's diet. Trouble was, he was a special kind of farmer. Ordinary fruit would havebeen pretty easy to sneak into my pockets at meals. I even found a wayto handle the kelp and giant watercress Mr. Brown liked, but thingslike seaweed salt and Venusian mud-grapes just had too strong a smell.Twice, the mechanical hamper refused to accept my jacket for launderingand I had to wash it myself. But I learned so many wonderful thingsabout Venus every time I visited that stowaway.... I learned three wild-wave songs of the Flatfolk and what it is that thenative Venusians hate so much; I learned how you tell the differencebetween a lousy government paddlefoot from New Kalamazoo and theslaptoe slinker who is the planter's friend. After a lot of begging,Butt Lee Brown explained the workings of his blaster, explained itso carefully that I could name every part and tell what it did fromthe tiny round electrodes to the long spirals of transformer. But nomatter what, he would never let me hold it. Sorry, Ford, old tad, he would drawl, spinning around and around inthe control swivel-chair at the nose of the lifeboat. But way I lookat it, a man who lets somebody else handle his blaster is like thegiant whose heart was in an egg that an enemy found. When you've grownenough so's your pop feels you ought to have a weapon, why, then's thetime to learn it and you might's well learn fast. Before then, you'replain too young to be even near it. I don't have a father to give me one when I come of age. I don't evenhave an older brother as head of my family like your brother Labrador.All I have is Sis. And she — She'll marry some fancy dryhorn who's never been farther South thanthe Polar Coast. And she'll stay head of the family, if I know herbreed of green shata. Bossy, opinionated. By the way, Fordie, hesaid, rising and stretching so the fish-leather bounced and rippled offhis biceps, that sister. She ever.... And he'd be off again, cross-examining me about Evelyn. I sat in theswivel chair he'd vacated and tried to answer his questions. But therewas a lot of stuff I didn't know. Evelyn was a healthy girl, forinstance; how healthy, exactly, I had no way of finding out. Yes, I'dtell him, my aunts on both sides of my family each had had more thanthe average number of children. No, we'd never done any farming tospeak of, back in Undersea, but—yes, I'd guess Evelyn knew about asmuch as any girl there when it came to diving equipment and pressurepump regulation. How would I know that stuff would lead to trouble for me? <doc-sep>Sis had insisted I come along to the geography lecture. Most of theother girls who were going to Venus for husbands talked to each otherduring the lecture, but not my sister! She hung on every word, tooknotes even, and asked enough questions to make the perspiring purserreally work in those orientation periods. I am very sorry, Miss Sparling, he said with pretty heavy sarcasm,but I cannot remember any of the agricultural products of the MacroContinent. Since the human population is well below one per thousandsquare miles, it can readily be understood that the quantity oftilled soil, land or sub-surface, is so small that—Wait, I remembersomething. The Macro Continent exports a fruit though not exactly anedible one. The wild dunging drug is harvested there by criminalspeculators. Contrary to belief on Earth, the traffic has been growingin recent years. In fact— Pardon me, sir, I broke in, but doesn't dunging come only fromLeif Erickson Island off the Moscow Peninsula of the Macro Continent?You remember, purser—Wang Li's third exploration, where he proved theisland and the peninsula didn't meet for most of the year? The purser nodded slowly. I forgot, he admitted. Sorry, ladies, butthe boy's right. Please make the correction in your notes. But Sis was the only one who took notes, and she didn't take that one.She stared at me for a moment, biting her lower lip thoughtfully, whileI got sicker and sicker. Then she shut her pad with the final gestureof the right hand that Mom used to use just before challenging theopposition to come right down on the Council floor and debate it outwith her. Ferdinand, Sis said, let's go back to our cabin. The moment she sat me down and walked slowly around me, I knew I wasin for it. I've been reading up on Venusian geography in the ship'slibrary, I told her in a hurry. No doubt, she said drily. She shook her night-black hair out. Butyou aren't going to tell me that you read about dunging in the ship'slibrary. The books there have been censored by a government agent ofEarth against the possibility that they might be read by susceptibleyoung male minds like yours. She would not have allowed—this TerranAgent— Paddlefoot, I sneered. Sis sat down hard in our zoom-air chair. Now that's a term, she saidcarefully, that is used only by Venusian riffraff. They're not! Not what? Riffraff, I had to answer, knowing I was getting in deeper all thetime and not being able to help it. I mustn't give Mr. Brown away!They're trappers and farmers, pioneers and explorers, who're buildingVenus. And it takes a real man to build on a hot, hungry hell likeVenus. Does it, now? she said, looking at me as if I were beginning to growa second pair of ears. Tell me more. You can't have meek, law-abiding, women-ruled men when you startcivilization on a new planet. You've got to have men who aren't afraidto make their own law if necessary—with their own guns. That's wherelaw begins; the books get written up later. You're going to tell , Ferdinand, what evil, criminal male isspeaking through your mouth! Nobody! I insisted. They're my own ideas! They are remarkably well-organized for a young boy's ideas. A boywho, I might add, has previously shown a ridiculous but nonethelessentirely masculine boredom with political philosophy. I plan to have agovernment career on that new planet you talk about, Ferdinand—afterI have found a good, steady husband, of course—and I don't lookforward to a masculinist radical in the family. Now, who has beenfilling your head with all this nonsense? <doc-sep>I was sweating. Sis has that deadly bulldog approach when she feelssomeone is lying. I pulled my pulpast handkerchief from my pocket towipe my face. Something rattled to the floor. What is this picture of me doing in your pocket, Ferdinand? A trap seemed to be hinging noisily into place. One of the passengerswanted to see how you looked in a bathing suit. The passengers on this ship are all female. I can't imagine any ofthem that curious about my appearance. Ferdinand, it's a man who hasbeen giving you these anti-social ideas, isn't it? A war-mongeringmasculinist like all the frustrated men who want to engage ingovernment and don't have the vaguest idea how to. Except, of course,in their ancient, bloody ways. Ferdinand, who has been perverting thatsunny and carefree soul of yours? Nobody! Nobody! Ferdinand, there's no point in lying! I demand— I told you, Sis. I told you! And don't call me Ferdinand. Call meFord. Ford? Ford? Now, you listen to me, Ferdinand.... After that it was all over but the confession. That came in a fewmoments. I couldn't fool Sis. She just knew me too well, I decidedmiserably. Besides, she was a girl. All the same, I wouldn't get Mr. Butt Lee Brown into trouble if I couldhelp it. I made Sis promise she wouldn't turn him in if I took her tohim. And the quick, nodding way she said she would made me feel just alittle better. The door opened on the signal, Sesame. When Butt saw somebody waswith me, he jumped and the ten-inch blaster barrel grew out of hisfingers. Then he recognized Sis from the pictures. He stepped to one side and, with the same sweeping gesture, holsteredhis blaster and pushed his green hood off. It was Sis's turn to jumpwhen she saw the wild mass of hair rolling down his back. An honor, Miss Sparling, he said in that rumbly voice. Please comeright in. There's a hurry-up draft. So Sis went in and I followed right after her. Mr. Brown closed thedoor. I tried to catch his eye so I could give him some kind of hint orexplanation, but he had taken a couple of his big strides and was inthe control section with Sis. She didn't give ground, though; I'll saythat for her. She only came to his chest, but she had her arms crossedsternly. First, Mr. Brown, she began, like talking to a cluck of a kid inclass, you realize that you are not only committing the politicalcrime of traveling without a visa, and the criminal one of stowing awaywithout paying your fare, but the moral delinquency of consuming storesintended for the personnel of this ship solely in emergency? <doc-sep>He opened his mouth to its maximum width and raised an enormous hand.Then he let the air out and dropped his arm. I take it you either have no defense or care to make none, Sis addedcaustically. Butt laughed slowly and carefully as if he were going over each word.Wonder if all the anura talk like that. And you want to foul upVenus. We haven't done so badly on Earth, after the mess you men made ofpolitics. It needed a revolution of the mothers before— Needed nothing. Everyone wanted peace. Earth is a weary old world. It's a world of strong moral fiber compared to yours, Mr. Alberta LeeBrown. Hearing his rightful name made him move suddenly and tower overher. Sis said with a certain amount of hurry and change of tone, What do you have to say about stowing away and using up lifeboat stores? <doc-sep>He cocked his head and considered a moment. Look, he said finally,I have more than enough munit to pay for round trip tickets, but Icouldn't get a return visa because of that brinosaur judge and allthe charges she hung on me. Had to stow away. Picked the EleanorRoosevelt because a couple of the boys in the crew are friends of mineand they were willing to help. But this lifeboat—don't you know thatevery passenger ship carries four times as many lifeboats as it needs?Not to mention the food I didn't eat because it stuck in my throat? Yes, she said bitterly. You had this boy steal fresh fruit for you.I suppose you didn't know that under space regulations that makes himequally guilty? No, Sis, he didn't, I was beginning to argue. All he wanted— Sure I knew. Also know that if I'm picked up as a stowaway, I'll besent back to Earth to serve out those fancy little sentences. Well, you're guilty of them, aren't you? He waved his hands at her impatiently. I'm not talking law, female;I'm talking sense. Listen! I'm in trouble because I went to Earth tolook for a wife. You're standing here right now because you're on yourway to Venus for a husband. So let's. Sis actually staggered back. Let's? Let's what ? Are—are you daringto suggest that—that— Now, Miss Sparling, no hoopla. I'm saying let's get married, and youknow it. You figured out from what the boy told you that I was chewingon you for a wife. You're healthy and strong, got good heredity, youknow how to operate sub-surface machinery, you've lived underwater, andyour disposition's no worse than most of the anura I've seen. Prolificstock, too. I was so excited I just had to yell: Gee, Sis, say yes ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] How do the societal structures on Earth differ from Venus in the story?

Women are generally given positions of power and have significant influence over political matters on Earth. Most of the hard labor is left to the men instead of the women. Ferdinand mentions that the crews on the spaceliner ships are always men, as women fulfill the more important tasks of running governments. It is also revealed that only women can become Earth Citizens because of the Male Desuffrage Act, which means that men cannot get an interplanetary passport. In many situations, women have the final say as well. When Butt was arrested on Earth, he could only use a female attorney to communicate his thoughts. Compared to the women, the men on Earth face much more restrictions and must follow what they say at all times. The number of men on Earth has greatly diminished, and the population primarily consists of women. On the other hand, Venus is primarily male-inhabited, and there is a scarcity of women there. Butt says that he is unused to the saying "it's a woman's world" because women do not run Venus, unlike Earth. He also told his attorney that on Venus, a man could speak freely if he wanted to, and a woman's role is to support him. Men can also make a law whenever they wish with their own guns and that they should not wholly be subservient to the rule of women.

Describe the main setting of the story. [SEP] <s> Venus Is a Man's World BY WILLIAM TENN Illustrated by GENE FAWCETTE [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.] Actually, there wouldn't be too much difference if women took over the Earth altogether. But not for some men and most boys! I've always said that even if Sis is seven years older than me—and agirl besides—she don't always know what's best. Put me on a spaceshipjam-packed with three hundred females just aching to get themselveshusbands in the one place they're still to be had—the planetVenus—and you know I'll be in trouble. Bad trouble. With the law, which is the worst a boy can get into. Twenty minutes after we lifted from the Sahara Spaceport, I wriggledout of my acceleration hammock and started for the door of our cabin. Now you be careful, Ferdinand, Sis called after me as she opened abook called Family Problems of the Frontier Woman . Remember you'rea nice boy. Don't make me ashamed of you. I tore down the corridor. Most of the cabins had purple lights on infront of the doors, showing that the girls were still inside theirhammocks. That meant only the ship's crew was up and about. Ship'screws are men; women are too busy with important things like governmentto run ships. I felt free all over—and happy. Now was my chance toreally see the Eleanor Roosevelt ! <doc-sep>It was hard to believe I was traveling in space at last. Ahead andbehind me, all the way up to where the companionway curved in outof sight, there was nothing but smooth black wall and smooth whitedoors—on and on and on. Gee , I thought excitedly, this is one bigship ! Of course, every once in a while I would run across a big scene ofstars in the void set in the wall; but they were only pictures. Nothingthat gave the feel of great empty space like I'd read about in The BoyRocketeers , no portholes, no visiplates, nothing. So when I came to the crossway, I stopped for a second, then turnedleft. To the right, see, there was Deck Four, then Deck Three, leadinginward past the engine fo'c'sle to the main jets and the grav helixgoing purr-purr-purrty-purr in the comforting way big machinery haswhen it's happy and oiled. But to the left, the crossway led all theway to the outside level which ran just under the hull. There wereportholes on the hull. I'd studied all that out in our cabin, long before we'd lifted, onthe transparent model of the ship hanging like a big cigar from theceiling. Sis had studied it too, but she was looking for places likethe dining salon and the library and Lifeboat 68 where we should go incase of emergency. I looked for the important things. As I trotted along the crossway, I sort of wished that Sis hadn'tdecided to go after a husband on a luxury liner. On a cargo ship, now,I'd be climbing from deck to deck on a ladder instead of having gravityunderfoot all the time just like I was home on the bottom of the Gulfof Mexico. But women always know what's right, and a boy can only makefaces and do what they say, same as the men have to do. Still, it was pretty exciting to press my nose against the slots in thewall and see the sliding panels that could come charging out and blockthe crossway into an airtight fit in case a meteor or something smashedinto the ship. And all along there were glass cases with spacesuitsstanding in them, like those knights they used to have back in theMiddle Ages. In the event of disaster affecting the oxygen content ofcompanionway, they had the words etched into the glass, break glasswith hammer upon wall, remove spacesuit and proceed to don it in thefollowing fashion. I read the following fashion until I knew it by heart. Boy , I saidto myself, I hope we have that kind of disaster. I'd sure like to getinto one of those! Bet it would be more fun than those diving suitsback in Undersea! And all the time I was alone. That was the best part. <doc-sep>Then I passed Deck Twelve and there was a big sign. Notice! Passengersnot permitted past this point! A big sign in red. I peeked around the corner. I knew it—the next deck was the hull. Icould see the portholes. Every twelve feet, they were, filled with thevelvet of space and the dancing of more stars than I'd ever dreamedexisted in the Universe. There wasn't anyone on the deck, as far as I could see. And thisdistance from the grav helix, the ship seemed mighty quiet and lonely.If I just took one quick look.... But I thought of what Sis would say and I turned around obediently.Then I saw the big red sign again. Passengers not permitted— Well! Didn't I know from my civics class that only women could be EarthCitizens these days? Sure, ever since the Male Desuffrage Act. Anddidn't I know that you had to be a citizen of a planet in order toget an interplanetary passport? Sis had explained it all to me in thecareful, patient way she always talks politics and things like that tomen. Technically, Ferdinand, I'm the only passenger in our family. Youcan't be one, because, not being a citizen, you can't acquire an EarthPassport. However, you'll be going to Venus on the strength of thisclause—'Miss Evelyn Sparling and all dependent male members of family,this number not to exceed the registered quota of sub-regulationspertaining'—and so on. I want you to understand these matters, so thatyou will grow into a man who takes an active interest in world affairs.No matter what you hear, women really like and appreciate such men. Of course, I never pay much attention to Sis when she says such dumbthings. I'm old enough, I guess, to know that it isn't what Women like and appreciate that counts when it comes to people gettingmarried. If it were, Sis and three hundred other pretty girls like herwouldn't be on their way to Venus to hook husbands. Still, if I wasn't a passenger, the sign didn't have anything to dowith me. I knew what Sis could say to that , but at least it was anargument I could use if it ever came up. So I broke the law. I was glad I did. The stars were exciting enough, but away off tothe left, about five times as big as I'd ever seen it, except in themovies, was the Moon, a great blob of gray and white pockmarks holdingoff the black of space. I was hoping to see the Earth, but I figured itmust be on the other side of the ship or behind us. I pressed my noseagainst the port and saw the tiny flicker of a spaceliner taking off,Marsbound. I wished I was on that one! Then I noticed, a little farther down the companionway, a stretch ofblank wall where there should have been portholes. High up on thewall in glowing red letters were the words, Lifeboat 47. Passengers:Thirty-two. Crew: Eleven. Unauthorized personnel keep away! Another one of those signs. <doc-sep>I crept up to the porthole nearest it and could just barely make outthe stern jets where it was plastered against the hull. Then I walkedunder the sign and tried to figure the way you were supposed to getinto it. There was a very thin line going around in a big circle that Iknew must be the door. But I couldn't see any knobs or switches to openit with. Not even a button you could press. That meant it was a sonic lock like the kind we had on the outer keepsback home in Undersea. But knock or voice? I tried the two knockcombinations I knew, and nothing happened. I only remembered one voicekey—might as well see if that's it, I figured. Twenty, Twenty-three. Open Sesame. For a second, I thought I'd hit it just right out of all the millionpossible combinations—The door clicked inward toward a black hole, anda hairy hand as broad as my shoulders shot out of the hole. It closedaround my throat and plucked me inside as if I'd been a baby sardine. I bounced once on the hard lifeboat floor. Before I got my breath andsat up, the door had been shut again. When the light came on, I foundmyself staring up the muzzle of a highly polished blaster and into thecold blue eyes of the biggest man I'd ever seen. He was wearing a one-piece suit made of some scaly green stuff thatlooked hard and soft at the same time. His boots were made of it too, and so was the hood hanging down hisback. And his face was brown. Not just ordinary tan, you understand, but thedeep, dark, burned-all-the-way-in brown I'd seen on the lifeguardsin New Orleans whenever we took a surface vacation—the kind of tanthat comes from day after broiling day under a really hot Sun. Hishair looked as if it had once been blond, but now there were just longcombed-out waves with a yellowish tinge that boiled all the way downto his shoulders. I hadn't seen hair like that on a man except maybe in history books;every man I'd ever known had his hair cropped in the fashionablesoup-bowl style. I was staring at his hair, almost forgetting about theblaster which I knew it was against the law for him to have at all,when I suddenly got scared right through. His eyes. They didn't blink and there seemed to be no expression around them.Just coldness. Maybe it was the kind of clothes he was wearing that didit, but all of a sudden I was reminded of a crocodile I'd seen in asurface zoo that had stared quietly at me for twenty minutes until itopened two long tooth-studded jaws. Green shatas! he said suddenly. Only a tadpole. I must be gettingjumpy enough to splash. Then he shoved the blaster away in a holster made of the same scalyleather, crossed his arms on his chest and began to study me. I gruntedto my feet, feeling a lot better. The coldness had gone out of his eyes. I held out my hand the way Sis had taught me. My name is FerdinandSparling. I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr.—Mr.— Hope for your sake, he said to me, that you aren't what youseem—tadpole brother to one of them husbandless anura. What? A 'nuran is a female looking to nest. Anura is a herd of same. Comefrom Flatfolk ways. Flatfolk are the Venusian natives, aren't they? Are you a Venusian?What part of Venus do you come from? Why did you say you hope— He chuckled and swung me up into one of the bunks that lined thelifeboat. Questions you ask, he said in his soft voice. Venus is asharp enough place for a dryhorn, let alone a tadpole dryhorn with aboss-minded sister. I'm not a dryleg, I told him proudly. We're from Undersea. Dryhorn , I said, not dryleg. And what's Undersea? Well, in Undersea we called foreigners and newcomers drylegs. Justlike on Venus, I guess, you call them dryhorns. And then I told himhow Undersea had been built on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, whenthe mineral resources of the land began to give out and engineersfigured that a lot could still be reached from the sea bottoms. <doc-sep>He nodded. He'd heard about the sea-bottom mining cities that werebubbling under protective domes in every one of the Earth's oceans justabout the same time settlements were springing up on the planets. He looked impressed when I told him about Mom and Pop being one of thefirst couples to get married in Undersea. He looked thoughtful when Itold him how Sis and I had been born there and spent half our childhoodlistening to the pressure pumps. He raised his eyebrows and lookeddisgusted when I told how Mom, as Undersea representative on the WorldCouncil, had been one of the framers of the Male Desuffrage Act afterthe Third Atomic War had resulted in the Maternal Revolution. <doc-sep>He almost squeezed my arm when I got to the time Mom and Pop were blownup in a surfacing boat. Well, after the funeral, there was a little money, so Sis decided wemight as well use it to migrate. There was no future for her on Earth,she figured. You know, the three-out-of-four. How's that? The three-out-of-four. No more than three women out of every four onEarth can expect to find husbands. Not enough men to go around. Wayback in the Twentieth Century, it began to be felt, Sis says, what withthe wars and all. Then the wars went on and a lot more men began to dieor get no good from the radioactivity. Then the best men went to theplanets, Sis says, until by now even if a woman can scrounge a personalhusband, he's not much to boast about. The stranger nodded violently. Not on Earth, he isn't. Those busybodyanura make sure of that. What a place! Suffering gridniks, I had abellyful! He told me about it. Women were scarce on Venus, and he hadn't beenable to find any who were willing to come out to his lonely littleislands; he had decided to go to Earth where there was supposed to be asurplus. Naturally, having been born and brought up on a very primitiveplanet, he didn't know it's a woman's world, like the older boys inschool used to say. The moment he landed on Earth he was in trouble. He didn't know he hadto register at a government-operated hotel for transient males; hethrew a bartender through a thick plastic window for saying somethingnasty about the length of his hair; and imagine !—he not onlyresisted arrest, resulting in three hospitalized policemen, but hesassed the judge in open court! Told me a man wasn't supposed to say anything except through femaleattorneys. Told her that where I came from, a man spoke his piecewhen he'd a mind to, and his woman walked by his side. What happened? I asked breathlessly. Oh, Guilty of This and Contempt of That. That blown-up brinosaur tookmy last munit for fines, then explained that she was remitting therest because I was a foreigner and uneducated. His eyes grew dark fora moment. He chuckled again. But I wasn't going to serve all thosefancy little prison sentences. Forcible Citizenship Indoctrination,they call it? Shook the dead-dry dust of the misbegotten, God forsakenmother world from my feet forever. The women on it deserve their men.My pockets were folded from the fines, and the paddlefeet were lookingfor me so close I didn't dare radio for more munit. So I stowed away. <doc-sep>For a moment, I didn't understand him. When I did, I was almost ill.Y-you mean, I choked, th-that you're b-breaking the law right now?And I'm with you while you're doing it? He leaned over the edge of the bunk and stared at me very seriously.What breed of tadpole are they turning out these days? Besides, whatbusiness do you have this close to the hull? After a moment of sober reflection, I nodded. You're right. I've alsobecome a male outside the law. We're in this together. He guffawed. Then he sat up and began cleaning his blaster. I foundmyself drawn to the bright killer-tube with exactly the fascination Sisinsists such things have always had for men. Ferdinand your label? That's not right for a sprouting tadpole. I'llcall you Ford. My name's Butt. Butt Lee Brown. I liked the sound of Ford. Is Butt a nickname, too? Yeah. Short for Alberta, but I haven't found a man who can draw ablaster fast enough to call me that. You see, Pop came over in theeighties—the big wave of immigrants when they evacuated Ontario. Namedall us boys after Canadian provinces. I was the youngest, so I got thename they were saving for a girl. You had a lot of brothers, Mr. Butt? He grinned with a mighty set of teeth. Oh, a nestful. Of course, theywere all killed in the Blue Chicago Rising by the MacGregor boys—allexcept me and Saskatchewan. Then Sas and me hunted the MacGregors down.Took a heap of time; we didn't float Jock MacGregor's ugly face downthe Tuscany till both of us were pretty near grown up. I walked up close to where I could see the tiny bright copper coils ofthe blaster above the firing button. Have you killed a lot of men withthat, Mr. Butt? Butt. Just plain Butt to you, Ford. He frowned and sighted atthe light globe. No more'n twelve—not counting five governmentpaddlefeet, of course. I'm a peaceable planter. Way I figure it,violence never accomplishes much that's important. My brother Sas,now— <doc-sep>He had just begun to work into a wonderful anecdote about his brotherwhen the dinner gong rang. Butt told me to scat. He said I was agrowing tadpole and needed my vitamins. And he mentioned, veryoff-hand, that he wouldn't at all object if I brought him some freshfruit. It seemed there was nothing but processed foods in the lifeboatand Butt was used to a farmer's diet. Trouble was, he was a special kind of farmer. Ordinary fruit would havebeen pretty easy to sneak into my pockets at meals. I even found a wayto handle the kelp and giant watercress Mr. Brown liked, but thingslike seaweed salt and Venusian mud-grapes just had too strong a smell.Twice, the mechanical hamper refused to accept my jacket for launderingand I had to wash it myself. But I learned so many wonderful thingsabout Venus every time I visited that stowaway.... I learned three wild-wave songs of the Flatfolk and what it is that thenative Venusians hate so much; I learned how you tell the differencebetween a lousy government paddlefoot from New Kalamazoo and theslaptoe slinker who is the planter's friend. After a lot of begging,Butt Lee Brown explained the workings of his blaster, explained itso carefully that I could name every part and tell what it did fromthe tiny round electrodes to the long spirals of transformer. But nomatter what, he would never let me hold it. Sorry, Ford, old tad, he would drawl, spinning around and around inthe control swivel-chair at the nose of the lifeboat. But way I lookat it, a man who lets somebody else handle his blaster is like thegiant whose heart was in an egg that an enemy found. When you've grownenough so's your pop feels you ought to have a weapon, why, then's thetime to learn it and you might's well learn fast. Before then, you'replain too young to be even near it. I don't have a father to give me one when I come of age. I don't evenhave an older brother as head of my family like your brother Labrador.All I have is Sis. And she — She'll marry some fancy dryhorn who's never been farther South thanthe Polar Coast. And she'll stay head of the family, if I know herbreed of green shata. Bossy, opinionated. By the way, Fordie, hesaid, rising and stretching so the fish-leather bounced and rippled offhis biceps, that sister. She ever.... And he'd be off again, cross-examining me about Evelyn. I sat in theswivel chair he'd vacated and tried to answer his questions. But therewas a lot of stuff I didn't know. Evelyn was a healthy girl, forinstance; how healthy, exactly, I had no way of finding out. Yes, I'dtell him, my aunts on both sides of my family each had had more thanthe average number of children. No, we'd never done any farming tospeak of, back in Undersea, but—yes, I'd guess Evelyn knew about asmuch as any girl there when it came to diving equipment and pressurepump regulation. How would I know that stuff would lead to trouble for me? <doc-sep>Sis had insisted I come along to the geography lecture. Most of theother girls who were going to Venus for husbands talked to each otherduring the lecture, but not my sister! She hung on every word, tooknotes even, and asked enough questions to make the perspiring purserreally work in those orientation periods. I am very sorry, Miss Sparling, he said with pretty heavy sarcasm,but I cannot remember any of the agricultural products of the MacroContinent. Since the human population is well below one per thousandsquare miles, it can readily be understood that the quantity oftilled soil, land or sub-surface, is so small that—Wait, I remembersomething. The Macro Continent exports a fruit though not exactly anedible one. The wild dunging drug is harvested there by criminalspeculators. Contrary to belief on Earth, the traffic has been growingin recent years. In fact— Pardon me, sir, I broke in, but doesn't dunging come only fromLeif Erickson Island off the Moscow Peninsula of the Macro Continent?You remember, purser—Wang Li's third exploration, where he proved theisland and the peninsula didn't meet for most of the year? The purser nodded slowly. I forgot, he admitted. Sorry, ladies, butthe boy's right. Please make the correction in your notes. But Sis was the only one who took notes, and she didn't take that one.She stared at me for a moment, biting her lower lip thoughtfully, whileI got sicker and sicker. Then she shut her pad with the final gestureof the right hand that Mom used to use just before challenging theopposition to come right down on the Council floor and debate it outwith her. Ferdinand, Sis said, let's go back to our cabin. The moment she sat me down and walked slowly around me, I knew I wasin for it. I've been reading up on Venusian geography in the ship'slibrary, I told her in a hurry. No doubt, she said drily. She shook her night-black hair out. Butyou aren't going to tell me that you read about dunging in the ship'slibrary. The books there have been censored by a government agent ofEarth against the possibility that they might be read by susceptibleyoung male minds like yours. She would not have allowed—this TerranAgent— Paddlefoot, I sneered. Sis sat down hard in our zoom-air chair. Now that's a term, she saidcarefully, that is used only by Venusian riffraff. They're not! Not what? Riffraff, I had to answer, knowing I was getting in deeper all thetime and not being able to help it. I mustn't give Mr. Brown away!They're trappers and farmers, pioneers and explorers, who're buildingVenus. And it takes a real man to build on a hot, hungry hell likeVenus. Does it, now? she said, looking at me as if I were beginning to growa second pair of ears. Tell me more. You can't have meek, law-abiding, women-ruled men when you startcivilization on a new planet. You've got to have men who aren't afraidto make their own law if necessary—with their own guns. That's wherelaw begins; the books get written up later. You're going to tell , Ferdinand, what evil, criminal male isspeaking through your mouth! Nobody! I insisted. They're my own ideas! They are remarkably well-organized for a young boy's ideas. A boywho, I might add, has previously shown a ridiculous but nonethelessentirely masculine boredom with political philosophy. I plan to have agovernment career on that new planet you talk about, Ferdinand—afterI have found a good, steady husband, of course—and I don't lookforward to a masculinist radical in the family. Now, who has beenfilling your head with all this nonsense? <doc-sep>I was sweating. Sis has that deadly bulldog approach when she feelssomeone is lying. I pulled my pulpast handkerchief from my pocket towipe my face. Something rattled to the floor. What is this picture of me doing in your pocket, Ferdinand? A trap seemed to be hinging noisily into place. One of the passengerswanted to see how you looked in a bathing suit. The passengers on this ship are all female. I can't imagine any ofthem that curious about my appearance. Ferdinand, it's a man who hasbeen giving you these anti-social ideas, isn't it? A war-mongeringmasculinist like all the frustrated men who want to engage ingovernment and don't have the vaguest idea how to. Except, of course,in their ancient, bloody ways. Ferdinand, who has been perverting thatsunny and carefree soul of yours? Nobody! Nobody! Ferdinand, there's no point in lying! I demand— I told you, Sis. I told you! And don't call me Ferdinand. Call meFord. Ford? Ford? Now, you listen to me, Ferdinand.... After that it was all over but the confession. That came in a fewmoments. I couldn't fool Sis. She just knew me too well, I decidedmiserably. Besides, she was a girl. All the same, I wouldn't get Mr. Butt Lee Brown into trouble if I couldhelp it. I made Sis promise she wouldn't turn him in if I took her tohim. And the quick, nodding way she said she would made me feel just alittle better. The door opened on the signal, Sesame. When Butt saw somebody waswith me, he jumped and the ten-inch blaster barrel grew out of hisfingers. Then he recognized Sis from the pictures. He stepped to one side and, with the same sweeping gesture, holsteredhis blaster and pushed his green hood off. It was Sis's turn to jumpwhen she saw the wild mass of hair rolling down his back. An honor, Miss Sparling, he said in that rumbly voice. Please comeright in. There's a hurry-up draft. So Sis went in and I followed right after her. Mr. Brown closed thedoor. I tried to catch his eye so I could give him some kind of hint orexplanation, but he had taken a couple of his big strides and was inthe control section with Sis. She didn't give ground, though; I'll saythat for her. She only came to his chest, but she had her arms crossedsternly. First, Mr. Brown, she began, like talking to a cluck of a kid inclass, you realize that you are not only committing the politicalcrime of traveling without a visa, and the criminal one of stowing awaywithout paying your fare, but the moral delinquency of consuming storesintended for the personnel of this ship solely in emergency? <doc-sep>He opened his mouth to its maximum width and raised an enormous hand.Then he let the air out and dropped his arm. I take it you either have no defense or care to make none, Sis addedcaustically. Butt laughed slowly and carefully as if he were going over each word.Wonder if all the anura talk like that. And you want to foul upVenus. We haven't done so badly on Earth, after the mess you men made ofpolitics. It needed a revolution of the mothers before— Needed nothing. Everyone wanted peace. Earth is a weary old world. It's a world of strong moral fiber compared to yours, Mr. Alberta LeeBrown. Hearing his rightful name made him move suddenly and tower overher. Sis said with a certain amount of hurry and change of tone, What do you have to say about stowing away and using up lifeboat stores? <doc-sep>He cocked his head and considered a moment. Look, he said finally,I have more than enough munit to pay for round trip tickets, but Icouldn't get a return visa because of that brinosaur judge and allthe charges she hung on me. Had to stow away. Picked the EleanorRoosevelt because a couple of the boys in the crew are friends of mineand they were willing to help. But this lifeboat—don't you know thatevery passenger ship carries four times as many lifeboats as it needs?Not to mention the food I didn't eat because it stuck in my throat? Yes, she said bitterly. You had this boy steal fresh fruit for you.I suppose you didn't know that under space regulations that makes himequally guilty? No, Sis, he didn't, I was beginning to argue. All he wanted— Sure I knew. Also know that if I'm picked up as a stowaway, I'll besent back to Earth to serve out those fancy little sentences. Well, you're guilty of them, aren't you? He waved his hands at her impatiently. I'm not talking law, female;I'm talking sense. Listen! I'm in trouble because I went to Earth tolook for a wife. You're standing here right now because you're on yourway to Venus for a husband. So let's. Sis actually staggered back. Let's? Let's what ? Are—are you daringto suggest that—that— Now, Miss Sparling, no hoopla. I'm saying let's get married, and youknow it. You figured out from what the boy told you that I was chewingon you for a wife. You're healthy and strong, got good heredity, youknow how to operate sub-surface machinery, you've lived underwater, andyour disposition's no worse than most of the anura I've seen. Prolificstock, too. I was so excited I just had to yell: Gee, Sis, say yes ! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the main setting of the story.

The story is mainly set on the Eleanor Roosevelt spaceliner. The ship is a luxury liner, and there are purple lights in front of the doors that light up when a girl is inside on her hammock. Ferdinand describes the ship as being very large, consisting of smooth black walls and white doors that seem to go on endlessly. There are multiple numbered decks and steam jets. The engines and machinery are all properly oiled. Multiple portholes line the hulls, and there is the feeling of gravity underfoot. Many emergency-use spacesuits in glass cases also line the crossways. Some of the decks also have signs with glowing red letters that warn passengers not to enter further. The portholes are described to have no knobs, switches, or even a button to press to open them. Inside the portholes, there are also bunks for the lifeboats. Some of the other amenities on the ship include a dining salon, library, and numbered lifeboat sections for passengers to go to if there is an emergency.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE *** Stalemate In Space By CHARLES L. HARNESS Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison. Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage the main battle raged—where a girl swayed sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears. Die now—die now—die now — Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly. Die now—die now—die now — The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost. The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else. She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space. But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past. For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched The Defender grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe, The Invader , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy, The Defender was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned. The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle. The Defender , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met The Invader with giantfission torpedoes. And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken Defender . The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer The Defender's outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father. In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave TheDefender . Be on it. No. I shall die here. His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle. There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful. But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality. She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present. That time had come. With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die. She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific. With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box. It was a shattered ruin. <doc-sep>Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathinghard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during theinterval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk thatclutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis. She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space. Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were stillintact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it wereunsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythianenemies. Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on thechaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun thesealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling onthe side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowlyto her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valveof her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploringthe surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally shewas alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside thecubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag danglingfrom her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggleto come would be her apparent harmlessness. Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-bornScythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as thatof a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the blackstumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years hadsupplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector. The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, andevidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been twomonths since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.Yes, he would shoot. Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously,hoping that her grimace of pain could not be detected. Withsatisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mindof the Tharn. The gun was lowered, and the man was circling to creep upbehind her. He did not bother to notify his men. He wanted her first.He had seen her uniform, but that deterred him not a whit. Afterwards,he would call up the squad. Finally, they would kill her and move on.Women auxiliaries had no business here, anyway. Hips dipping, Evelyn sauntered into the shattered copse. The man movedfaster, though still trying to approach quietly. Most of the radions inthe mile-high ceiling had been destroyed, and the light was poor. Hewas not surprised when he lost track of his quarry. He tip-toed rapidlyonward, picking his way through the charred and fallen branches,thinking that she must turn up again soon. He had not gone twenty yardsin this manner when a howl of unbearable fury sounded in his mind, andthe dull light in his brain went out. She fought for her life under that mile-high ceiling. Breathing deeply from her mental effort, the woman stepped frombehind a great black tree trunk and hurried to the unconscious man.For I.Q.'s of 100 and less, telepathic cortical paralysis was quiteeffective. With cool efficiency and no trace of distaste she strippedthe odorous uniform from the man, then took his weapon, turned the beampower down very low, and needled a neat slash across his throat. Whilehe bled to death, she slipped deftly into the baggy suit, clasped thebeam gun by the handle, and started up the sooty slope. For a time, atleast, it would be safer to pass as a Tharn soldier than as any kind ofa woman. II The inquisitor leaned forward, frowning at the girl before him. Name? Evelyn Kane. The eyes of the inquisitor widened. So you admit to a Terran name.Well, Terran, you are charged with having stolen passage on a supplylorry, and you also seem to be wearing the uniform of an infantrycorporal as well as that of a Scythian woman auxiliary. Incidentally,where is the corporal? Did you kill him? He was prepared for a last-ditch denial. He would cut it short, havethe guards remove her, and execution would follow immediately. In away, it was unfortunate. The woman was obviously of a high Terranclass. No—he couldn't consider that. His slender means couldn't affordanother woman in his quarters, and besides, he wouldn't feel safe withthis cool murderess. Do you not understand the master tongue? Why did you kill thecorporal? He leaned impatiently over his desk. The woman stared frankly back at him with her clear blue eyes. Theguards on either side of her dug their nails into her arms, as wastheir custom with recalcitrant prisoners, but she took no notice. She had analyzed the minds of the three men. She could handle theinquisitor alone or the two guards alone, but not all three. If you aren't afraid of me, perhaps you'd be so kind as to send theguards out for a few minutes, she said, placing a hand on her hip. Ihave interesting information. So that was it. Buy her freedom by betraying fugitive Terrans. Well, hecould take the information and then kill her. He nodded curtly to theguards, and they walked out of the hut, exchanging sly winks with oneanother. Evelyn Kane crossed her arms across her chest and felt her broken ribgingerly. The inquisitor stared up at her in sadistic admiration. Hewould certainly be on hand for the execution. His anticipation was cutshort with a horrible realization. Under the paralyzing force of a mindgreater than his own, he reached beneath the desk and switched off therecorder. Who is the Occupational Commandant for this Sector, she askedtersely. This must be done swiftly before the guards returned. Perat, Viscount of Tharn, replied the man mechanically. What is the extent of his jurisdiction? From the center of the Terran globe, outward four hundred milesradius. Good. Prepare for me the usual visa that a woman clerk needs forpassage to the offices of the Occupational Commandant. The inquisitor filled in blanks in a stiff sheet of paper and stamped aseal at its bottom. You will add in the portion reserved for 'comments', the following:'Capable clerk. Others will follow as they are found available.' The man's pen scratched away obediently. Evelyn Kane smiled gently at the impotent, inwardly raging inquisitor.She took the paper, folded it, and placed it in a pocket in her blouse.Call the guards, she ordered. He pressed the button on his desk, and the guards re-entered. This person is no longer a prisoner, said the inquisitor woodenly.She is to take the next transport to the Occupational Commandant ofZone One. When the transport had left, neither inquisitor nor guards had anymemory of the woman. However, in the due course of events, therecording was gathered up with many others like it, boxed carefully,and sent to the Office of the Occupational Commandant, Zone One, forauditing. <doc-sep>Evelyn was extremely careful with her mental probe as she descendedfrom the transport. The Occupational Commandant would undoubtedlybe high-born and telepathic. He must not have occasion to suspect asimilar ability in a mere clerk. Fighting had passed this way, too, and recently. Many of the buildingswere still smoking, and many of the radions high above were eithershot out or obscured by slowly drifting dust clouds. The acrid odor ofradiation-remover was everywhere. She caught the sound of spasmodic small-arm fire. What is that? she asked the transport attendant. The Commandant is shooting prisoners, he replied laconically. Oh. Where did you want to go? To the personnel office. That way. He pointed to the largest building of the group—twostories high, reasonably intact. She walked off down the gravel path, which was stained here and therewith dark sticky red. She gave her visa to the guard at the door andwas admitted to an improvised waiting room, where another guard eyedher stonily. The firing was much nearer. She recognized the obscenecoughs of a Faeg pistol and began to feel sick. A woman in the green uniform of the Scythe auxiliary came in, whisperedsomething to the guard, and then told Evelyn to follow her. In the anteroom a grey cat looked her over curiously, and Evelynfrowned. She might have to get rid of the cat if she stayed here. Undercertain circumstances the animal could prove her deadliest enemy. The next room held a foppish little man, evidently a supervisor of somesort, who was studying her visa. I'm very happy to have you here, S'ria—ah——he looked at the visasuspiciously—S'ria Lyn. Do sit down. But, as I was just remarking toS'ria Gerek, here—he nodded to the other woman, who smiled back—Iwish the field officers would make up their august minds as to whetherthey want you or don't want you. Just why did they transfer you toH.Q.? She thought quickly. This pompous little ass would have to be givensome answer that would keep him from checking with the inquisitor. Itwould have to be something personal. She looked at the false black inhis eyebrows and sideburns, and the artificial way in which he hadcombed hair over his bald spot. She crossed her knees slowly, ignoringthe narrowing eyes of S'ria Gerek, and smoothed the back of her braidedyellow hair. He was studying her covertly. The men in the fighting zones are uncouth, S'ria Gorph, she saidsimply. I was told that you , that is, I mean— Yes? he was the soul of graciousness. S'ria Gerek began to dictateloudly into her mechanical transcriber. Evelyn cleared her throat, averted her eyes, and with some effort,managed a delicate flush. I meant to say, I thought I would be happierworking for—working here. So I asked for a transfer. S'ria Gorph beamed. Splendid. But the occupation isn't over, yet,you know. There'll be hard work here for several weeks yet, before wecut loose from the enemy globe. But you do your work well—winkingartfully—and I'll see that— He stopped, and his face took on a hunted look of mingled fear andanxiety. He appeared to listen. Evelyn tensed her mind to receive and deceive a mental probe. She wascertain now that the Zone Commandant was high-born and telepathic. Thechances were only fifty-fifty that she could delude him for any lengthof time if he became interested in her. He must be avoided if at allpossible. It should not be too difficult. He undoubtedly had a dozenpersonal secretaries and/or concubines and would take small interest inthe lowly employees that amused Gorph. Gorph looked at her uncertainly. Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns,sends you his compliments and wishes to see you on the balcony. Hepointed to a hallway. All the way through there, across to the otherwing. As she left, she heard all sound in the room stop. The transcribing andcalculating machines trailed off into a watchful silence, and she couldfeel the eyes of the men and women on her back. She noticed then thatthe Faeg had ceased firing. <doc-sep>Her heart was beating faster as she walked down the hall. She felt avery strong probe flooding over her brain casually, palping with mildinterest the artificial memories she supplied: Escapades with officersin the combat areas. Reprimands. Demotion and transfer. Her deceptionof Gorph. Her anticipation of meeting a real Viscount and hoping hewould let her dance for him. The questing probe withdrew as idly as it had come, and she breatheda sigh of relief. She could not hope to deceive a suspicious telepathfor long. Perat was merely amused at her lie to his under-supervisor.He had accepted her at her own face value, as supplied by her falsememories. She opened the door to the balcony and saw a man leaning moodily on thebalustrade. He gave no immediate notice of her presence. The five hundred and sixth heir of Tharn was of uncertain age, as weremost of the men of both globes. Only the left side of his face could beseen. It was gaunt and leathery, and a deep thin scar lifted the cornerof his mouth into a satanic smile. A faint paunch was gathering at hisabdomen, as befitted a warrior turned to boring paper work. His closelycut black hair and the two sparkling red-gemmed rings—apparentlyidentical—on his right hand seemed to denote a certain fastidiousnessand unconscious superiority. To Evelyn the jeweled fingers bespoke anunnatural contrast to the past history of the man and were symptomaticof a personality that could find stimulation only in strange and cruelpleasures. In alarm she suddenly realized that she had inadvertently let herappraisal penetrate her uncovered conscious mind, and that this probewas there awaiting it. You are right, he said coldly, still staring into the court below.Now that the long battle is over, there is little left to divert me. He pushed the Faeg across the coping toward her. Take this. He had not as yet looked at her. She crossed the balcony, simultaneously grasping the pistol he offeredher and looking down into the courtyard. There seemed to be nearlytwenty Terrans lying about, in pools of their own blood. Only one man, a Terran officer of very high rank—was left standing.His arms were folded somberly across his chest, and he studied thekiller above him almost casually. But when the woman came out, theireyes met, and he started imperceptibly. Evelyn Kane felt a horrid chill creeping over her. The man's hair waswhite, now, and his proud face lined with deep furrows, but there couldbe no mistake. It was Gordon, Lord Kane. Her father. The sweat continued to grow on her forehead, and she felt for a momentthat she needed only to wish hard enough, and this would be a dream.A dream of a big, kind, dark-haired man with laugh-wrinkles about hiseyes, who sat her on his knee when she was a little girl and readbedtime stories to her from a great book with many pictures. An icy, amused voice came through: Our orders are to kill allprisoners. It is entertaining to shoot down helpless men, isn't it? Itwarms me to know that I am cruel and wanton, and worthy of my trust. Even in the midst of her horror, a cold, analytical part of her wasexplaining why the Commandant had called her to the balcony. Becauseall captured Terrans had to be killed, he hated his superiors, his ownmen, and especially the prisoners. A task so revolting he could notrelegate to his own officers. He must do it himself, but he wanted hisunderlings to know he loathed them for it. She was merely a symbol ofthat contempt. His next words did not surprise her. It is even more stimulating to require a shuddering female to killthem. You are shuddering you know? She nodded dumbly. Her palm was so wet that a drop of sweat droppedfrom it to the floor. She was thinking hard. She could kill theCommandant and save her father for a little while. But then theproblem of detonating the pile remained, and it would not be solvedmore quickly by killing the man who controlled the pile area. On thecontrary if she could get him interested in her— So far as our records indicate, murmured Perat, the man down thereis the last living Terran within The Defender . It occurred to me thatour newest clerk would like to start off her duties with a bang. TheFaeg is adjusted to a needle-beam. If you put a bolt between the man'seyes, you may dance for me tonight, and perhaps there will be othernights— The woman seemed lost in thought for a long time. Slowly, she liftedthe ugly little weapon. The doomed Terran looked up at her peacefully,without expression. She lowered the Faeg, her arm trembling. Gordon, Lord Kane, frowned faintly, then closed his eyes. She raisedthe gun again, drew cross hairs with a nerveless wrist, and squeezedthe trigger. There was a loud, hollow cough, but no recoil. The Terranofficer, his eyes still closed and arms folded, sank to the ground,face up. Blood was running from a tiny hole in his forehead. The man leaning on the balustrade turned and looked at Evelyn, at firstwith amused contempt, then with narrowing, questioning eyes. Come here, he ordered. The Faeg dropped from her hand. With a titanic effort she activated herlegs and walked toward him. He was studying her face very carefully. She felt that she was going to be sick. Her knees were so weak that shehad to lean on the coping. With a forefinger he lifted up the mass of golden curls that hungover her right forehead and examined the scar hidden there, where thementors had cut into her frontal lobe. The tiny doll they had createdfor her writhed uneasily in her waist-purse, but Perat seemed to bethinking of something else, and missed the significance of the scarcompletely. He dropped his hand. I'm sorry, he said with a quiet weariness. Ishouldn't have asked you to kill the Terran. It was a sorry joke.Then: Have you ever seen me before? No, she whispered hoarsely. His mind was in hers, verifying the fact. Have you ever met my father, Phaen, the old Count of Tharn? No. Do you have a son? No. His mind was out of hers again, and he had turned moodily back,surveying the courtyard and the dead. Gorph will be wondering whathappened to you. Come to my quarters at the eighth metron tonight. Apparently he suspected nothing. Father. Father. I had to do it. But we'll all join you, soon. Soon. III Perat lay on his couch, sipping cold purple terif and following thethinly-clad dancer with narrowed eyes. Music, soft and subtle, floatedfrom his communications box, illegally tuned to an officer's clubsomewhere. Evelyn made the rhythm part of her as she swayed slowly ontiptoe. For the last thirty nights—the hours allotted to rest and sleep—ithad been thus. By day she probed furtively into the minds of theoffice staff, memorizing area designations, channels for officialmessages, and the names and authorizations of occupational field crews.By night she danced for Perat, who never took his eyes from her, norhis probe from her mind. While she danced it was not too difficult toelude the probe. There was an odd autohypnosis in dancing that blottedout memory and knowledge. Enough for now, he ordered. Careful of your rib. When he had first seen the bandages on her bare chest, that firstnight, she had been ready with a memory of dancing on a freshly waxedfloor, and of falling. Perat seemed to be debating with himself as she sat down on her owncouch to rest. He got up, unlocked his desk, and drew out a tiny reelof metal wire, which Evelyn recognized as being feed for an amateurstereop projector. He placed the reel in a projector that had beeninstalled in the wall, flicked off the table luminar, and both of themwaited in the dark, breathing rather loudly. Suddenly the center of the room was bright with a ball of light sometwo feet in diameter, and inside the luminous sphere were an old man, awoman, and a little boy of about four years. They were walking througha luxurious garden, and then they stopped, looked up, and waved gaily. Evelyn studied the trio with growing wonder. The old man and the boywere complete strangers. But the woman—! That is Phaen, my father, said Perat quietly. He stayed at homebecause he hated war. And that is a path in our country estate onTharn-R-VII. The little boy I fail to recognize, beyond a generalresemblance to the Tharn line. But— can you deny that you are the woman ? The stereop snapped off, and she sat wordless in the dark. There seemed to be some similarity— she admitted. Her throat wassuddenly dry. Yet, why should she be alarmed? She really didn't knowthe woman. The table luminar was on now, and Perat was prowling hungrily about theroom, his scar twisting his otherwise handsome face into a snarlingscowl. Similarity! Bah! That loop of hair over her right forehead hid a scaridentical to yours. I have had the individual frames analyzed! Evelyn's hands knotted unconsciously. She forced her body to relax, buther mind was racing. This introduced another variable to be controlledin her plan for destruction. She must make it a known quantity. Did your father send it to you? she asked. The day before you arrived here. It had been en route for months, ofcourse. What did he say about it? He said, 'Your widow and son send greetings. Be of good cheer, andaccept our love.' What nonsense! He knows very well I'm not married andthat—well, if I have ever fathered any children, I don't know aboutthem. Is that all he said? That's all, except that he included this ring. He pulled one of theduplicate jewels from his right middle finger and tossed it to her.It's identical to the one he had made for me when I entered on mymajority. For a long time it was thought that it was the only stone ofits kind on all the planets of the Tharn suns, a mineralogical freak,but I guess he found another. But why should I want two of them? Evelyn crossed the room and returned the ring. Existence is so full of mysteries, isn't it? murmured Perat.Sometimes it seems unfortunate that we must pass through a sentientphase on our way to death. This foolish, foolish war. Maybe the oldcount was right. You could be courtmartialed for that. Speaking of courtmartials, I've got to attend one tonight—an appealfrom a death sentence. He arose, smoothed his hair and clothes, andpoured another glass of terif . Some fool inquisitor can't showproper disposition of a woman prisoner. Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. Indeed? The wretch insists that he could remember if we would just let himalone. I suppose he took a bribe. You'll find one now and then whotries for a little extra profit. She must absolutely not be seen by the condemned inquisitor. Thestimulus would almost certainly make him remember. I'll wait for you, she said indifferently, thrusting her arms out ina languorous yawn. Very well. Perat stepped to the door, then turned and looked back ather. On the other hand, I may need a clerk. It's way after hours, andthe others have gone. Beneath a gesture of wry protest, she swallowed rapidly. Perhaps you'd better come, insisted Perat. She stood up, unloosed her waist-purse, checked its contents swiftly,and then followed him out. This might be a very close thing. From the purse she took a bottle ofperfume and rubbed her ear lobes casually. Odd smell, commented Perat, wrinkling his nose. Odd scent, corrected Evelyn cryptically. She was thinking aboutthe earnest faces of the mentors as they instructed her carefully inthe use of the perfume. The adrenalin glands, they had explained,provided a useful and powerful stimulant to a man in danger. Adrenalinslowed the heart and digestion, increased the systole and bloodpressure, and increased perspiration to cool the skin. But therecould be too much of a good thing. An overdose of adrenalin, they hadpointed out, caused almost immediate edema. The lungs filled rapidlywith the serum and the victim ... drowned. The perfume she possessedover-stimulated, in some unknown way, the adrenals of frightenedpersons. It had no effect on inactive adrenals. The question remained—who would be the more frightened, she or thecondemned inquisitor? She was perspiring freely, and the blonde hair on her arms and neck wasstanding stiffly when Perat opened the door for her and they enteredthe Zone Provost's chambers. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Evelyn Kane finds herself in pain in the middle of fighting spaceships. She realizes that her nation has lost after 9 years of war and remembers about her task to explode both ships. When she resolves to press the button, it doesn’t work. By deception, she manages to defeat the guards on the ship. Then she gets to the inquisitor and by control of his mind makes him set her free and send her to another zone as a clerk. There a supervisor gets suspicious of her transfer but she convinces him in her honesty. After that she meets Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns, her main aim, and is forced to shoot her own father not to be uncovered. From that moment she becomes a private dancer for Perat by night, and a spy into the officers’ minds by day. One day Perat showed Evelyn a reel of his father, a boy, and a woman very much alike her. This reel was sent by his father with a greeting from Perat’s wife and son, though he was not married. Then the mysterious topic changes and Perat asks Evelyn to accompany him to the execution of the foolish inquisitor. Scared of being recognised by the inquisitor she used a dangerous perfume capable of causing death and entered the room.

What relationship does Evelyn have with her father? [SEP] <s>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE *** Stalemate In Space By CHARLES L. HARNESS Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison. Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage the main battle raged—where a girl swayed sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears. Die now—die now—die now — Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly. Die now—die now—die now — The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost. The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else. She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space. But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past. For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched The Defender grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe, The Invader , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy, The Defender was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned. The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle. The Defender , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met The Invader with giantfission torpedoes. And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken Defender . The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer The Defender's outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father. In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave TheDefender . Be on it. No. I shall die here. His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle. There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful. But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality. She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present. That time had come. With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die. She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific. With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box. It was a shattered ruin. <doc-sep>Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathinghard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during theinterval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk thatclutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis. She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space. Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were stillintact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it wereunsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythianenemies. Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on thechaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun thesealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling onthe side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowlyto her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valveof her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploringthe surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally shewas alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside thecubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag danglingfrom her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggleto come would be her apparent harmlessness. Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-bornScythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as thatof a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the blackstumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years hadsupplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector. The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, andevidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been twomonths since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.Yes, he would shoot. Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously,hoping that her grimace of pain could not be detected. Withsatisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mindof the Tharn. The gun was lowered, and the man was circling to creep upbehind her. He did not bother to notify his men. He wanted her first.He had seen her uniform, but that deterred him not a whit. Afterwards,he would call up the squad. Finally, they would kill her and move on.Women auxiliaries had no business here, anyway. Hips dipping, Evelyn sauntered into the shattered copse. The man movedfaster, though still trying to approach quietly. Most of the radions inthe mile-high ceiling had been destroyed, and the light was poor. Hewas not surprised when he lost track of his quarry. He tip-toed rapidlyonward, picking his way through the charred and fallen branches,thinking that she must turn up again soon. He had not gone twenty yardsin this manner when a howl of unbearable fury sounded in his mind, andthe dull light in his brain went out. She fought for her life under that mile-high ceiling. Breathing deeply from her mental effort, the woman stepped frombehind a great black tree trunk and hurried to the unconscious man.For I.Q.'s of 100 and less, telepathic cortical paralysis was quiteeffective. With cool efficiency and no trace of distaste she strippedthe odorous uniform from the man, then took his weapon, turned the beampower down very low, and needled a neat slash across his throat. Whilehe bled to death, she slipped deftly into the baggy suit, clasped thebeam gun by the handle, and started up the sooty slope. For a time, atleast, it would be safer to pass as a Tharn soldier than as any kind ofa woman. II The inquisitor leaned forward, frowning at the girl before him. Name? Evelyn Kane. The eyes of the inquisitor widened. So you admit to a Terran name.Well, Terran, you are charged with having stolen passage on a supplylorry, and you also seem to be wearing the uniform of an infantrycorporal as well as that of a Scythian woman auxiliary. Incidentally,where is the corporal? Did you kill him? He was prepared for a last-ditch denial. He would cut it short, havethe guards remove her, and execution would follow immediately. In away, it was unfortunate. The woman was obviously of a high Terranclass. No—he couldn't consider that. His slender means couldn't affordanother woman in his quarters, and besides, he wouldn't feel safe withthis cool murderess. Do you not understand the master tongue? Why did you kill thecorporal? He leaned impatiently over his desk. The woman stared frankly back at him with her clear blue eyes. Theguards on either side of her dug their nails into her arms, as wastheir custom with recalcitrant prisoners, but she took no notice. She had analyzed the minds of the three men. She could handle theinquisitor alone or the two guards alone, but not all three. If you aren't afraid of me, perhaps you'd be so kind as to send theguards out for a few minutes, she said, placing a hand on her hip. Ihave interesting information. So that was it. Buy her freedom by betraying fugitive Terrans. Well, hecould take the information and then kill her. He nodded curtly to theguards, and they walked out of the hut, exchanging sly winks with oneanother. Evelyn Kane crossed her arms across her chest and felt her broken ribgingerly. The inquisitor stared up at her in sadistic admiration. Hewould certainly be on hand for the execution. His anticipation was cutshort with a horrible realization. Under the paralyzing force of a mindgreater than his own, he reached beneath the desk and switched off therecorder. Who is the Occupational Commandant for this Sector, she askedtersely. This must be done swiftly before the guards returned. Perat, Viscount of Tharn, replied the man mechanically. What is the extent of his jurisdiction? From the center of the Terran globe, outward four hundred milesradius. Good. Prepare for me the usual visa that a woman clerk needs forpassage to the offices of the Occupational Commandant. The inquisitor filled in blanks in a stiff sheet of paper and stamped aseal at its bottom. You will add in the portion reserved for 'comments', the following:'Capable clerk. Others will follow as they are found available.' The man's pen scratched away obediently. Evelyn Kane smiled gently at the impotent, inwardly raging inquisitor.She took the paper, folded it, and placed it in a pocket in her blouse.Call the guards, she ordered. He pressed the button on his desk, and the guards re-entered. This person is no longer a prisoner, said the inquisitor woodenly.She is to take the next transport to the Occupational Commandant ofZone One. When the transport had left, neither inquisitor nor guards had anymemory of the woman. However, in the due course of events, therecording was gathered up with many others like it, boxed carefully,and sent to the Office of the Occupational Commandant, Zone One, forauditing. <doc-sep>Evelyn was extremely careful with her mental probe as she descendedfrom the transport. The Occupational Commandant would undoubtedlybe high-born and telepathic. He must not have occasion to suspect asimilar ability in a mere clerk. Fighting had passed this way, too, and recently. Many of the buildingswere still smoking, and many of the radions high above were eithershot out or obscured by slowly drifting dust clouds. The acrid odor ofradiation-remover was everywhere. She caught the sound of spasmodic small-arm fire. What is that? she asked the transport attendant. The Commandant is shooting prisoners, he replied laconically. Oh. Where did you want to go? To the personnel office. That way. He pointed to the largest building of the group—twostories high, reasonably intact. She walked off down the gravel path, which was stained here and therewith dark sticky red. She gave her visa to the guard at the door andwas admitted to an improvised waiting room, where another guard eyedher stonily. The firing was much nearer. She recognized the obscenecoughs of a Faeg pistol and began to feel sick. A woman in the green uniform of the Scythe auxiliary came in, whisperedsomething to the guard, and then told Evelyn to follow her. In the anteroom a grey cat looked her over curiously, and Evelynfrowned. She might have to get rid of the cat if she stayed here. Undercertain circumstances the animal could prove her deadliest enemy. The next room held a foppish little man, evidently a supervisor of somesort, who was studying her visa. I'm very happy to have you here, S'ria—ah——he looked at the visasuspiciously—S'ria Lyn. Do sit down. But, as I was just remarking toS'ria Gerek, here—he nodded to the other woman, who smiled back—Iwish the field officers would make up their august minds as to whetherthey want you or don't want you. Just why did they transfer you toH.Q.? She thought quickly. This pompous little ass would have to be givensome answer that would keep him from checking with the inquisitor. Itwould have to be something personal. She looked at the false black inhis eyebrows and sideburns, and the artificial way in which he hadcombed hair over his bald spot. She crossed her knees slowly, ignoringthe narrowing eyes of S'ria Gerek, and smoothed the back of her braidedyellow hair. He was studying her covertly. The men in the fighting zones are uncouth, S'ria Gorph, she saidsimply. I was told that you , that is, I mean— Yes? he was the soul of graciousness. S'ria Gerek began to dictateloudly into her mechanical transcriber. Evelyn cleared her throat, averted her eyes, and with some effort,managed a delicate flush. I meant to say, I thought I would be happierworking for—working here. So I asked for a transfer. S'ria Gorph beamed. Splendid. But the occupation isn't over, yet,you know. There'll be hard work here for several weeks yet, before wecut loose from the enemy globe. But you do your work well—winkingartfully—and I'll see that— He stopped, and his face took on a hunted look of mingled fear andanxiety. He appeared to listen. Evelyn tensed her mind to receive and deceive a mental probe. She wascertain now that the Zone Commandant was high-born and telepathic. Thechances were only fifty-fifty that she could delude him for any lengthof time if he became interested in her. He must be avoided if at allpossible. It should not be too difficult. He undoubtedly had a dozenpersonal secretaries and/or concubines and would take small interest inthe lowly employees that amused Gorph. Gorph looked at her uncertainly. Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns,sends you his compliments and wishes to see you on the balcony. Hepointed to a hallway. All the way through there, across to the otherwing. As she left, she heard all sound in the room stop. The transcribing andcalculating machines trailed off into a watchful silence, and she couldfeel the eyes of the men and women on her back. She noticed then thatthe Faeg had ceased firing. <doc-sep>Her heart was beating faster as she walked down the hall. She felt avery strong probe flooding over her brain casually, palping with mildinterest the artificial memories she supplied: Escapades with officersin the combat areas. Reprimands. Demotion and transfer. Her deceptionof Gorph. Her anticipation of meeting a real Viscount and hoping hewould let her dance for him. The questing probe withdrew as idly as it had come, and she breatheda sigh of relief. She could not hope to deceive a suspicious telepathfor long. Perat was merely amused at her lie to his under-supervisor.He had accepted her at her own face value, as supplied by her falsememories. She opened the door to the balcony and saw a man leaning moodily on thebalustrade. He gave no immediate notice of her presence. The five hundred and sixth heir of Tharn was of uncertain age, as weremost of the men of both globes. Only the left side of his face could beseen. It was gaunt and leathery, and a deep thin scar lifted the cornerof his mouth into a satanic smile. A faint paunch was gathering at hisabdomen, as befitted a warrior turned to boring paper work. His closelycut black hair and the two sparkling red-gemmed rings—apparentlyidentical—on his right hand seemed to denote a certain fastidiousnessand unconscious superiority. To Evelyn the jeweled fingers bespoke anunnatural contrast to the past history of the man and were symptomaticof a personality that could find stimulation only in strange and cruelpleasures. In alarm she suddenly realized that she had inadvertently let herappraisal penetrate her uncovered conscious mind, and that this probewas there awaiting it. You are right, he said coldly, still staring into the court below.Now that the long battle is over, there is little left to divert me. He pushed the Faeg across the coping toward her. Take this. He had not as yet looked at her. She crossed the balcony, simultaneously grasping the pistol he offeredher and looking down into the courtyard. There seemed to be nearlytwenty Terrans lying about, in pools of their own blood. Only one man, a Terran officer of very high rank—was left standing.His arms were folded somberly across his chest, and he studied thekiller above him almost casually. But when the woman came out, theireyes met, and he started imperceptibly. Evelyn Kane felt a horrid chill creeping over her. The man's hair waswhite, now, and his proud face lined with deep furrows, but there couldbe no mistake. It was Gordon, Lord Kane. Her father. The sweat continued to grow on her forehead, and she felt for a momentthat she needed only to wish hard enough, and this would be a dream.A dream of a big, kind, dark-haired man with laugh-wrinkles about hiseyes, who sat her on his knee when she was a little girl and readbedtime stories to her from a great book with many pictures. An icy, amused voice came through: Our orders are to kill allprisoners. It is entertaining to shoot down helpless men, isn't it? Itwarms me to know that I am cruel and wanton, and worthy of my trust. Even in the midst of her horror, a cold, analytical part of her wasexplaining why the Commandant had called her to the balcony. Becauseall captured Terrans had to be killed, he hated his superiors, his ownmen, and especially the prisoners. A task so revolting he could notrelegate to his own officers. He must do it himself, but he wanted hisunderlings to know he loathed them for it. She was merely a symbol ofthat contempt. His next words did not surprise her. It is even more stimulating to require a shuddering female to killthem. You are shuddering you know? She nodded dumbly. Her palm was so wet that a drop of sweat droppedfrom it to the floor. She was thinking hard. She could kill theCommandant and save her father for a little while. But then theproblem of detonating the pile remained, and it would not be solvedmore quickly by killing the man who controlled the pile area. On thecontrary if she could get him interested in her— So far as our records indicate, murmured Perat, the man down thereis the last living Terran within The Defender . It occurred to me thatour newest clerk would like to start off her duties with a bang. TheFaeg is adjusted to a needle-beam. If you put a bolt between the man'seyes, you may dance for me tonight, and perhaps there will be othernights— The woman seemed lost in thought for a long time. Slowly, she liftedthe ugly little weapon. The doomed Terran looked up at her peacefully,without expression. She lowered the Faeg, her arm trembling. Gordon, Lord Kane, frowned faintly, then closed his eyes. She raisedthe gun again, drew cross hairs with a nerveless wrist, and squeezedthe trigger. There was a loud, hollow cough, but no recoil. The Terranofficer, his eyes still closed and arms folded, sank to the ground,face up. Blood was running from a tiny hole in his forehead. The man leaning on the balustrade turned and looked at Evelyn, at firstwith amused contempt, then with narrowing, questioning eyes. Come here, he ordered. The Faeg dropped from her hand. With a titanic effort she activated herlegs and walked toward him. He was studying her face very carefully. She felt that she was going to be sick. Her knees were so weak that shehad to lean on the coping. With a forefinger he lifted up the mass of golden curls that hungover her right forehead and examined the scar hidden there, where thementors had cut into her frontal lobe. The tiny doll they had createdfor her writhed uneasily in her waist-purse, but Perat seemed to bethinking of something else, and missed the significance of the scarcompletely. He dropped his hand. I'm sorry, he said with a quiet weariness. Ishouldn't have asked you to kill the Terran. It was a sorry joke.Then: Have you ever seen me before? No, she whispered hoarsely. His mind was in hers, verifying the fact. Have you ever met my father, Phaen, the old Count of Tharn? No. Do you have a son? No. His mind was out of hers again, and he had turned moodily back,surveying the courtyard and the dead. Gorph will be wondering whathappened to you. Come to my quarters at the eighth metron tonight. Apparently he suspected nothing. Father. Father. I had to do it. But we'll all join you, soon. Soon. III Perat lay on his couch, sipping cold purple terif and following thethinly-clad dancer with narrowed eyes. Music, soft and subtle, floatedfrom his communications box, illegally tuned to an officer's clubsomewhere. Evelyn made the rhythm part of her as she swayed slowly ontiptoe. For the last thirty nights—the hours allotted to rest and sleep—ithad been thus. By day she probed furtively into the minds of theoffice staff, memorizing area designations, channels for officialmessages, and the names and authorizations of occupational field crews.By night she danced for Perat, who never took his eyes from her, norhis probe from her mind. While she danced it was not too difficult toelude the probe. There was an odd autohypnosis in dancing that blottedout memory and knowledge. Enough for now, he ordered. Careful of your rib. When he had first seen the bandages on her bare chest, that firstnight, she had been ready with a memory of dancing on a freshly waxedfloor, and of falling. Perat seemed to be debating with himself as she sat down on her owncouch to rest. He got up, unlocked his desk, and drew out a tiny reelof metal wire, which Evelyn recognized as being feed for an amateurstereop projector. He placed the reel in a projector that had beeninstalled in the wall, flicked off the table luminar, and both of themwaited in the dark, breathing rather loudly. Suddenly the center of the room was bright with a ball of light sometwo feet in diameter, and inside the luminous sphere were an old man, awoman, and a little boy of about four years. They were walking througha luxurious garden, and then they stopped, looked up, and waved gaily. Evelyn studied the trio with growing wonder. The old man and the boywere complete strangers. But the woman—! That is Phaen, my father, said Perat quietly. He stayed at homebecause he hated war. And that is a path in our country estate onTharn-R-VII. The little boy I fail to recognize, beyond a generalresemblance to the Tharn line. But— can you deny that you are the woman ? The stereop snapped off, and she sat wordless in the dark. There seemed to be some similarity— she admitted. Her throat wassuddenly dry. Yet, why should she be alarmed? She really didn't knowthe woman. The table luminar was on now, and Perat was prowling hungrily about theroom, his scar twisting his otherwise handsome face into a snarlingscowl. Similarity! Bah! That loop of hair over her right forehead hid a scaridentical to yours. I have had the individual frames analyzed! Evelyn's hands knotted unconsciously. She forced her body to relax, buther mind was racing. This introduced another variable to be controlledin her plan for destruction. She must make it a known quantity. Did your father send it to you? she asked. The day before you arrived here. It had been en route for months, ofcourse. What did he say about it? He said, 'Your widow and son send greetings. Be of good cheer, andaccept our love.' What nonsense! He knows very well I'm not married andthat—well, if I have ever fathered any children, I don't know aboutthem. Is that all he said? That's all, except that he included this ring. He pulled one of theduplicate jewels from his right middle finger and tossed it to her.It's identical to the one he had made for me when I entered on mymajority. For a long time it was thought that it was the only stone ofits kind on all the planets of the Tharn suns, a mineralogical freak,but I guess he found another. But why should I want two of them? Evelyn crossed the room and returned the ring. Existence is so full of mysteries, isn't it? murmured Perat.Sometimes it seems unfortunate that we must pass through a sentientphase on our way to death. This foolish, foolish war. Maybe the oldcount was right. You could be courtmartialed for that. Speaking of courtmartials, I've got to attend one tonight—an appealfrom a death sentence. He arose, smoothed his hair and clothes, andpoured another glass of terif . Some fool inquisitor can't showproper disposition of a woman prisoner. Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. Indeed? The wretch insists that he could remember if we would just let himalone. I suppose he took a bribe. You'll find one now and then whotries for a little extra profit. She must absolutely not be seen by the condemned inquisitor. Thestimulus would almost certainly make him remember. I'll wait for you, she said indifferently, thrusting her arms out ina languorous yawn. Very well. Perat stepped to the door, then turned and looked back ather. On the other hand, I may need a clerk. It's way after hours, andthe others have gone. Beneath a gesture of wry protest, she swallowed rapidly. Perhaps you'd better come, insisted Perat. She stood up, unloosed her waist-purse, checked its contents swiftly,and then followed him out. This might be a very close thing. From the purse she took a bottle ofperfume and rubbed her ear lobes casually. Odd smell, commented Perat, wrinkling his nose. Odd scent, corrected Evelyn cryptically. She was thinking aboutthe earnest faces of the mentors as they instructed her carefully inthe use of the perfume. The adrenalin glands, they had explained,provided a useful and powerful stimulant to a man in danger. Adrenalinslowed the heart and digestion, increased the systole and bloodpressure, and increased perspiration to cool the skin. But therecould be too much of a good thing. An overdose of adrenalin, they hadpointed out, caused almost immediate edema. The lungs filled rapidlywith the serum and the victim ... drowned. The perfume she possessedover-stimulated, in some unknown way, the adrenals of frightenedpersons. It had no effect on inactive adrenals. The question remained—who would be the more frightened, she or thecondemned inquisitor? She was perspiring freely, and the blonde hair on her arms and neck wasstanding stiffly when Perat opened the door for her and they enteredthe Zone Provost's chambers. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What relationship does Evelyn have with her father?

Evelyn was very close with her father as a child and she has a lot of warm memories of their moments together. Her father was the commander of the Defender, a powerful man, Lord Kane. He wanted to save his daughter by putting her on the last ship leaving the Defender, but she decided to stay and die with her people. This decision impressed her father, and after a brief evaluation he decided to make use of her and give her the most important task - explode both ships. Therefore, their relationship is both caring but professional and with the feeling of duty. While resolving to press the button, Evelyn remembered her father and that helped her decision. After her escape and getting to the Viscount she had to end her relationship with her father by shooting him. Trembling, full of emotions and desire to save him, Evelyn was still able to shoot as she didn't see another positive solution for them both. She felt sad and sorry, but she felt she did the right think and would soon join her father in death.

What tricks does Evelyn use to stay alive and free? [SEP] <s>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE *** Stalemate In Space By CHARLES L. HARNESS Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison. Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage the main battle raged—where a girl swayed sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears. Die now—die now—die now — Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly. Die now—die now—die now — The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost. The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else. She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space. But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past. For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched The Defender grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe, The Invader , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy, The Defender was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned. The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle. The Defender , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met The Invader with giantfission torpedoes. And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken Defender . The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer The Defender's outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father. In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave TheDefender . Be on it. No. I shall die here. His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle. There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful. But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality. She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present. That time had come. With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die. She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific. With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box. It was a shattered ruin. <doc-sep>Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathinghard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during theinterval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk thatclutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis. She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space. Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were stillintact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it wereunsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythianenemies. Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on thechaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun thesealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling onthe side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowlyto her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valveof her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploringthe surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally shewas alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside thecubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag danglingfrom her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggleto come would be her apparent harmlessness. Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-bornScythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as thatof a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the blackstumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years hadsupplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector. The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, andevidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been twomonths since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.Yes, he would shoot. Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously,hoping that her grimace of pain could not be detected. Withsatisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mindof the Tharn. The gun was lowered, and the man was circling to creep upbehind her. He did not bother to notify his men. He wanted her first.He had seen her uniform, but that deterred him not a whit. Afterwards,he would call up the squad. Finally, they would kill her and move on.Women auxiliaries had no business here, anyway. Hips dipping, Evelyn sauntered into the shattered copse. The man movedfaster, though still trying to approach quietly. Most of the radions inthe mile-high ceiling had been destroyed, and the light was poor. Hewas not surprised when he lost track of his quarry. He tip-toed rapidlyonward, picking his way through the charred and fallen branches,thinking that she must turn up again soon. He had not gone twenty yardsin this manner when a howl of unbearable fury sounded in his mind, andthe dull light in his brain went out. She fought for her life under that mile-high ceiling. Breathing deeply from her mental effort, the woman stepped frombehind a great black tree trunk and hurried to the unconscious man.For I.Q.'s of 100 and less, telepathic cortical paralysis was quiteeffective. With cool efficiency and no trace of distaste she strippedthe odorous uniform from the man, then took his weapon, turned the beampower down very low, and needled a neat slash across his throat. Whilehe bled to death, she slipped deftly into the baggy suit, clasped thebeam gun by the handle, and started up the sooty slope. For a time, atleast, it would be safer to pass as a Tharn soldier than as any kind ofa woman. II The inquisitor leaned forward, frowning at the girl before him. Name? Evelyn Kane. The eyes of the inquisitor widened. So you admit to a Terran name.Well, Terran, you are charged with having stolen passage on a supplylorry, and you also seem to be wearing the uniform of an infantrycorporal as well as that of a Scythian woman auxiliary. Incidentally,where is the corporal? Did you kill him? He was prepared for a last-ditch denial. He would cut it short, havethe guards remove her, and execution would follow immediately. In away, it was unfortunate. The woman was obviously of a high Terranclass. No—he couldn't consider that. His slender means couldn't affordanother woman in his quarters, and besides, he wouldn't feel safe withthis cool murderess. Do you not understand the master tongue? Why did you kill thecorporal? He leaned impatiently over his desk. The woman stared frankly back at him with her clear blue eyes. Theguards on either side of her dug their nails into her arms, as wastheir custom with recalcitrant prisoners, but she took no notice. She had analyzed the minds of the three men. She could handle theinquisitor alone or the two guards alone, but not all three. If you aren't afraid of me, perhaps you'd be so kind as to send theguards out for a few minutes, she said, placing a hand on her hip. Ihave interesting information. So that was it. Buy her freedom by betraying fugitive Terrans. Well, hecould take the information and then kill her. He nodded curtly to theguards, and they walked out of the hut, exchanging sly winks with oneanother. Evelyn Kane crossed her arms across her chest and felt her broken ribgingerly. The inquisitor stared up at her in sadistic admiration. Hewould certainly be on hand for the execution. His anticipation was cutshort with a horrible realization. Under the paralyzing force of a mindgreater than his own, he reached beneath the desk and switched off therecorder. Who is the Occupational Commandant for this Sector, she askedtersely. This must be done swiftly before the guards returned. Perat, Viscount of Tharn, replied the man mechanically. What is the extent of his jurisdiction? From the center of the Terran globe, outward four hundred milesradius. Good. Prepare for me the usual visa that a woman clerk needs forpassage to the offices of the Occupational Commandant. The inquisitor filled in blanks in a stiff sheet of paper and stamped aseal at its bottom. You will add in the portion reserved for 'comments', the following:'Capable clerk. Others will follow as they are found available.' The man's pen scratched away obediently. Evelyn Kane smiled gently at the impotent, inwardly raging inquisitor.She took the paper, folded it, and placed it in a pocket in her blouse.Call the guards, she ordered. He pressed the button on his desk, and the guards re-entered. This person is no longer a prisoner, said the inquisitor woodenly.She is to take the next transport to the Occupational Commandant ofZone One. When the transport had left, neither inquisitor nor guards had anymemory of the woman. However, in the due course of events, therecording was gathered up with many others like it, boxed carefully,and sent to the Office of the Occupational Commandant, Zone One, forauditing. <doc-sep>Evelyn was extremely careful with her mental probe as she descendedfrom the transport. The Occupational Commandant would undoubtedlybe high-born and telepathic. He must not have occasion to suspect asimilar ability in a mere clerk. Fighting had passed this way, too, and recently. Many of the buildingswere still smoking, and many of the radions high above were eithershot out or obscured by slowly drifting dust clouds. The acrid odor ofradiation-remover was everywhere. She caught the sound of spasmodic small-arm fire. What is that? she asked the transport attendant. The Commandant is shooting prisoners, he replied laconically. Oh. Where did you want to go? To the personnel office. That way. He pointed to the largest building of the group—twostories high, reasonably intact. She walked off down the gravel path, which was stained here and therewith dark sticky red. She gave her visa to the guard at the door andwas admitted to an improvised waiting room, where another guard eyedher stonily. The firing was much nearer. She recognized the obscenecoughs of a Faeg pistol and began to feel sick. A woman in the green uniform of the Scythe auxiliary came in, whisperedsomething to the guard, and then told Evelyn to follow her. In the anteroom a grey cat looked her over curiously, and Evelynfrowned. She might have to get rid of the cat if she stayed here. Undercertain circumstances the animal could prove her deadliest enemy. The next room held a foppish little man, evidently a supervisor of somesort, who was studying her visa. I'm very happy to have you here, S'ria—ah——he looked at the visasuspiciously—S'ria Lyn. Do sit down. But, as I was just remarking toS'ria Gerek, here—he nodded to the other woman, who smiled back—Iwish the field officers would make up their august minds as to whetherthey want you or don't want you. Just why did they transfer you toH.Q.? She thought quickly. This pompous little ass would have to be givensome answer that would keep him from checking with the inquisitor. Itwould have to be something personal. She looked at the false black inhis eyebrows and sideburns, and the artificial way in which he hadcombed hair over his bald spot. She crossed her knees slowly, ignoringthe narrowing eyes of S'ria Gerek, and smoothed the back of her braidedyellow hair. He was studying her covertly. The men in the fighting zones are uncouth, S'ria Gorph, she saidsimply. I was told that you , that is, I mean— Yes? he was the soul of graciousness. S'ria Gerek began to dictateloudly into her mechanical transcriber. Evelyn cleared her throat, averted her eyes, and with some effort,managed a delicate flush. I meant to say, I thought I would be happierworking for—working here. So I asked for a transfer. S'ria Gorph beamed. Splendid. But the occupation isn't over, yet,you know. There'll be hard work here for several weeks yet, before wecut loose from the enemy globe. But you do your work well—winkingartfully—and I'll see that— He stopped, and his face took on a hunted look of mingled fear andanxiety. He appeared to listen. Evelyn tensed her mind to receive and deceive a mental probe. She wascertain now that the Zone Commandant was high-born and telepathic. Thechances were only fifty-fifty that she could delude him for any lengthof time if he became interested in her. He must be avoided if at allpossible. It should not be too difficult. He undoubtedly had a dozenpersonal secretaries and/or concubines and would take small interest inthe lowly employees that amused Gorph. Gorph looked at her uncertainly. Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns,sends you his compliments and wishes to see you on the balcony. Hepointed to a hallway. All the way through there, across to the otherwing. As she left, she heard all sound in the room stop. The transcribing andcalculating machines trailed off into a watchful silence, and she couldfeel the eyes of the men and women on her back. She noticed then thatthe Faeg had ceased firing. <doc-sep>Her heart was beating faster as she walked down the hall. She felt avery strong probe flooding over her brain casually, palping with mildinterest the artificial memories she supplied: Escapades with officersin the combat areas. Reprimands. Demotion and transfer. Her deceptionof Gorph. Her anticipation of meeting a real Viscount and hoping hewould let her dance for him. The questing probe withdrew as idly as it had come, and she breatheda sigh of relief. She could not hope to deceive a suspicious telepathfor long. Perat was merely amused at her lie to his under-supervisor.He had accepted her at her own face value, as supplied by her falsememories. She opened the door to the balcony and saw a man leaning moodily on thebalustrade. He gave no immediate notice of her presence. The five hundred and sixth heir of Tharn was of uncertain age, as weremost of the men of both globes. Only the left side of his face could beseen. It was gaunt and leathery, and a deep thin scar lifted the cornerof his mouth into a satanic smile. A faint paunch was gathering at hisabdomen, as befitted a warrior turned to boring paper work. His closelycut black hair and the two sparkling red-gemmed rings—apparentlyidentical—on his right hand seemed to denote a certain fastidiousnessand unconscious superiority. To Evelyn the jeweled fingers bespoke anunnatural contrast to the past history of the man and were symptomaticof a personality that could find stimulation only in strange and cruelpleasures. In alarm she suddenly realized that she had inadvertently let herappraisal penetrate her uncovered conscious mind, and that this probewas there awaiting it. You are right, he said coldly, still staring into the court below.Now that the long battle is over, there is little left to divert me. He pushed the Faeg across the coping toward her. Take this. He had not as yet looked at her. She crossed the balcony, simultaneously grasping the pistol he offeredher and looking down into the courtyard. There seemed to be nearlytwenty Terrans lying about, in pools of their own blood. Only one man, a Terran officer of very high rank—was left standing.His arms were folded somberly across his chest, and he studied thekiller above him almost casually. But when the woman came out, theireyes met, and he started imperceptibly. Evelyn Kane felt a horrid chill creeping over her. The man's hair waswhite, now, and his proud face lined with deep furrows, but there couldbe no mistake. It was Gordon, Lord Kane. Her father. The sweat continued to grow on her forehead, and she felt for a momentthat she needed only to wish hard enough, and this would be a dream.A dream of a big, kind, dark-haired man with laugh-wrinkles about hiseyes, who sat her on his knee when she was a little girl and readbedtime stories to her from a great book with many pictures. An icy, amused voice came through: Our orders are to kill allprisoners. It is entertaining to shoot down helpless men, isn't it? Itwarms me to know that I am cruel and wanton, and worthy of my trust. Even in the midst of her horror, a cold, analytical part of her wasexplaining why the Commandant had called her to the balcony. Becauseall captured Terrans had to be killed, he hated his superiors, his ownmen, and especially the prisoners. A task so revolting he could notrelegate to his own officers. He must do it himself, but he wanted hisunderlings to know he loathed them for it. She was merely a symbol ofthat contempt. His next words did not surprise her. It is even more stimulating to require a shuddering female to killthem. You are shuddering you know? She nodded dumbly. Her palm was so wet that a drop of sweat droppedfrom it to the floor. She was thinking hard. She could kill theCommandant and save her father for a little while. But then theproblem of detonating the pile remained, and it would not be solvedmore quickly by killing the man who controlled the pile area. On thecontrary if she could get him interested in her— So far as our records indicate, murmured Perat, the man down thereis the last living Terran within The Defender . It occurred to me thatour newest clerk would like to start off her duties with a bang. TheFaeg is adjusted to a needle-beam. If you put a bolt between the man'seyes, you may dance for me tonight, and perhaps there will be othernights— The woman seemed lost in thought for a long time. Slowly, she liftedthe ugly little weapon. The doomed Terran looked up at her peacefully,without expression. She lowered the Faeg, her arm trembling. Gordon, Lord Kane, frowned faintly, then closed his eyes. She raisedthe gun again, drew cross hairs with a nerveless wrist, and squeezedthe trigger. There was a loud, hollow cough, but no recoil. The Terranofficer, his eyes still closed and arms folded, sank to the ground,face up. Blood was running from a tiny hole in his forehead. The man leaning on the balustrade turned and looked at Evelyn, at firstwith amused contempt, then with narrowing, questioning eyes. Come here, he ordered. The Faeg dropped from her hand. With a titanic effort she activated herlegs and walked toward him. He was studying her face very carefully. She felt that she was going to be sick. Her knees were so weak that shehad to lean on the coping. With a forefinger he lifted up the mass of golden curls that hungover her right forehead and examined the scar hidden there, where thementors had cut into her frontal lobe. The tiny doll they had createdfor her writhed uneasily in her waist-purse, but Perat seemed to bethinking of something else, and missed the significance of the scarcompletely. He dropped his hand. I'm sorry, he said with a quiet weariness. Ishouldn't have asked you to kill the Terran. It was a sorry joke.Then: Have you ever seen me before? No, she whispered hoarsely. His mind was in hers, verifying the fact. Have you ever met my father, Phaen, the old Count of Tharn? No. Do you have a son? No. His mind was out of hers again, and he had turned moodily back,surveying the courtyard and the dead. Gorph will be wondering whathappened to you. Come to my quarters at the eighth metron tonight. Apparently he suspected nothing. Father. Father. I had to do it. But we'll all join you, soon. Soon. III Perat lay on his couch, sipping cold purple terif and following thethinly-clad dancer with narrowed eyes. Music, soft and subtle, floatedfrom his communications box, illegally tuned to an officer's clubsomewhere. Evelyn made the rhythm part of her as she swayed slowly ontiptoe. For the last thirty nights—the hours allotted to rest and sleep—ithad been thus. By day she probed furtively into the minds of theoffice staff, memorizing area designations, channels for officialmessages, and the names and authorizations of occupational field crews.By night she danced for Perat, who never took his eyes from her, norhis probe from her mind. While she danced it was not too difficult toelude the probe. There was an odd autohypnosis in dancing that blottedout memory and knowledge. Enough for now, he ordered. Careful of your rib. When he had first seen the bandages on her bare chest, that firstnight, she had been ready with a memory of dancing on a freshly waxedfloor, and of falling. Perat seemed to be debating with himself as she sat down on her owncouch to rest. He got up, unlocked his desk, and drew out a tiny reelof metal wire, which Evelyn recognized as being feed for an amateurstereop projector. He placed the reel in a projector that had beeninstalled in the wall, flicked off the table luminar, and both of themwaited in the dark, breathing rather loudly. Suddenly the center of the room was bright with a ball of light sometwo feet in diameter, and inside the luminous sphere were an old man, awoman, and a little boy of about four years. They were walking througha luxurious garden, and then they stopped, looked up, and waved gaily. Evelyn studied the trio with growing wonder. The old man and the boywere complete strangers. But the woman—! That is Phaen, my father, said Perat quietly. He stayed at homebecause he hated war. And that is a path in our country estate onTharn-R-VII. The little boy I fail to recognize, beyond a generalresemblance to the Tharn line. But— can you deny that you are the woman ? The stereop snapped off, and she sat wordless in the dark. There seemed to be some similarity— she admitted. Her throat wassuddenly dry. Yet, why should she be alarmed? She really didn't knowthe woman. The table luminar was on now, and Perat was prowling hungrily about theroom, his scar twisting his otherwise handsome face into a snarlingscowl. Similarity! Bah! That loop of hair over her right forehead hid a scaridentical to yours. I have had the individual frames analyzed! Evelyn's hands knotted unconsciously. She forced her body to relax, buther mind was racing. This introduced another variable to be controlledin her plan for destruction. She must make it a known quantity. Did your father send it to you? she asked. The day before you arrived here. It had been en route for months, ofcourse. What did he say about it? He said, 'Your widow and son send greetings. Be of good cheer, andaccept our love.' What nonsense! He knows very well I'm not married andthat—well, if I have ever fathered any children, I don't know aboutthem. Is that all he said? That's all, except that he included this ring. He pulled one of theduplicate jewels from his right middle finger and tossed it to her.It's identical to the one he had made for me when I entered on mymajority. For a long time it was thought that it was the only stone ofits kind on all the planets of the Tharn suns, a mineralogical freak,but I guess he found another. But why should I want two of them? Evelyn crossed the room and returned the ring. Existence is so full of mysteries, isn't it? murmured Perat.Sometimes it seems unfortunate that we must pass through a sentientphase on our way to death. This foolish, foolish war. Maybe the oldcount was right. You could be courtmartialed for that. Speaking of courtmartials, I've got to attend one tonight—an appealfrom a death sentence. He arose, smoothed his hair and clothes, andpoured another glass of terif . Some fool inquisitor can't showproper disposition of a woman prisoner. Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. Indeed? The wretch insists that he could remember if we would just let himalone. I suppose he took a bribe. You'll find one now and then whotries for a little extra profit. She must absolutely not be seen by the condemned inquisitor. Thestimulus would almost certainly make him remember. I'll wait for you, she said indifferently, thrusting her arms out ina languorous yawn. Very well. Perat stepped to the door, then turned and looked back ather. On the other hand, I may need a clerk. It's way after hours, andthe others have gone. Beneath a gesture of wry protest, she swallowed rapidly. Perhaps you'd better come, insisted Perat. She stood up, unloosed her waist-purse, checked its contents swiftly,and then followed him out. This might be a very close thing. From the purse she took a bottle ofperfume and rubbed her ear lobes casually. Odd smell, commented Perat, wrinkling his nose. Odd scent, corrected Evelyn cryptically. She was thinking aboutthe earnest faces of the mentors as they instructed her carefully inthe use of the perfume. The adrenalin glands, they had explained,provided a useful and powerful stimulant to a man in danger. Adrenalinslowed the heart and digestion, increased the systole and bloodpressure, and increased perspiration to cool the skin. But therecould be too much of a good thing. An overdose of adrenalin, they hadpointed out, caused almost immediate edema. The lungs filled rapidlywith the serum and the victim ... drowned. The perfume she possessedover-stimulated, in some unknown way, the adrenals of frightenedpersons. It had no effect on inactive adrenals. The question remained—who would be the more frightened, she or thecondemned inquisitor? She was perspiring freely, and the blonde hair on her arms and neck wasstanding stiffly when Perat opened the door for her and they enteredthe Zone Provost's chambers. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What tricks does Evelyn use to stay alive and free?

First, she decided to appear harmless in the struggle and left her weapon in the cubicle. She took only three things in a small bag with her when exiting her spot. Then she detected a corporal and when facing him, stretched luxuriously to change his mind to shoot her or notify his man. That was a manipulation of a woman using her charm not to get killed. When he didn't expect it, she mentally attacked the corporal to death and put on his clothes. This was her Scythian trick. When Evelyn met the inquisitor and the guards, she analyzed their minds again and with a little use of her feminine charm she pretended to be willing to give some interesting information to the inquisitor one on one. That way she got rid of the guards, also by challenging the inquisitor asking to stay one on one if he is not afraid. Then she forced his mind to answer her questions and fill the blanks for her passage to the Occupational Commandant as a clerk and set her free. Then his memory and the guards' about her were deleted by her force of mind. When she reached the supervisor of her transfer, she made up a legend about its reasons as another trick. She complained about the men in the fighting zones and appealed to the supervisor's ego by claiming she had been told he was a better boss. When it came to Perat she followed his orders and even killed her father. She was humble and seductive and gained his trust and attention, which was her feminine trick again. In the very end she used a trick of a dangerous perfume given by her mentors. She used it not to be set up by the inquisitor.

What is the significance of the device given to Evelyn not exploding? [SEP] <s>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE *** Stalemate In Space By CHARLES L. HARNESS Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison. Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage the main battle raged—where a girl swayed sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears. Die now—die now—die now — Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly. Die now—die now—die now — The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost. The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else. She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space. But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past. For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched The Defender grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe, The Invader , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy, The Defender was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned. The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle. The Defender , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met The Invader with giantfission torpedoes. And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken Defender . The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer The Defender's outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father. In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave TheDefender . Be on it. No. I shall die here. His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle. There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful. But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality. She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present. That time had come. With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die. She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific. With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box. It was a shattered ruin. <doc-sep>Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathinghard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during theinterval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk thatclutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis. She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space. Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were stillintact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it wereunsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythianenemies. Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on thechaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun thesealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling onthe side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowlyto her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valveof her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploringthe surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally shewas alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside thecubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag danglingfrom her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggleto come would be her apparent harmlessness. Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-bornScythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as thatof a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the blackstumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years hadsupplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector. The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, andevidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been twomonths since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.Yes, he would shoot. Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously,hoping that her grimace of pain could not be detected. Withsatisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mindof the Tharn. The gun was lowered, and the man was circling to creep upbehind her. He did not bother to notify his men. He wanted her first.He had seen her uniform, but that deterred him not a whit. Afterwards,he would call up the squad. Finally, they would kill her and move on.Women auxiliaries had no business here, anyway. Hips dipping, Evelyn sauntered into the shattered copse. The man movedfaster, though still trying to approach quietly. Most of the radions inthe mile-high ceiling had been destroyed, and the light was poor. Hewas not surprised when he lost track of his quarry. He tip-toed rapidlyonward, picking his way through the charred and fallen branches,thinking that she must turn up again soon. He had not gone twenty yardsin this manner when a howl of unbearable fury sounded in his mind, andthe dull light in his brain went out. She fought for her life under that mile-high ceiling. Breathing deeply from her mental effort, the woman stepped frombehind a great black tree trunk and hurried to the unconscious man.For I.Q.'s of 100 and less, telepathic cortical paralysis was quiteeffective. With cool efficiency and no trace of distaste she strippedthe odorous uniform from the man, then took his weapon, turned the beampower down very low, and needled a neat slash across his throat. Whilehe bled to death, she slipped deftly into the baggy suit, clasped thebeam gun by the handle, and started up the sooty slope. For a time, atleast, it would be safer to pass as a Tharn soldier than as any kind ofa woman. II The inquisitor leaned forward, frowning at the girl before him. Name? Evelyn Kane. The eyes of the inquisitor widened. So you admit to a Terran name.Well, Terran, you are charged with having stolen passage on a supplylorry, and you also seem to be wearing the uniform of an infantrycorporal as well as that of a Scythian woman auxiliary. Incidentally,where is the corporal? Did you kill him? He was prepared for a last-ditch denial. He would cut it short, havethe guards remove her, and execution would follow immediately. In away, it was unfortunate. The woman was obviously of a high Terranclass. No—he couldn't consider that. His slender means couldn't affordanother woman in his quarters, and besides, he wouldn't feel safe withthis cool murderess. Do you not understand the master tongue? Why did you kill thecorporal? He leaned impatiently over his desk. The woman stared frankly back at him with her clear blue eyes. Theguards on either side of her dug their nails into her arms, as wastheir custom with recalcitrant prisoners, but she took no notice. She had analyzed the minds of the three men. She could handle theinquisitor alone or the two guards alone, but not all three. If you aren't afraid of me, perhaps you'd be so kind as to send theguards out for a few minutes, she said, placing a hand on her hip. Ihave interesting information. So that was it. Buy her freedom by betraying fugitive Terrans. Well, hecould take the information and then kill her. He nodded curtly to theguards, and they walked out of the hut, exchanging sly winks with oneanother. Evelyn Kane crossed her arms across her chest and felt her broken ribgingerly. The inquisitor stared up at her in sadistic admiration. Hewould certainly be on hand for the execution. His anticipation was cutshort with a horrible realization. Under the paralyzing force of a mindgreater than his own, he reached beneath the desk and switched off therecorder. Who is the Occupational Commandant for this Sector, she askedtersely. This must be done swiftly before the guards returned. Perat, Viscount of Tharn, replied the man mechanically. What is the extent of his jurisdiction? From the center of the Terran globe, outward four hundred milesradius. Good. Prepare for me the usual visa that a woman clerk needs forpassage to the offices of the Occupational Commandant. The inquisitor filled in blanks in a stiff sheet of paper and stamped aseal at its bottom. You will add in the portion reserved for 'comments', the following:'Capable clerk. Others will follow as they are found available.' The man's pen scratched away obediently. Evelyn Kane smiled gently at the impotent, inwardly raging inquisitor.She took the paper, folded it, and placed it in a pocket in her blouse.Call the guards, she ordered. He pressed the button on his desk, and the guards re-entered. This person is no longer a prisoner, said the inquisitor woodenly.She is to take the next transport to the Occupational Commandant ofZone One. When the transport had left, neither inquisitor nor guards had anymemory of the woman. However, in the due course of events, therecording was gathered up with many others like it, boxed carefully,and sent to the Office of the Occupational Commandant, Zone One, forauditing. <doc-sep>Evelyn was extremely careful with her mental probe as she descendedfrom the transport. The Occupational Commandant would undoubtedlybe high-born and telepathic. He must not have occasion to suspect asimilar ability in a mere clerk. Fighting had passed this way, too, and recently. Many of the buildingswere still smoking, and many of the radions high above were eithershot out or obscured by slowly drifting dust clouds. The acrid odor ofradiation-remover was everywhere. She caught the sound of spasmodic small-arm fire. What is that? she asked the transport attendant. The Commandant is shooting prisoners, he replied laconically. Oh. Where did you want to go? To the personnel office. That way. He pointed to the largest building of the group—twostories high, reasonably intact. She walked off down the gravel path, which was stained here and therewith dark sticky red. She gave her visa to the guard at the door andwas admitted to an improvised waiting room, where another guard eyedher stonily. The firing was much nearer. She recognized the obscenecoughs of a Faeg pistol and began to feel sick. A woman in the green uniform of the Scythe auxiliary came in, whisperedsomething to the guard, and then told Evelyn to follow her. In the anteroom a grey cat looked her over curiously, and Evelynfrowned. She might have to get rid of the cat if she stayed here. Undercertain circumstances the animal could prove her deadliest enemy. The next room held a foppish little man, evidently a supervisor of somesort, who was studying her visa. I'm very happy to have you here, S'ria—ah——he looked at the visasuspiciously—S'ria Lyn. Do sit down. But, as I was just remarking toS'ria Gerek, here—he nodded to the other woman, who smiled back—Iwish the field officers would make up their august minds as to whetherthey want you or don't want you. Just why did they transfer you toH.Q.? She thought quickly. This pompous little ass would have to be givensome answer that would keep him from checking with the inquisitor. Itwould have to be something personal. She looked at the false black inhis eyebrows and sideburns, and the artificial way in which he hadcombed hair over his bald spot. She crossed her knees slowly, ignoringthe narrowing eyes of S'ria Gerek, and smoothed the back of her braidedyellow hair. He was studying her covertly. The men in the fighting zones are uncouth, S'ria Gorph, she saidsimply. I was told that you , that is, I mean— Yes? he was the soul of graciousness. S'ria Gerek began to dictateloudly into her mechanical transcriber. Evelyn cleared her throat, averted her eyes, and with some effort,managed a delicate flush. I meant to say, I thought I would be happierworking for—working here. So I asked for a transfer. S'ria Gorph beamed. Splendid. But the occupation isn't over, yet,you know. There'll be hard work here for several weeks yet, before wecut loose from the enemy globe. But you do your work well—winkingartfully—and I'll see that— He stopped, and his face took on a hunted look of mingled fear andanxiety. He appeared to listen. Evelyn tensed her mind to receive and deceive a mental probe. She wascertain now that the Zone Commandant was high-born and telepathic. Thechances were only fifty-fifty that she could delude him for any lengthof time if he became interested in her. He must be avoided if at allpossible. It should not be too difficult. He undoubtedly had a dozenpersonal secretaries and/or concubines and would take small interest inthe lowly employees that amused Gorph. Gorph looked at her uncertainly. Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns,sends you his compliments and wishes to see you on the balcony. Hepointed to a hallway. All the way through there, across to the otherwing. As she left, she heard all sound in the room stop. The transcribing andcalculating machines trailed off into a watchful silence, and she couldfeel the eyes of the men and women on her back. She noticed then thatthe Faeg had ceased firing. <doc-sep>Her heart was beating faster as she walked down the hall. She felt avery strong probe flooding over her brain casually, palping with mildinterest the artificial memories she supplied: Escapades with officersin the combat areas. Reprimands. Demotion and transfer. Her deceptionof Gorph. Her anticipation of meeting a real Viscount and hoping hewould let her dance for him. The questing probe withdrew as idly as it had come, and she breatheda sigh of relief. She could not hope to deceive a suspicious telepathfor long. Perat was merely amused at her lie to his under-supervisor.He had accepted her at her own face value, as supplied by her falsememories. She opened the door to the balcony and saw a man leaning moodily on thebalustrade. He gave no immediate notice of her presence. The five hundred and sixth heir of Tharn was of uncertain age, as weremost of the men of both globes. Only the left side of his face could beseen. It was gaunt and leathery, and a deep thin scar lifted the cornerof his mouth into a satanic smile. A faint paunch was gathering at hisabdomen, as befitted a warrior turned to boring paper work. His closelycut black hair and the two sparkling red-gemmed rings—apparentlyidentical—on his right hand seemed to denote a certain fastidiousnessand unconscious superiority. To Evelyn the jeweled fingers bespoke anunnatural contrast to the past history of the man and were symptomaticof a personality that could find stimulation only in strange and cruelpleasures. In alarm she suddenly realized that she had inadvertently let herappraisal penetrate her uncovered conscious mind, and that this probewas there awaiting it. You are right, he said coldly, still staring into the court below.Now that the long battle is over, there is little left to divert me. He pushed the Faeg across the coping toward her. Take this. He had not as yet looked at her. She crossed the balcony, simultaneously grasping the pistol he offeredher and looking down into the courtyard. There seemed to be nearlytwenty Terrans lying about, in pools of their own blood. Only one man, a Terran officer of very high rank—was left standing.His arms were folded somberly across his chest, and he studied thekiller above him almost casually. But when the woman came out, theireyes met, and he started imperceptibly. Evelyn Kane felt a horrid chill creeping over her. The man's hair waswhite, now, and his proud face lined with deep furrows, but there couldbe no mistake. It was Gordon, Lord Kane. Her father. The sweat continued to grow on her forehead, and she felt for a momentthat she needed only to wish hard enough, and this would be a dream.A dream of a big, kind, dark-haired man with laugh-wrinkles about hiseyes, who sat her on his knee when she was a little girl and readbedtime stories to her from a great book with many pictures. An icy, amused voice came through: Our orders are to kill allprisoners. It is entertaining to shoot down helpless men, isn't it? Itwarms me to know that I am cruel and wanton, and worthy of my trust. Even in the midst of her horror, a cold, analytical part of her wasexplaining why the Commandant had called her to the balcony. Becauseall captured Terrans had to be killed, he hated his superiors, his ownmen, and especially the prisoners. A task so revolting he could notrelegate to his own officers. He must do it himself, but he wanted hisunderlings to know he loathed them for it. She was merely a symbol ofthat contempt. His next words did not surprise her. It is even more stimulating to require a shuddering female to killthem. You are shuddering you know? She nodded dumbly. Her palm was so wet that a drop of sweat droppedfrom it to the floor. She was thinking hard. She could kill theCommandant and save her father for a little while. But then theproblem of detonating the pile remained, and it would not be solvedmore quickly by killing the man who controlled the pile area. On thecontrary if she could get him interested in her— So far as our records indicate, murmured Perat, the man down thereis the last living Terran within The Defender . It occurred to me thatour newest clerk would like to start off her duties with a bang. TheFaeg is adjusted to a needle-beam. If you put a bolt between the man'seyes, you may dance for me tonight, and perhaps there will be othernights— The woman seemed lost in thought for a long time. Slowly, she liftedthe ugly little weapon. The doomed Terran looked up at her peacefully,without expression. She lowered the Faeg, her arm trembling. Gordon, Lord Kane, frowned faintly, then closed his eyes. She raisedthe gun again, drew cross hairs with a nerveless wrist, and squeezedthe trigger. There was a loud, hollow cough, but no recoil. The Terranofficer, his eyes still closed and arms folded, sank to the ground,face up. Blood was running from a tiny hole in his forehead. The man leaning on the balustrade turned and looked at Evelyn, at firstwith amused contempt, then with narrowing, questioning eyes. Come here, he ordered. The Faeg dropped from her hand. With a titanic effort she activated herlegs and walked toward him. He was studying her face very carefully. She felt that she was going to be sick. Her knees were so weak that shehad to lean on the coping. With a forefinger he lifted up the mass of golden curls that hungover her right forehead and examined the scar hidden there, where thementors had cut into her frontal lobe. The tiny doll they had createdfor her writhed uneasily in her waist-purse, but Perat seemed to bethinking of something else, and missed the significance of the scarcompletely. He dropped his hand. I'm sorry, he said with a quiet weariness. Ishouldn't have asked you to kill the Terran. It was a sorry joke.Then: Have you ever seen me before? No, she whispered hoarsely. His mind was in hers, verifying the fact. Have you ever met my father, Phaen, the old Count of Tharn? No. Do you have a son? No. His mind was out of hers again, and he had turned moodily back,surveying the courtyard and the dead. Gorph will be wondering whathappened to you. Come to my quarters at the eighth metron tonight. Apparently he suspected nothing. Father. Father. I had to do it. But we'll all join you, soon. Soon. III Perat lay on his couch, sipping cold purple terif and following thethinly-clad dancer with narrowed eyes. Music, soft and subtle, floatedfrom his communications box, illegally tuned to an officer's clubsomewhere. Evelyn made the rhythm part of her as she swayed slowly ontiptoe. For the last thirty nights—the hours allotted to rest and sleep—ithad been thus. By day she probed furtively into the minds of theoffice staff, memorizing area designations, channels for officialmessages, and the names and authorizations of occupational field crews.By night she danced for Perat, who never took his eyes from her, norhis probe from her mind. While she danced it was not too difficult toelude the probe. There was an odd autohypnosis in dancing that blottedout memory and knowledge. Enough for now, he ordered. Careful of your rib. When he had first seen the bandages on her bare chest, that firstnight, she had been ready with a memory of dancing on a freshly waxedfloor, and of falling. Perat seemed to be debating with himself as she sat down on her owncouch to rest. He got up, unlocked his desk, and drew out a tiny reelof metal wire, which Evelyn recognized as being feed for an amateurstereop projector. He placed the reel in a projector that had beeninstalled in the wall, flicked off the table luminar, and both of themwaited in the dark, breathing rather loudly. Suddenly the center of the room was bright with a ball of light sometwo feet in diameter, and inside the luminous sphere were an old man, awoman, and a little boy of about four years. They were walking througha luxurious garden, and then they stopped, looked up, and waved gaily. Evelyn studied the trio with growing wonder. The old man and the boywere complete strangers. But the woman—! That is Phaen, my father, said Perat quietly. He stayed at homebecause he hated war. And that is a path in our country estate onTharn-R-VII. The little boy I fail to recognize, beyond a generalresemblance to the Tharn line. But— can you deny that you are the woman ? The stereop snapped off, and she sat wordless in the dark. There seemed to be some similarity— she admitted. Her throat wassuddenly dry. Yet, why should she be alarmed? She really didn't knowthe woman. The table luminar was on now, and Perat was prowling hungrily about theroom, his scar twisting his otherwise handsome face into a snarlingscowl. Similarity! Bah! That loop of hair over her right forehead hid a scaridentical to yours. I have had the individual frames analyzed! Evelyn's hands knotted unconsciously. She forced her body to relax, buther mind was racing. This introduced another variable to be controlledin her plan for destruction. She must make it a known quantity. Did your father send it to you? she asked. The day before you arrived here. It had been en route for months, ofcourse. What did he say about it? He said, 'Your widow and son send greetings. Be of good cheer, andaccept our love.' What nonsense! He knows very well I'm not married andthat—well, if I have ever fathered any children, I don't know aboutthem. Is that all he said? That's all, except that he included this ring. He pulled one of theduplicate jewels from his right middle finger and tossed it to her.It's identical to the one he had made for me when I entered on mymajority. For a long time it was thought that it was the only stone ofits kind on all the planets of the Tharn suns, a mineralogical freak,but I guess he found another. But why should I want two of them? Evelyn crossed the room and returned the ring. Existence is so full of mysteries, isn't it? murmured Perat.Sometimes it seems unfortunate that we must pass through a sentientphase on our way to death. This foolish, foolish war. Maybe the oldcount was right. You could be courtmartialed for that. Speaking of courtmartials, I've got to attend one tonight—an appealfrom a death sentence. He arose, smoothed his hair and clothes, andpoured another glass of terif . Some fool inquisitor can't showproper disposition of a woman prisoner. Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. Indeed? The wretch insists that he could remember if we would just let himalone. I suppose he took a bribe. You'll find one now and then whotries for a little extra profit. She must absolutely not be seen by the condemned inquisitor. Thestimulus would almost certainly make him remember. I'll wait for you, she said indifferently, thrusting her arms out ina languorous yawn. Very well. Perat stepped to the door, then turned and looked back ather. On the other hand, I may need a clerk. It's way after hours, andthe others have gone. Beneath a gesture of wry protest, she swallowed rapidly. Perhaps you'd better come, insisted Perat. She stood up, unloosed her waist-purse, checked its contents swiftly,and then followed him out. This might be a very close thing. From the purse she took a bottle ofperfume and rubbed her ear lobes casually. Odd smell, commented Perat, wrinkling his nose. Odd scent, corrected Evelyn cryptically. She was thinking aboutthe earnest faces of the mentors as they instructed her carefully inthe use of the perfume. The adrenalin glands, they had explained,provided a useful and powerful stimulant to a man in danger. Adrenalinslowed the heart and digestion, increased the systole and bloodpressure, and increased perspiration to cool the skin. But therecould be too much of a good thing. An overdose of adrenalin, they hadpointed out, caused almost immediate edema. The lungs filled rapidlywith the serum and the victim ... drowned. The perfume she possessedover-stimulated, in some unknown way, the adrenals of frightenedpersons. It had no effect on inactive adrenals. The question remained—who would be the more frightened, she or thecondemned inquisitor? She was perspiring freely, and the blonde hair on her arms and neck wasstanding stiffly when Perat opened the door for her and they enteredthe Zone Provost's chambers. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the device given to Evelyn not exploding?

If the device exploded and all went according to the plan, both The Defender and The Invader would be destroyed immediately with all the people on board including Evelyn. Due to a technical break, Evelyn stayed alive and had to think of other ways to destroy the ships. The whole rest of the story is a sequence of events and encounters, accompanied by tricks and cunning, leading to this final aim. She is breaking free, gets trust of her enemies, and even kills her father for this great purpose of destroying their enemies. Every her action is carefully controlled in order to get to Perat and spy on the thoughts of his officers. As she doesn't have anyone left and is surrounded by enemies, she need the purpose to live, which is given by this broken exploder and her following inability to fulfill her task.

How is the theme of duty explored in this story? [SEP] <s>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE *** Stalemate In Space By CHARLES L. HARNESS Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison. Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage the main battle raged—where a girl swayed sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears. Die now—die now—die now — Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly. Die now—die now—die now — The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost. The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else. She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space. But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past. For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched The Defender grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe, The Invader , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy, The Defender was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned. The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle. The Defender , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met The Invader with giantfission torpedoes. And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken Defender . The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer The Defender's outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father. In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave TheDefender . Be on it. No. I shall die here. His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle. There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful. But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality. She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present. That time had come. With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die. She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific. With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box. It was a shattered ruin. <doc-sep>Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathinghard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during theinterval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk thatclutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis. She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space. Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were stillintact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it wereunsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythianenemies. Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on thechaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun thesealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling onthe side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowlyto her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valveof her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploringthe surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally shewas alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside thecubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag danglingfrom her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggleto come would be her apparent harmlessness. Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-bornScythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as thatof a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the blackstumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years hadsupplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector. The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, andevidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been twomonths since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.Yes, he would shoot. Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously,hoping that her grimace of pain could not be detected. Withsatisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mindof the Tharn. The gun was lowered, and the man was circling to creep upbehind her. He did not bother to notify his men. He wanted her first.He had seen her uniform, but that deterred him not a whit. Afterwards,he would call up the squad. Finally, they would kill her and move on.Women auxiliaries had no business here, anyway. Hips dipping, Evelyn sauntered into the shattered copse. The man movedfaster, though still trying to approach quietly. Most of the radions inthe mile-high ceiling had been destroyed, and the light was poor. Hewas not surprised when he lost track of his quarry. He tip-toed rapidlyonward, picking his way through the charred and fallen branches,thinking that she must turn up again soon. He had not gone twenty yardsin this manner when a howl of unbearable fury sounded in his mind, andthe dull light in his brain went out. She fought for her life under that mile-high ceiling. Breathing deeply from her mental effort, the woman stepped frombehind a great black tree trunk and hurried to the unconscious man.For I.Q.'s of 100 and less, telepathic cortical paralysis was quiteeffective. With cool efficiency and no trace of distaste she strippedthe odorous uniform from the man, then took his weapon, turned the beampower down very low, and needled a neat slash across his throat. Whilehe bled to death, she slipped deftly into the baggy suit, clasped thebeam gun by the handle, and started up the sooty slope. For a time, atleast, it would be safer to pass as a Tharn soldier than as any kind ofa woman. II The inquisitor leaned forward, frowning at the girl before him. Name? Evelyn Kane. The eyes of the inquisitor widened. So you admit to a Terran name.Well, Terran, you are charged with having stolen passage on a supplylorry, and you also seem to be wearing the uniform of an infantrycorporal as well as that of a Scythian woman auxiliary. Incidentally,where is the corporal? Did you kill him? He was prepared for a last-ditch denial. He would cut it short, havethe guards remove her, and execution would follow immediately. In away, it was unfortunate. The woman was obviously of a high Terranclass. No—he couldn't consider that. His slender means couldn't affordanother woman in his quarters, and besides, he wouldn't feel safe withthis cool murderess. Do you not understand the master tongue? Why did you kill thecorporal? He leaned impatiently over his desk. The woman stared frankly back at him with her clear blue eyes. Theguards on either side of her dug their nails into her arms, as wastheir custom with recalcitrant prisoners, but she took no notice. She had analyzed the minds of the three men. She could handle theinquisitor alone or the two guards alone, but not all three. If you aren't afraid of me, perhaps you'd be so kind as to send theguards out for a few minutes, she said, placing a hand on her hip. Ihave interesting information. So that was it. Buy her freedom by betraying fugitive Terrans. Well, hecould take the information and then kill her. He nodded curtly to theguards, and they walked out of the hut, exchanging sly winks with oneanother. Evelyn Kane crossed her arms across her chest and felt her broken ribgingerly. The inquisitor stared up at her in sadistic admiration. Hewould certainly be on hand for the execution. His anticipation was cutshort with a horrible realization. Under the paralyzing force of a mindgreater than his own, he reached beneath the desk and switched off therecorder. Who is the Occupational Commandant for this Sector, she askedtersely. This must be done swiftly before the guards returned. Perat, Viscount of Tharn, replied the man mechanically. What is the extent of his jurisdiction? From the center of the Terran globe, outward four hundred milesradius. Good. Prepare for me the usual visa that a woman clerk needs forpassage to the offices of the Occupational Commandant. The inquisitor filled in blanks in a stiff sheet of paper and stamped aseal at its bottom. You will add in the portion reserved for 'comments', the following:'Capable clerk. Others will follow as they are found available.' The man's pen scratched away obediently. Evelyn Kane smiled gently at the impotent, inwardly raging inquisitor.She took the paper, folded it, and placed it in a pocket in her blouse.Call the guards, she ordered. He pressed the button on his desk, and the guards re-entered. This person is no longer a prisoner, said the inquisitor woodenly.She is to take the next transport to the Occupational Commandant ofZone One. When the transport had left, neither inquisitor nor guards had anymemory of the woman. However, in the due course of events, therecording was gathered up with many others like it, boxed carefully,and sent to the Office of the Occupational Commandant, Zone One, forauditing. <doc-sep>Evelyn was extremely careful with her mental probe as she descendedfrom the transport. The Occupational Commandant would undoubtedlybe high-born and telepathic. He must not have occasion to suspect asimilar ability in a mere clerk. Fighting had passed this way, too, and recently. Many of the buildingswere still smoking, and many of the radions high above were eithershot out or obscured by slowly drifting dust clouds. The acrid odor ofradiation-remover was everywhere. She caught the sound of spasmodic small-arm fire. What is that? she asked the transport attendant. The Commandant is shooting prisoners, he replied laconically. Oh. Where did you want to go? To the personnel office. That way. He pointed to the largest building of the group—twostories high, reasonably intact. She walked off down the gravel path, which was stained here and therewith dark sticky red. She gave her visa to the guard at the door andwas admitted to an improvised waiting room, where another guard eyedher stonily. The firing was much nearer. She recognized the obscenecoughs of a Faeg pistol and began to feel sick. A woman in the green uniform of the Scythe auxiliary came in, whisperedsomething to the guard, and then told Evelyn to follow her. In the anteroom a grey cat looked her over curiously, and Evelynfrowned. She might have to get rid of the cat if she stayed here. Undercertain circumstances the animal could prove her deadliest enemy. The next room held a foppish little man, evidently a supervisor of somesort, who was studying her visa. I'm very happy to have you here, S'ria—ah——he looked at the visasuspiciously—S'ria Lyn. Do sit down. But, as I was just remarking toS'ria Gerek, here—he nodded to the other woman, who smiled back—Iwish the field officers would make up their august minds as to whetherthey want you or don't want you. Just why did they transfer you toH.Q.? She thought quickly. This pompous little ass would have to be givensome answer that would keep him from checking with the inquisitor. Itwould have to be something personal. She looked at the false black inhis eyebrows and sideburns, and the artificial way in which he hadcombed hair over his bald spot. She crossed her knees slowly, ignoringthe narrowing eyes of S'ria Gerek, and smoothed the back of her braidedyellow hair. He was studying her covertly. The men in the fighting zones are uncouth, S'ria Gorph, she saidsimply. I was told that you , that is, I mean— Yes? he was the soul of graciousness. S'ria Gerek began to dictateloudly into her mechanical transcriber. Evelyn cleared her throat, averted her eyes, and with some effort,managed a delicate flush. I meant to say, I thought I would be happierworking for—working here. So I asked for a transfer. S'ria Gorph beamed. Splendid. But the occupation isn't over, yet,you know. There'll be hard work here for several weeks yet, before wecut loose from the enemy globe. But you do your work well—winkingartfully—and I'll see that— He stopped, and his face took on a hunted look of mingled fear andanxiety. He appeared to listen. Evelyn tensed her mind to receive and deceive a mental probe. She wascertain now that the Zone Commandant was high-born and telepathic. Thechances were only fifty-fifty that she could delude him for any lengthof time if he became interested in her. He must be avoided if at allpossible. It should not be too difficult. He undoubtedly had a dozenpersonal secretaries and/or concubines and would take small interest inthe lowly employees that amused Gorph. Gorph looked at her uncertainly. Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns,sends you his compliments and wishes to see you on the balcony. Hepointed to a hallway. All the way through there, across to the otherwing. As she left, she heard all sound in the room stop. The transcribing andcalculating machines trailed off into a watchful silence, and she couldfeel the eyes of the men and women on her back. She noticed then thatthe Faeg had ceased firing. <doc-sep>Her heart was beating faster as she walked down the hall. She felt avery strong probe flooding over her brain casually, palping with mildinterest the artificial memories she supplied: Escapades with officersin the combat areas. Reprimands. Demotion and transfer. Her deceptionof Gorph. Her anticipation of meeting a real Viscount and hoping hewould let her dance for him. The questing probe withdrew as idly as it had come, and she breatheda sigh of relief. She could not hope to deceive a suspicious telepathfor long. Perat was merely amused at her lie to his under-supervisor.He had accepted her at her own face value, as supplied by her falsememories. She opened the door to the balcony and saw a man leaning moodily on thebalustrade. He gave no immediate notice of her presence. The five hundred and sixth heir of Tharn was of uncertain age, as weremost of the men of both globes. Only the left side of his face could beseen. It was gaunt and leathery, and a deep thin scar lifted the cornerof his mouth into a satanic smile. A faint paunch was gathering at hisabdomen, as befitted a warrior turned to boring paper work. His closelycut black hair and the two sparkling red-gemmed rings—apparentlyidentical—on his right hand seemed to denote a certain fastidiousnessand unconscious superiority. To Evelyn the jeweled fingers bespoke anunnatural contrast to the past history of the man and were symptomaticof a personality that could find stimulation only in strange and cruelpleasures. In alarm she suddenly realized that she had inadvertently let herappraisal penetrate her uncovered conscious mind, and that this probewas there awaiting it. You are right, he said coldly, still staring into the court below.Now that the long battle is over, there is little left to divert me. He pushed the Faeg across the coping toward her. Take this. He had not as yet looked at her. She crossed the balcony, simultaneously grasping the pistol he offeredher and looking down into the courtyard. There seemed to be nearlytwenty Terrans lying about, in pools of their own blood. Only one man, a Terran officer of very high rank—was left standing.His arms were folded somberly across his chest, and he studied thekiller above him almost casually. But when the woman came out, theireyes met, and he started imperceptibly. Evelyn Kane felt a horrid chill creeping over her. The man's hair waswhite, now, and his proud face lined with deep furrows, but there couldbe no mistake. It was Gordon, Lord Kane. Her father. The sweat continued to grow on her forehead, and she felt for a momentthat she needed only to wish hard enough, and this would be a dream.A dream of a big, kind, dark-haired man with laugh-wrinkles about hiseyes, who sat her on his knee when she was a little girl and readbedtime stories to her from a great book with many pictures. An icy, amused voice came through: Our orders are to kill allprisoners. It is entertaining to shoot down helpless men, isn't it? Itwarms me to know that I am cruel and wanton, and worthy of my trust. Even in the midst of her horror, a cold, analytical part of her wasexplaining why the Commandant had called her to the balcony. Becauseall captured Terrans had to be killed, he hated his superiors, his ownmen, and especially the prisoners. A task so revolting he could notrelegate to his own officers. He must do it himself, but he wanted hisunderlings to know he loathed them for it. She was merely a symbol ofthat contempt. His next words did not surprise her. It is even more stimulating to require a shuddering female to killthem. You are shuddering you know? She nodded dumbly. Her palm was so wet that a drop of sweat droppedfrom it to the floor. She was thinking hard. She could kill theCommandant and save her father for a little while. But then theproblem of detonating the pile remained, and it would not be solvedmore quickly by killing the man who controlled the pile area. On thecontrary if she could get him interested in her— So far as our records indicate, murmured Perat, the man down thereis the last living Terran within The Defender . It occurred to me thatour newest clerk would like to start off her duties with a bang. TheFaeg is adjusted to a needle-beam. If you put a bolt between the man'seyes, you may dance for me tonight, and perhaps there will be othernights— The woman seemed lost in thought for a long time. Slowly, she liftedthe ugly little weapon. The doomed Terran looked up at her peacefully,without expression. She lowered the Faeg, her arm trembling. Gordon, Lord Kane, frowned faintly, then closed his eyes. She raisedthe gun again, drew cross hairs with a nerveless wrist, and squeezedthe trigger. There was a loud, hollow cough, but no recoil. The Terranofficer, his eyes still closed and arms folded, sank to the ground,face up. Blood was running from a tiny hole in his forehead. The man leaning on the balustrade turned and looked at Evelyn, at firstwith amused contempt, then with narrowing, questioning eyes. Come here, he ordered. The Faeg dropped from her hand. With a titanic effort she activated herlegs and walked toward him. He was studying her face very carefully. She felt that she was going to be sick. Her knees were so weak that shehad to lean on the coping. With a forefinger he lifted up the mass of golden curls that hungover her right forehead and examined the scar hidden there, where thementors had cut into her frontal lobe. The tiny doll they had createdfor her writhed uneasily in her waist-purse, but Perat seemed to bethinking of something else, and missed the significance of the scarcompletely. He dropped his hand. I'm sorry, he said with a quiet weariness. Ishouldn't have asked you to kill the Terran. It was a sorry joke.Then: Have you ever seen me before? No, she whispered hoarsely. His mind was in hers, verifying the fact. Have you ever met my father, Phaen, the old Count of Tharn? No. Do you have a son? No. His mind was out of hers again, and he had turned moodily back,surveying the courtyard and the dead. Gorph will be wondering whathappened to you. Come to my quarters at the eighth metron tonight. Apparently he suspected nothing. Father. Father. I had to do it. But we'll all join you, soon. Soon. III Perat lay on his couch, sipping cold purple terif and following thethinly-clad dancer with narrowed eyes. Music, soft and subtle, floatedfrom his communications box, illegally tuned to an officer's clubsomewhere. Evelyn made the rhythm part of her as she swayed slowly ontiptoe. For the last thirty nights—the hours allotted to rest and sleep—ithad been thus. By day she probed furtively into the minds of theoffice staff, memorizing area designations, channels for officialmessages, and the names and authorizations of occupational field crews.By night she danced for Perat, who never took his eyes from her, norhis probe from her mind. While she danced it was not too difficult toelude the probe. There was an odd autohypnosis in dancing that blottedout memory and knowledge. Enough for now, he ordered. Careful of your rib. When he had first seen the bandages on her bare chest, that firstnight, she had been ready with a memory of dancing on a freshly waxedfloor, and of falling. Perat seemed to be debating with himself as she sat down on her owncouch to rest. He got up, unlocked his desk, and drew out a tiny reelof metal wire, which Evelyn recognized as being feed for an amateurstereop projector. He placed the reel in a projector that had beeninstalled in the wall, flicked off the table luminar, and both of themwaited in the dark, breathing rather loudly. Suddenly the center of the room was bright with a ball of light sometwo feet in diameter, and inside the luminous sphere were an old man, awoman, and a little boy of about four years. They were walking througha luxurious garden, and then they stopped, looked up, and waved gaily. Evelyn studied the trio with growing wonder. The old man and the boywere complete strangers. But the woman—! That is Phaen, my father, said Perat quietly. He stayed at homebecause he hated war. And that is a path in our country estate onTharn-R-VII. The little boy I fail to recognize, beyond a generalresemblance to the Tharn line. But— can you deny that you are the woman ? The stereop snapped off, and she sat wordless in the dark. There seemed to be some similarity— she admitted. Her throat wassuddenly dry. Yet, why should she be alarmed? She really didn't knowthe woman. The table luminar was on now, and Perat was prowling hungrily about theroom, his scar twisting his otherwise handsome face into a snarlingscowl. Similarity! Bah! That loop of hair over her right forehead hid a scaridentical to yours. I have had the individual frames analyzed! Evelyn's hands knotted unconsciously. She forced her body to relax, buther mind was racing. This introduced another variable to be controlledin her plan for destruction. She must make it a known quantity. Did your father send it to you? she asked. The day before you arrived here. It had been en route for months, ofcourse. What did he say about it? He said, 'Your widow and son send greetings. Be of good cheer, andaccept our love.' What nonsense! He knows very well I'm not married andthat—well, if I have ever fathered any children, I don't know aboutthem. Is that all he said? That's all, except that he included this ring. He pulled one of theduplicate jewels from his right middle finger and tossed it to her.It's identical to the one he had made for me when I entered on mymajority. For a long time it was thought that it was the only stone ofits kind on all the planets of the Tharn suns, a mineralogical freak,but I guess he found another. But why should I want two of them? Evelyn crossed the room and returned the ring. Existence is so full of mysteries, isn't it? murmured Perat.Sometimes it seems unfortunate that we must pass through a sentientphase on our way to death. This foolish, foolish war. Maybe the oldcount was right. You could be courtmartialed for that. Speaking of courtmartials, I've got to attend one tonight—an appealfrom a death sentence. He arose, smoothed his hair and clothes, andpoured another glass of terif . Some fool inquisitor can't showproper disposition of a woman prisoner. Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. Indeed? The wretch insists that he could remember if we would just let himalone. I suppose he took a bribe. You'll find one now and then whotries for a little extra profit. She must absolutely not be seen by the condemned inquisitor. Thestimulus would almost certainly make him remember. I'll wait for you, she said indifferently, thrusting her arms out ina languorous yawn. Very well. Perat stepped to the door, then turned and looked back ather. On the other hand, I may need a clerk. It's way after hours, andthe others have gone. Beneath a gesture of wry protest, she swallowed rapidly. Perhaps you'd better come, insisted Perat. She stood up, unloosed her waist-purse, checked its contents swiftly,and then followed him out. This might be a very close thing. From the purse she took a bottle ofperfume and rubbed her ear lobes casually. Odd smell, commented Perat, wrinkling his nose. Odd scent, corrected Evelyn cryptically. She was thinking aboutthe earnest faces of the mentors as they instructed her carefully inthe use of the perfume. The adrenalin glands, they had explained,provided a useful and powerful stimulant to a man in danger. Adrenalinslowed the heart and digestion, increased the systole and bloodpressure, and increased perspiration to cool the skin. But therecould be too much of a good thing. An overdose of adrenalin, they hadpointed out, caused almost immediate edema. The lungs filled rapidlywith the serum and the victim ... drowned. The perfume she possessedover-stimulated, in some unknown way, the adrenals of frightenedpersons. It had no effect on inactive adrenals. The question remained—who would be the more frightened, she or thecondemned inquisitor? She was perspiring freely, and the blonde hair on her arms and neck wasstanding stiffly when Perat opened the door for her and they enteredthe Zone Provost's chambers. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] How is the theme of duty explored in this story?

Evelyn, the main character, is an example of a person following and respecting her duty. As a daughter of the commander she was brought up with a role model during the war time. Her father commanded the ship, defending the whole nation, and she witnessed it for years. It taught her to understand the duty and therefore she refused to leave the ship when she had the opportunity and accepted the important task of exploding both ships and herself as well. No matter how scared she was, she was determined to fulfill the duty placed on her by her father and mentors, and for that reason she pressed the button. When it didn't work, she kept feeling the burden of duty on her and started thinking of other means to destroy the enemies to fulfill the task. Following her duty moved her forward through pain and danger, made her find the ways to achieve it. When she shot her father, she did it because she had to, she knew it was the only right way to reach her aim instead of giving up to emotions.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE SPICY SOUND OF SUCCESS By JIM HARMON Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Now was the captain's chance to prove he knew less than the crew—all their lives hung upon it! There was nothing showing on the video screen. That was why we werelooking at it so analytically. Transphasia, that's what it is, Ordinary Spaceman Quade stated witha definite thrust of his angular jaw in my direction. You can take myword on that, Captain Gavin. Can't, I told him. I can't trust your opinion. I can't trust anything . That's why I'm Captain. You'll get over feeling like that. I know. Then I'll become First Officer. But look at that screen, sir, Quade said with an emphatic swing ofhis scarred arm. I've seen blank scanning like that before and youhaven't—it's your first trip. This always means transphasia—cortexdissolution, motor area feedback, the Aitchell Effect—call it anythingyou like, it's still transphasia. I know what transphasia is, I said moderately. It means anelectrogravitational disturbance of incoming sense data, rechannelingit to the wrong receptive areas. Besides the human brain, it alsoeffects electronic equipment, like radar and television. Obviously. Quade glanced disgustedly at the screen. Too obvious. This time it might not be a familiar condition of manyplanetary gravitational fields. On this planet, that blank kinescopemay mean our Big Brother kites were knocked down by hostile natives. You are plain wrong, Captain. Traditionally, alien races neverinterfere with our explorations. Generally, they are so alien to usthey can't even recognize our existence. <doc-sep>I drew myself up to my full height—and noticed in irritation it wasstill an inch less than Quade's. I don't understand you men. Look atyourself, Quade. You've been busted to Ordinary Spaceman for just thatkind of thinking, for relying on tradition, on things that have workedbefore. Not only your thinking is slipshod, you've grown careless abouteverything else, even your own life. Just a minute, Captain. I've never been 'busted.' In the ExplorationService, we regard Ordinary Spaceman as our highest rank. With myhazard pay, I get more hard cash than you do, and I'm closer toretirement. That's a shallow excuse for complacency. Complacency! I've seen ten thousand wonders in twenty years of space,with a million variations. But the patterns repeat themselves. We learnto know what to expect, so maybe we can't maintain the reactionarycaution the service likes in officers. I resent the word 'reactionary,' Spaceman! In civilian life, I wasa lapidary and I learned the value of deliberation. But I never gottoo cataleptic to tap a million-dollar gem, which is more than mycontemporaries can say, many of 'em. Captain Gavin, Quade said patiently, you must realize that anoutsider like you, among a crew of skilled spacemen, can never be morethan a figurehead. Was this the way I was to be treated? Why, this man had deliberatelyinsulted me, his captain. I controlled myself, remembering thefamiliarity that had always existed between members of a crew workingunder close conditions, from the time of the ancient submarines and thefirst orbital ships. Quade, I said, there's only one way for us to find out which of usis right about the cause of our scanning blackout. We go out and find the reason. Exactly. We go. You and me. I hope you can stand my company. I'm not sure I can, he answered reluctantly. My hazard pay doesn'tcover exploring with rookies. With all due respect, Captain. I clapped him on the shoulder. But, man, you have just been tellingme all we had to worry about was common transphasia. A man with yourexperience could protect himself and cover even a rookie, under suchfamiliar conditions—right? Yes, sir, I suppose I could, Quade said, bitterly aware he had lostout somewhere and hoping that it wasn't the start of a trend. <doc-sep>Looks okay to me, I said. Quade passed a gauntlet over his faceplate.It's real. I can blur it with a smudged visor. When it blurs, it'ssolid. The landscape beyond the black corona left by our landing rockets wasunimpressive. The rocky desert was made up of silicon and iron oxide,so it looked much the same as a terrestrial location. Yellowish-whitesand ran up to and around reddish brown rock clawing into the pinksunlight. I don't understand it, Quade admitted. Transphasia hits you a foulas soon as you let it into the airlock. Apparently, Quade, this thing is going to creep up on us. Don't sound smug, Captain. It's pitty-pattying behind you too. The keening call across the surface of consciousness postponed my reply. The wail was ominously forlorn, defiant of description. I turned myhead around slowly inside my helmet, not even sure that I had heard it. But what else can you do with a wail but hear it? Quade nodded. I've felt this before. It usually hits sooner. Let'strace it. I don't like this, I admitted. It's not at all what I expected fromwhat you said about transphasia. It must be something else. It couldn't be anything else. I know what to expect. You don't. Youmay begin smelling sensations, tasting sounds, hearing sights, seeingtastes, touching odors—or any other combination. Don't let it botheryou. Of course not. I'll soothe my nerves by counting little shocks oflanolin jumping over a loud fence. Quade grinned behind his faceplate. Good idea. Then you can have it. I'm going to try keeping my eyes open andstaying alive. There was no reply. His expression was tart and greasy despite all his light talk, andI knew mine was the same. I tested the security rope between ourpressure suits. It was a taut and virile bass. We scaled a staccato of rocks, our suits grinding pepper against ourhides. The musk summit rose before us, a minor-key horizon with a shiftingtreble for as far as I could smell. It was primitive beauty that madeyou feel shocking pink inside. The most beautiful vista I had evertasted, it couldn't be dulled even by the sensation of beef broth undermy skin. Is this transphasia? I asked in awe. It always has been before, Quade remarked. Ready to swallow yourwords about this being something an old hand wouldn't recognize,Captain? I'm swallowing no words until I find out precisely how they tastehere. Not a bad taste. They're pretty. Or haven't you noticed? Quade, you're right! About the colors anyway. This reminds me of anilliscope recording from a cybernetic translator. It should. I don't suppose we could understand each other if it wasn'tfor our morphistudy courses in reading cross-sense translations ofCentauri blushtalk and the like. It became difficult to understand him, difficult to try talking in theface of such splendor. You never really appreciate colors until yousmell them for the first time. <doc-sep>Quade was as conversational as ever, though. I can't seeirregularities occurring in a gravitational field. We must havecompensated for the transphasia while we still had a point ofreference, the solid reality of the spaceship. But out here, where allwe have to hang onto is each other, our concept of reality goes bang and deflates to a tired joke. Before I could agree with one of his theories for once, a streak ofspice shot past us. It bounced back tangily and made a bitter ripbetween the two of us. There was no time to judge its size, if it hadsize, or its decibel range, or its caloric count, before a small, sharppain dug in and dwindled down to nothing in one long second. The new odor pattern in my head told me Quade was saying something Icouldn't quite make out. Quade then pulled me in the direction of the nasty little pain. Wait a minute, Spaceman! I bellowed. Where the devil do you thinkyou're dragging me? Halt! That's a direct order. He stopped. Don't you want to find out what that was? This is anexploration party, you know, sir. I'm not sure I do want to find out what that was just now. I didn'tlike the feel of it. But the important thing is for us not to get anyfurther from the ship. That's important, Captain? To the best of my judgment, yes. This—condition—didn't begin untilwe got so far away from the spacer—in time or distance. I don't wantit to get any worse. It's troublesome not to know black from white, butit would be a downright inconvenience not to know which way is up. Not for an experienced spaceman, Quade griped. I'm used tofree-fall. But he turned back. Just a minute, I said. There was something strange up ahead. I wantto see if short-range radar can get through our electrogravitationaljamming here. I took a sighting. My helmet set projected the pattern on the cornea.Sweetness building up to a stab of pure salt—those were the blips. Beside me, there was a thin thread of violet. Quade had whistled. Hewas reading the map too. The slope fell away sharply in front of us, becoming a deep gorge.There was something broken and twisted at the bottom, something we hadknown for an instant as a streak of spice. There's one free-fall, I said, where you wouldn't live long enoughto get used to it. He said nothing on the route back to the spacer. <doc-sep>I know all about this sort of thing, Gav, First Officer Nagurski saidexpansively. He was rubbing the well-worn ears of our beagle mascot,Bruce. A heavy tail thudded on the steel deck from time to time. My finger could barely get in the chafing band of my regulation collar.I was hot and tired, fresh—in only the chronological sense—from apressure suit. What do you know all about, Nagurski? Dogs? Spacemen? Women?Transphasia? Yes, he answered casually. But I had immediate reference to ourcurrent psychophysiological phenomenon. I collapsed into the swivel in front of the chart table. First off,let's hear what you know about—never mind, make it dogs. Take Bruce, for example, then— No, thanks. I was wondering why you did. I didn't. His dark, round face was bland. Bruce picked me. Followedme home one night in Chicago Port. The dog or the man who picks his ownmaster is the most content. Bruce is content, I admitted. He couldn't be any more content andstill be alive. But I'm not sure that theory works out with men. We'dhave anarchy if I tried to let these starbucks pick their own master. I had no trouble when I was a captain, Nagurski said. Ease thereins on the men. Just offer them your advice, your guidance. Theywill soon see why the service selected you as captain; they will pickyou themselves. Did your crew voluntarily elect you as their leader? Of course they did, Gav. I'm an old hand at controlling crews. Then why are you First Officer under me now? He blinked, then decided to laugh. I've been in space a good manyyears. I really wanted to relax a little bit more. Besides, theincrease in hazard pay was actually more than my salary as a captain.I'm a notch nearer retirement too. Tell me, did you always feel this way about letting the men selecttheir own leader? <doc-sep>Nagurski brought out a pipe. He would have a pipe, I decided. No, not always. I was like you at first. Fresh from the cosmic energytest lab, suspicious of everything, trying to tell the old hands whatto do. But I learned that they are pretty smart boys; they know whatthey are doing. You can rely on them absolutely. I leaned forward, elbows on knees. Let me tell you a thing,Nagurski. Your trust of these damn-fool spacemen is why you are nolonger a captain. You can't trust anything out here in space, much lesshuman nature. Even I know that much! He was pained. If you don't trust the men, they won't trust you, Gav. They don't have to trust me. All they have to do is obey me or, byJupiter, get frozen stiff and thawed out just in time for court-marshalback home. Listen, I continued earnestly, these men aren't going tothink of me—of us , the officers, as their leaders. As far as thecrew is concerned, Ordinary Spaceman Quade is the best man on thisship. He is a good man, Nagurski said. You mustn't be jealous of hisstatus. The dog growled. He must have sensed what I almost did to Nagurski. Never mind that for now, I said wearily. What was your idea forgetting our exploration parties through this transphasia? There's only one idea for that, said Quade, ducking his long headand stepping through the connecting hatch. With the Captain'spermission.... Go ahead, Quade, tell him, Nagurski invited. There's only one way to wade through transphasia with anyreliability, Quade told me. You keep some kind of physical contactwith the spaceship. Parties are strung out on guide line, like we were,but the cable has to be run back and made fast to the hull. How far can we run it back? Quade shrugged. Miles. How many? We have three miles of cable. As long as you can feel, taste, see,smell or hear that rope anchoring you to home, you aren't lost. Three miles isn't good enough. We don't have enough fuel to changesites that often. You can't use the drive in a gravitational field, youknow. What else can we do, Captain? Nagurski asked puzzledly. You've said that the spaceship is our only protection fromtransphasia. Is that it? Quade gave a curt nod. Then, I told them, we will have to start tearing apart this ship. <doc-sep>Sergeant-Major Hoffman and his team were doing a good job of rippingout the side of the afterhold. Through the portal I could see thesuited men expertly guiding the huge curved sections on their rayprojectors. Cannibalizing is dangerous. Nagurski put his pipe in his teeth andshook his head disapprovingly. Spaceships have parts as interchangeable as Erector sets. We cantake apart the tractors and put our ship back together again after wecomplete the survey. You can't assemble a jigsaw puzzle if some of the pieces are missing. You can't get a complete picture, but you can get a good idea ofwhat it looks like. We can take off in a reasonable facsimile of aspaceship. Not, he persisted, if too many parts are missing. Nagurski, if you are looking for a job safer than space exploration,why don't you go back to testing cosmic bomb shelters? Nagurski flushed. Look here, Captain, you are being too damnedcautious. There is a way one handles the survey of a planet like this,and this isn't the way. It's my way. You heard what Quade said. You know it yourself. The menhave to have something tangible to hang onto out there. One slendercable isn't enough of an edge on sensory anarchy. If the product oftheir own technological civilization can keep them sane, I say let 'emtake a part of that environment with them. In departing from standard procedure that we have learned to trust,you are risking more than a few men—you risk the whole mission ingambling so much of the ship. A captain doesn't take chances like that! I never said I wouldn't take chances. But I'm not going to take stupid chances. I might be doing the wrong thing, but I can see you would be doing it wrong. You know nothing about space, Captain! You have to trust us . That's it exactly, First Officer Nagurski, I said sociably. If youlazy, lax, complacent slobs want to do something in a particular way, Iknow it has to be wrong. I turned and found Wallace, the personnel man, standing in the hatchway. Pardon, Captain, but would you say we also lacked initiative? I would, I answered levelly. Then you'll be interested to hear that Spaceman Quade took a suit anda cartographer unit. He's out there somewhere, alone. The idiot! I yelped. Everyone needs a partner out there. Send out ateam to follow his cable and drag him in here by it. He didn't hook on a cable, Captain, Wallace said. I suppose heintended to go beyond the three-mile limit as you demanded. Shut up, Wallace. You don't have to like me, but you can't twist whatI said as long as I command this spacer. Cool off, Gav, Nagurski advised me. It's been done before. Anybodyelse would have been a fool to go out alone, but Quade is the mostexperienced man we have. He knows transphasia. Trust him. I trusted him too far by letting him run around loose. He needs aleash in more ways than one, and I'm going to put one on him. <doc-sep>For me, it was a nightmare. I lay down in my cabin and thought. I hadto think things through very carefully. One mistake was too many forme. My worst fear had been that someday I would overlook one tiny flawand ruin a gem. Now I might have ruined an exploration and destroyed aman, not a stone, because I had missed the flaw. No one but a reckless fool would have gone out alone on a strangeplanet with a terrifying phenomenon, but I'd had enough evidence to seethat space exploration made a man a reckless fool by doing things onone planet he had once found safe and wise on some other world. The thought intruded itself: why hadn't I recognized this before Ilet Quade escape to almost certain death? Wasn't it because I wantedhim dead, because I resented the crew's resentment of my authority, andrecognized in him the leader and symbol of this resentment? I threw away that idea along with my half-used cigarette. It might verywell be true, but how did that help now? I had to think . I was going after him, that was certain. Not only for humanereasons—he was the most important member of the crew. With him around,there were only two opinions, his and mine. Without him, I'd haveendless opinions to contend with. But it wouldn't do any good to go out no better equipped than he.There was no time to wait for tractors to be built if we wanted toreach him alive, and we certainly couldn't reach him five or tenmiles out with our three miles of safety line. We would have to go inspacesuits. But how would that leave us any better off than Quade? Why was Quade vulnerable in his spacesuit, as I knew from experience hewould be? How could we be less vulnerable, or preferably invulnerable? <doc-sep>Captain, you got nothing to worry about, Quartermaster Farley said.He patted a space helmet paternally. You got yourself a self-containedenvironment. The suit's eye looks into yours at the arteries in theback of your eyeball so it can read your amber corpuscles and feedyou your oxygen in the right amounts; you're a bottle-fed baby. Iftransphasia gets you seeing limburger, turn on the radar and you'reair-conditioned as an igloo. Nothing short of a cosmic blast can dentthat hide. You got it made. You are right, I said, only transphasia comes right through theseair-fast joints. Something strange about the trance, Captain, Farley said darkly. Anyspaceman can tell you that. Things we don't understand. I'm talking about something we do understand— sound . These suitsperfectly soundproof? Well, you can pick up sound by conduction. Like putting two helmetstogether and talking without using radio. You can't insulate enough toblock out all sound and still have a man-shaped suit. You have— I know. Then you have something like a tractor or a miniaturespaceship. There isn't time for that. We will have to live with thesound. What do you think he's going to hear out there, Captain? We'd like tofind one of those beautiful sirens on some planet, believe me, but— I believe you, I said quickly. Let's leave it at that. I don't knowwhat he will hear; what's worrying me is how he'll hear it, in whatsensory medium. I hope the sound doesn't blind him. His radar is hisonly chance. How do you figure on getting a better edge yourself, sir? I have the idea, but not the word for it. Tonal compensation, Isuppose. If you can't shut out the noise, we'll have to drown it out. Farley nodded. Beat like a telephone time signal? That would do it. It would do something else. It would drive you nuts. <doc-sep>I shrugged. It might be distracting. Captain, take my word for it, argued Farley. Constant sonicfeedback inside a spacesuit will set you rocking against the grain. Devise some regular system of interruptions, I suggested. Then the pattern will drive you crazy. Maybe in a few months, withluck, I could plan some harmonic scale you could tolerate— We don't have a few months, I said. How about music? There's aharmonic scale for you, and we can endure it, some of it. Figaro and Asleep in the Cradle of the Deep can compensate for high-pitchedoutside temperatures, and Flight of the Bumble Bee to block bassnotes. Farley nodded. Might work. I can program the tapes from the library. Good. There's one more thing—how are our stores of medicinal liquor? Farley paled. Captain, are you implying that I should be runningshort on alcohol? Where do you get off suggesting a thing like that? I'm getting off at the right stop, apparently, I sighed. Okay,Farley, no evasions. In plain figures, how much drinking alcohol do wehave left? The quartermaster slumped a bit. Twenty-one liters unbroken. One moreabout half full. Half full? How did that ever happen? I mean you had some left ? We'lltake this up later. I want you to run it through the synthesizer to getsome light wine.... Light wine? Farley looked in pain. Not whiskey, brandy, beer? Light wine. Then ration it out to some of the men. Ration it to the men! That's an accurate interpretation of my orders. But, sir, Farley protested, you don't give alcohol to the crew inthe middle of a mission. It's not done. What reason can you have? To sharpen their taste and olfactory senses. We can turn up or blockout sound. We can use radar to extend our sight, but the Space Servicehasn't yet developed anything to make spacemen taste or smell better. They are going to smell like a herd of winos, Farley said. I don'tlike to think how they would taste. It's an entirely practical idea. Tea-tasters used to drinkalmond-and-barley water to sharpen their senses. I've observed thatwine helps you appreciate culinary art more. Considering the mixed-upsensory data under transphasia, wine may help us to see where we aregoing. Yes, sir, Farley said obediently. I'll give spacemen a few quarts ofwine, telling them to use it carefully for scientific purposes only,and then they will be able to see where they are going. Yes, sir. I turned to leave, then paused briefly. You can come along, Farley.I'm sure you want to see that we don't waste any of the stuff. <doc-sep>There they are! Nagurski called. Quade's footsteps again, justbeyond that rocky ridge. The landscape was rich chocolate ice cream smothered with chocolatesyrup, caramel, peanuts and maple syrup, eaten while you smoked an old,mellow Havana. The footsteps were faint traces of whipped cream acrossthe dark, rich taste of the planet. I splashed some wine from my drinking tube against the roof of my mouthto sharpen my taste. It brought out the footsteps sharper. It also madethe landscape more of a teen-ager's caloric nightmare. The four of us pulled ourselves closer together by reeling in moreof our safety line. Farley and Hoffman, Nagurski and myself, we werecabled together. It gave us a larger hunk of reality to hold onto. Evenso, things wavered for me during a wisp of time. We stumbled over the ridge, feeling out the territory. It was a stickyjob crawling over a melting, chunk-style Hershey bar. I was thankfulfor the invigorating Sousa march blasting inside my helmet. Before thetape had cut in, kicked on by the decibel gauge, I had heard or feltsomething dark and ominous in the outside air. Yes, this is definitely the trail of Quail, Nagurski said soberly.This is serious business. I must ask whoever has been giggling onthis channel to shut up. Pardon me, Captain. You weren't giggling,sir? I have never giggled in my life, Nagurski. Yes, sir. That's what we all thought. A moment later, Nagurski added, Anyway, I just noticed it was myshelf—my, that is, self. The basso profundo performing Figaro on my headset climbed to agirlish shriek. A sliver of ice. This was the call Quade and I hadfirst heard as we were about to troop over a cliff. I dug in my heels. Take a good look around, boys, I said. What do you see? Quail, Nagurski replied. That's what I see. You, I said carefully, have been in space a long time. Look again. I see our old buddy, Quail. I took another slosh of burgundy and peered up ahead. It was Quade. Aman in a spacesuit, faceplate in the dust, two hundred yards ahead. Grudgingly I stepped forward, out of the shadow of the ridge.A hysterically screaming wind rocked me on my toes. We pushedon sluggishly to Quade's side, moving to the tempo of Pomp andCircumstance . Farley lugged Quade over on his back and read his gauges. The Quartermaster rose with grim deliberation, and hiccuped. Betterget him back to the spaceship fast. I've seen this kind of thingbefore with transphasia. His body cooled down because of the screamingwind—psychosomatic reaction—and his heating circuits compensated forthe cool flesh. The poor devil's got frostbite and heat prostration. <doc-sep>The four of us managed to haul Quade back by using the powered jointsin our suits. Hoffman suggested that he had once seen an injuredman walked back inside his suit like a robot, but it was a delicateadjustment, controlling power circuits from outside a suit. It was toomuch for us—we were too tired, too numb, too drunk. At first sight of the spacer in the distance, transphasia left me withonly a chocolate-tasting pink after-image on my retina. It was nowshowing bare skeleton from cannibalization for tractor parts, but itlooked good to me, like home. The wailing call sounded through the amber twilight. I realized that I was actually hearing it for the first time. The alien stood between us and the ship. It was a great pot-belliedlizard as tall as a man. Its sound came from a flat, vibrating beavertail. Others of its kind were coming into view behind it. Stand your ground, I warned the others thickly. They may bedangerous. Quade sat up on our crisscross litter of arms. Aliens can't behostile. Ethnic impossibility. I'll show you. Quade was delirious and we were drunk. He got away from us and joggedtoward the herd. Let's give him a hand! Farley shouted. We'll take us a specimen! I couldn't stop them. Being in Alpine rope with them, I went along. Atthe time, it even seemed vaguely like a good idea. As we lumbered toward them, the aliens fell back in a solid line exceptfor the first curious-looking one. Quade got there ahead of us and madea grab. The creature rose into the air with a screaming vibration ofhis tail and landed on top of him, flattening him instantly. Sssh, men, Nagurski said. Leave it to me. I'll surround him. The men followed the First Officer's example, and the rope tying themto him. I went along cheerfully myself, until an enormous rump struckme violently in the face. My leaded boots were driven down into fertilesoil, and my helmet was ringing like a bell. I got a jerky picture ofthe beast jumping up and down on top of the others joyously. Only thestiff space armor was holding up our slack frames. Let's let him escape, Hoffman suggested on the audio circuit. I'd like to, Nagurski admitted, but the other beasts won't let usget past their circle. It was true. The aliens formed a ring around us, and each time abouncing boy hit the line, he only bounced back on top of us. Flat! I yelled. Our seams can't take much more of this beating. I followed my own advice and landed in the dirt beside Quade. The bouncer came to rest and regarded us silently, head on aneighty-degree angle. I was stone sober. The others were lying around me quietly, passed out, knocked out, ortaking cover. The ring of aliens drew in about us, closer, tighter, as the bouncersat on his haunches and waited for us to move. <doc-sep>Feeling better? I asked Quade in the infirmary. He punched up his pillow and settled back. I guess so. But when Ithink of all the ways I nearly got myself killed out there.... How farhave you got in the tractors? I'm having the tractors torn down and the parts put back into thespaceship where they belong. We shouldn't risk losing them andgetting stuck here. Are you settling for a primary exploration? No. I think I had the right idea on your rescue party. You have tomeet and fight a planet on its own terms. Fighting confused sounds andtastes with music and wine was crude, but it was on the right track.Out there, we understood language because we were familiar with alienlanguages changed to other sense mediums by cybernetic translators.Using the translator, we can learn to recognize all confused data aseasily. I'm starting indoctrination courses. I doubt that that is necessary, sir, Quade said. Experiencedspacemen are experienced with transphasia. You don't have to worry. Inthe future, I'll be able to resist sensations that tell me I'm freezingto death—if my gauges tell me it's a lie. I examined his bandisprayed hide. I think my way of gaining experienceis less painful and more efficient. Quade squirmed. Yes, sir. One thing, sir—I don't understand how yougot me away from those aliens. The aliens were trying to help. They knew something was wrong and theywere prodding and probing. When the first tractor pulled up and the mengot out, they seemed to realize our own people could help us easierthan they could. I am not quite convinced that those babies just meant to help us allthe time. But they did! First, that call of theirs—it wasn't to lead us intodanger, but to warn us of the cliff, the freezing wind. They saw wewere trying to find out things about their world, so they even offeredus one of their own kind to study. Unfortunately, he was too much forus. They didn't give us their top man, of course, only the villageidiot. It's just as well. We aren't allowed to dissect creatures thatfar up the intelligence scale. But why should they want to help us? Quade demanded suspiciously. I think it's like Nagurski's dog. The dog came to him when it wantedsomebody to own it, protect it, feed it, love it. These aliens want Earthmen to colonize the planet. We came here, you see, same as the dogcame to Nagurski. Well, I've learned one thing from all of this, Quade said. I've beena blind, arrogant, cocksure fool, following courses that were good on some worlds, most worlds, but not good on all worlds. I'm nevergoing to be that foolhardy again. But you're losing confidence , Quade! You aren't sure of yourself anymore. Isn't confidence a spaceman's most valuable asset? The hell it is, Quade said grimly. It's his deadliest liability. In that case, I must inform you that I am demoting you to ActingExecutive Officer. Huh? Quade gawked. But dammit, Captain, you can't do that to me!I'll lose hazard pay and be that much further from retirement! That's tough, I sympathized, but in every service a chap gets brokenin rank now and then. Maybe it's worth it, Quade said heavily. Now maybe I've learned howto stay alive out here. I just hope I don't forget. I thought about that. I was nearly through with my first mission andI could speak with experience, even if it was the least amount ofexperience aboard. Quade, I said, space isn't as dangerous as all that. I clapped himon the shoulder fraternally. You worry too much! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Captain Gavin and Ordinary Spaceman Quade have an argument about the blank video screen during a space exploration mission. Quade claims it is a transphasia and Captain doubts it. When the dispute gets tense, the two of them go out to find the reason for the blackout. There they smell and taste the beauty. Suddenly, a streak of spice shoots and the captain feels pain. After another short fight the two decide to go back to the spacer. There the captain has a chat with First Officer Nagurski, an ex-captain, about making Gavin's relationship with the crew better. Quade joins, and next steps towards transphasia are discussed with the final decision of the captain to tear apart the ship as it is the only protection. Many disagree again, and Quade goes out somewhere alone without a cable. Gavin blames himself for not seeing Quade's intentions and plans to follow. The crew plans on fighting the noise with music outside and increasing smell and taste by drinking wine. After these preparations, a part of the crew moves out following the cable to search for Quade. Soon they find him lying in the dust with frostbite and heat prostration. Near the ship, lizard-like aliens stand in the crew's way. A short beating occurs, and soon the captain is talking to Quade in the infirmary about the past experience. Turns out the aliens were trying to help and desired to be colonized. Quade acknowledges his mistakes and loses his confidence, for which he is demoted by the captain.

What is the reason and development of the conflict between the Captain and Quade? [SEP] <s> THE SPICY SOUND OF SUCCESS By JIM HARMON Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Now was the captain's chance to prove he knew less than the crew—all their lives hung upon it! There was nothing showing on the video screen. That was why we werelooking at it so analytically. Transphasia, that's what it is, Ordinary Spaceman Quade stated witha definite thrust of his angular jaw in my direction. You can take myword on that, Captain Gavin. Can't, I told him. I can't trust your opinion. I can't trust anything . That's why I'm Captain. You'll get over feeling like that. I know. Then I'll become First Officer. But look at that screen, sir, Quade said with an emphatic swing ofhis scarred arm. I've seen blank scanning like that before and youhaven't—it's your first trip. This always means transphasia—cortexdissolution, motor area feedback, the Aitchell Effect—call it anythingyou like, it's still transphasia. I know what transphasia is, I said moderately. It means anelectrogravitational disturbance of incoming sense data, rechannelingit to the wrong receptive areas. Besides the human brain, it alsoeffects electronic equipment, like radar and television. Obviously. Quade glanced disgustedly at the screen. Too obvious. This time it might not be a familiar condition of manyplanetary gravitational fields. On this planet, that blank kinescopemay mean our Big Brother kites were knocked down by hostile natives. You are plain wrong, Captain. Traditionally, alien races neverinterfere with our explorations. Generally, they are so alien to usthey can't even recognize our existence. <doc-sep>I drew myself up to my full height—and noticed in irritation it wasstill an inch less than Quade's. I don't understand you men. Look atyourself, Quade. You've been busted to Ordinary Spaceman for just thatkind of thinking, for relying on tradition, on things that have workedbefore. Not only your thinking is slipshod, you've grown careless abouteverything else, even your own life. Just a minute, Captain. I've never been 'busted.' In the ExplorationService, we regard Ordinary Spaceman as our highest rank. With myhazard pay, I get more hard cash than you do, and I'm closer toretirement. That's a shallow excuse for complacency. Complacency! I've seen ten thousand wonders in twenty years of space,with a million variations. But the patterns repeat themselves. We learnto know what to expect, so maybe we can't maintain the reactionarycaution the service likes in officers. I resent the word 'reactionary,' Spaceman! In civilian life, I wasa lapidary and I learned the value of deliberation. But I never gottoo cataleptic to tap a million-dollar gem, which is more than mycontemporaries can say, many of 'em. Captain Gavin, Quade said patiently, you must realize that anoutsider like you, among a crew of skilled spacemen, can never be morethan a figurehead. Was this the way I was to be treated? Why, this man had deliberatelyinsulted me, his captain. I controlled myself, remembering thefamiliarity that had always existed between members of a crew workingunder close conditions, from the time of the ancient submarines and thefirst orbital ships. Quade, I said, there's only one way for us to find out which of usis right about the cause of our scanning blackout. We go out and find the reason. Exactly. We go. You and me. I hope you can stand my company. I'm not sure I can, he answered reluctantly. My hazard pay doesn'tcover exploring with rookies. With all due respect, Captain. I clapped him on the shoulder. But, man, you have just been tellingme all we had to worry about was common transphasia. A man with yourexperience could protect himself and cover even a rookie, under suchfamiliar conditions—right? Yes, sir, I suppose I could, Quade said, bitterly aware he had lostout somewhere and hoping that it wasn't the start of a trend. <doc-sep>Looks okay to me, I said. Quade passed a gauntlet over his faceplate.It's real. I can blur it with a smudged visor. When it blurs, it'ssolid. The landscape beyond the black corona left by our landing rockets wasunimpressive. The rocky desert was made up of silicon and iron oxide,so it looked much the same as a terrestrial location. Yellowish-whitesand ran up to and around reddish brown rock clawing into the pinksunlight. I don't understand it, Quade admitted. Transphasia hits you a foulas soon as you let it into the airlock. Apparently, Quade, this thing is going to creep up on us. Don't sound smug, Captain. It's pitty-pattying behind you too. The keening call across the surface of consciousness postponed my reply. The wail was ominously forlorn, defiant of description. I turned myhead around slowly inside my helmet, not even sure that I had heard it. But what else can you do with a wail but hear it? Quade nodded. I've felt this before. It usually hits sooner. Let'strace it. I don't like this, I admitted. It's not at all what I expected fromwhat you said about transphasia. It must be something else. It couldn't be anything else. I know what to expect. You don't. Youmay begin smelling sensations, tasting sounds, hearing sights, seeingtastes, touching odors—or any other combination. Don't let it botheryou. Of course not. I'll soothe my nerves by counting little shocks oflanolin jumping over a loud fence. Quade grinned behind his faceplate. Good idea. Then you can have it. I'm going to try keeping my eyes open andstaying alive. There was no reply. His expression was tart and greasy despite all his light talk, andI knew mine was the same. I tested the security rope between ourpressure suits. It was a taut and virile bass. We scaled a staccato of rocks, our suits grinding pepper against ourhides. The musk summit rose before us, a minor-key horizon with a shiftingtreble for as far as I could smell. It was primitive beauty that madeyou feel shocking pink inside. The most beautiful vista I had evertasted, it couldn't be dulled even by the sensation of beef broth undermy skin. Is this transphasia? I asked in awe. It always has been before, Quade remarked. Ready to swallow yourwords about this being something an old hand wouldn't recognize,Captain? I'm swallowing no words until I find out precisely how they tastehere. Not a bad taste. They're pretty. Or haven't you noticed? Quade, you're right! About the colors anyway. This reminds me of anilliscope recording from a cybernetic translator. It should. I don't suppose we could understand each other if it wasn'tfor our morphistudy courses in reading cross-sense translations ofCentauri blushtalk and the like. It became difficult to understand him, difficult to try talking in theface of such splendor. You never really appreciate colors until yousmell them for the first time. <doc-sep>Quade was as conversational as ever, though. I can't seeirregularities occurring in a gravitational field. We must havecompensated for the transphasia while we still had a point ofreference, the solid reality of the spaceship. But out here, where allwe have to hang onto is each other, our concept of reality goes bang and deflates to a tired joke. Before I could agree with one of his theories for once, a streak ofspice shot past us. It bounced back tangily and made a bitter ripbetween the two of us. There was no time to judge its size, if it hadsize, or its decibel range, or its caloric count, before a small, sharppain dug in and dwindled down to nothing in one long second. The new odor pattern in my head told me Quade was saying something Icouldn't quite make out. Quade then pulled me in the direction of the nasty little pain. Wait a minute, Spaceman! I bellowed. Where the devil do you thinkyou're dragging me? Halt! That's a direct order. He stopped. Don't you want to find out what that was? This is anexploration party, you know, sir. I'm not sure I do want to find out what that was just now. I didn'tlike the feel of it. But the important thing is for us not to get anyfurther from the ship. That's important, Captain? To the best of my judgment, yes. This—condition—didn't begin untilwe got so far away from the spacer—in time or distance. I don't wantit to get any worse. It's troublesome not to know black from white, butit would be a downright inconvenience not to know which way is up. Not for an experienced spaceman, Quade griped. I'm used tofree-fall. But he turned back. Just a minute, I said. There was something strange up ahead. I wantto see if short-range radar can get through our electrogravitationaljamming here. I took a sighting. My helmet set projected the pattern on the cornea.Sweetness building up to a stab of pure salt—those were the blips. Beside me, there was a thin thread of violet. Quade had whistled. Hewas reading the map too. The slope fell away sharply in front of us, becoming a deep gorge.There was something broken and twisted at the bottom, something we hadknown for an instant as a streak of spice. There's one free-fall, I said, where you wouldn't live long enoughto get used to it. He said nothing on the route back to the spacer. <doc-sep>I know all about this sort of thing, Gav, First Officer Nagurski saidexpansively. He was rubbing the well-worn ears of our beagle mascot,Bruce. A heavy tail thudded on the steel deck from time to time. My finger could barely get in the chafing band of my regulation collar.I was hot and tired, fresh—in only the chronological sense—from apressure suit. What do you know all about, Nagurski? Dogs? Spacemen? Women?Transphasia? Yes, he answered casually. But I had immediate reference to ourcurrent psychophysiological phenomenon. I collapsed into the swivel in front of the chart table. First off,let's hear what you know about—never mind, make it dogs. Take Bruce, for example, then— No, thanks. I was wondering why you did. I didn't. His dark, round face was bland. Bruce picked me. Followedme home one night in Chicago Port. The dog or the man who picks his ownmaster is the most content. Bruce is content, I admitted. He couldn't be any more content andstill be alive. But I'm not sure that theory works out with men. We'dhave anarchy if I tried to let these starbucks pick their own master. I had no trouble when I was a captain, Nagurski said. Ease thereins on the men. Just offer them your advice, your guidance. Theywill soon see why the service selected you as captain; they will pickyou themselves. Did your crew voluntarily elect you as their leader? Of course they did, Gav. I'm an old hand at controlling crews. Then why are you First Officer under me now? He blinked, then decided to laugh. I've been in space a good manyyears. I really wanted to relax a little bit more. Besides, theincrease in hazard pay was actually more than my salary as a captain.I'm a notch nearer retirement too. Tell me, did you always feel this way about letting the men selecttheir own leader? <doc-sep>Nagurski brought out a pipe. He would have a pipe, I decided. No, not always. I was like you at first. Fresh from the cosmic energytest lab, suspicious of everything, trying to tell the old hands whatto do. But I learned that they are pretty smart boys; they know whatthey are doing. You can rely on them absolutely. I leaned forward, elbows on knees. Let me tell you a thing,Nagurski. Your trust of these damn-fool spacemen is why you are nolonger a captain. You can't trust anything out here in space, much lesshuman nature. Even I know that much! He was pained. If you don't trust the men, they won't trust you, Gav. They don't have to trust me. All they have to do is obey me or, byJupiter, get frozen stiff and thawed out just in time for court-marshalback home. Listen, I continued earnestly, these men aren't going tothink of me—of us , the officers, as their leaders. As far as thecrew is concerned, Ordinary Spaceman Quade is the best man on thisship. He is a good man, Nagurski said. You mustn't be jealous of hisstatus. The dog growled. He must have sensed what I almost did to Nagurski. Never mind that for now, I said wearily. What was your idea forgetting our exploration parties through this transphasia? There's only one idea for that, said Quade, ducking his long headand stepping through the connecting hatch. With the Captain'spermission.... Go ahead, Quade, tell him, Nagurski invited. There's only one way to wade through transphasia with anyreliability, Quade told me. You keep some kind of physical contactwith the spaceship. Parties are strung out on guide line, like we were,but the cable has to be run back and made fast to the hull. How far can we run it back? Quade shrugged. Miles. How many? We have three miles of cable. As long as you can feel, taste, see,smell or hear that rope anchoring you to home, you aren't lost. Three miles isn't good enough. We don't have enough fuel to changesites that often. You can't use the drive in a gravitational field, youknow. What else can we do, Captain? Nagurski asked puzzledly. You've said that the spaceship is our only protection fromtransphasia. Is that it? Quade gave a curt nod. Then, I told them, we will have to start tearing apart this ship. <doc-sep>Sergeant-Major Hoffman and his team were doing a good job of rippingout the side of the afterhold. Through the portal I could see thesuited men expertly guiding the huge curved sections on their rayprojectors. Cannibalizing is dangerous. Nagurski put his pipe in his teeth andshook his head disapprovingly. Spaceships have parts as interchangeable as Erector sets. We cantake apart the tractors and put our ship back together again after wecomplete the survey. You can't assemble a jigsaw puzzle if some of the pieces are missing. You can't get a complete picture, but you can get a good idea ofwhat it looks like. We can take off in a reasonable facsimile of aspaceship. Not, he persisted, if too many parts are missing. Nagurski, if you are looking for a job safer than space exploration,why don't you go back to testing cosmic bomb shelters? Nagurski flushed. Look here, Captain, you are being too damnedcautious. There is a way one handles the survey of a planet like this,and this isn't the way. It's my way. You heard what Quade said. You know it yourself. The menhave to have something tangible to hang onto out there. One slendercable isn't enough of an edge on sensory anarchy. If the product oftheir own technological civilization can keep them sane, I say let 'emtake a part of that environment with them. In departing from standard procedure that we have learned to trust,you are risking more than a few men—you risk the whole mission ingambling so much of the ship. A captain doesn't take chances like that! I never said I wouldn't take chances. But I'm not going to take stupid chances. I might be doing the wrong thing, but I can see you would be doing it wrong. You know nothing about space, Captain! You have to trust us . That's it exactly, First Officer Nagurski, I said sociably. If youlazy, lax, complacent slobs want to do something in a particular way, Iknow it has to be wrong. I turned and found Wallace, the personnel man, standing in the hatchway. Pardon, Captain, but would you say we also lacked initiative? I would, I answered levelly. Then you'll be interested to hear that Spaceman Quade took a suit anda cartographer unit. He's out there somewhere, alone. The idiot! I yelped. Everyone needs a partner out there. Send out ateam to follow his cable and drag him in here by it. He didn't hook on a cable, Captain, Wallace said. I suppose heintended to go beyond the three-mile limit as you demanded. Shut up, Wallace. You don't have to like me, but you can't twist whatI said as long as I command this spacer. Cool off, Gav, Nagurski advised me. It's been done before. Anybodyelse would have been a fool to go out alone, but Quade is the mostexperienced man we have. He knows transphasia. Trust him. I trusted him too far by letting him run around loose. He needs aleash in more ways than one, and I'm going to put one on him. <doc-sep>For me, it was a nightmare. I lay down in my cabin and thought. I hadto think things through very carefully. One mistake was too many forme. My worst fear had been that someday I would overlook one tiny flawand ruin a gem. Now I might have ruined an exploration and destroyed aman, not a stone, because I had missed the flaw. No one but a reckless fool would have gone out alone on a strangeplanet with a terrifying phenomenon, but I'd had enough evidence to seethat space exploration made a man a reckless fool by doing things onone planet he had once found safe and wise on some other world. The thought intruded itself: why hadn't I recognized this before Ilet Quade escape to almost certain death? Wasn't it because I wantedhim dead, because I resented the crew's resentment of my authority, andrecognized in him the leader and symbol of this resentment? I threw away that idea along with my half-used cigarette. It might verywell be true, but how did that help now? I had to think . I was going after him, that was certain. Not only for humanereasons—he was the most important member of the crew. With him around,there were only two opinions, his and mine. Without him, I'd haveendless opinions to contend with. But it wouldn't do any good to go out no better equipped than he.There was no time to wait for tractors to be built if we wanted toreach him alive, and we certainly couldn't reach him five or tenmiles out with our three miles of safety line. We would have to go inspacesuits. But how would that leave us any better off than Quade? Why was Quade vulnerable in his spacesuit, as I knew from experience hewould be? How could we be less vulnerable, or preferably invulnerable? <doc-sep>Captain, you got nothing to worry about, Quartermaster Farley said.He patted a space helmet paternally. You got yourself a self-containedenvironment. The suit's eye looks into yours at the arteries in theback of your eyeball so it can read your amber corpuscles and feedyou your oxygen in the right amounts; you're a bottle-fed baby. Iftransphasia gets you seeing limburger, turn on the radar and you'reair-conditioned as an igloo. Nothing short of a cosmic blast can dentthat hide. You got it made. You are right, I said, only transphasia comes right through theseair-fast joints. Something strange about the trance, Captain, Farley said darkly. Anyspaceman can tell you that. Things we don't understand. I'm talking about something we do understand— sound . These suitsperfectly soundproof? Well, you can pick up sound by conduction. Like putting two helmetstogether and talking without using radio. You can't insulate enough toblock out all sound and still have a man-shaped suit. You have— I know. Then you have something like a tractor or a miniaturespaceship. There isn't time for that. We will have to live with thesound. What do you think he's going to hear out there, Captain? We'd like tofind one of those beautiful sirens on some planet, believe me, but— I believe you, I said quickly. Let's leave it at that. I don't knowwhat he will hear; what's worrying me is how he'll hear it, in whatsensory medium. I hope the sound doesn't blind him. His radar is hisonly chance. How do you figure on getting a better edge yourself, sir? I have the idea, but not the word for it. Tonal compensation, Isuppose. If you can't shut out the noise, we'll have to drown it out. Farley nodded. Beat like a telephone time signal? That would do it. It would do something else. It would drive you nuts. <doc-sep>I shrugged. It might be distracting. Captain, take my word for it, argued Farley. Constant sonicfeedback inside a spacesuit will set you rocking against the grain. Devise some regular system of interruptions, I suggested. Then the pattern will drive you crazy. Maybe in a few months, withluck, I could plan some harmonic scale you could tolerate— We don't have a few months, I said. How about music? There's aharmonic scale for you, and we can endure it, some of it. Figaro and Asleep in the Cradle of the Deep can compensate for high-pitchedoutside temperatures, and Flight of the Bumble Bee to block bassnotes. Farley nodded. Might work. I can program the tapes from the library. Good. There's one more thing—how are our stores of medicinal liquor? Farley paled. Captain, are you implying that I should be runningshort on alcohol? Where do you get off suggesting a thing like that? I'm getting off at the right stop, apparently, I sighed. Okay,Farley, no evasions. In plain figures, how much drinking alcohol do wehave left? The quartermaster slumped a bit. Twenty-one liters unbroken. One moreabout half full. Half full? How did that ever happen? I mean you had some left ? We'lltake this up later. I want you to run it through the synthesizer to getsome light wine.... Light wine? Farley looked in pain. Not whiskey, brandy, beer? Light wine. Then ration it out to some of the men. Ration it to the men! That's an accurate interpretation of my orders. But, sir, Farley protested, you don't give alcohol to the crew inthe middle of a mission. It's not done. What reason can you have? To sharpen their taste and olfactory senses. We can turn up or blockout sound. We can use radar to extend our sight, but the Space Servicehasn't yet developed anything to make spacemen taste or smell better. They are going to smell like a herd of winos, Farley said. I don'tlike to think how they would taste. It's an entirely practical idea. Tea-tasters used to drinkalmond-and-barley water to sharpen their senses. I've observed thatwine helps you appreciate culinary art more. Considering the mixed-upsensory data under transphasia, wine may help us to see where we aregoing. Yes, sir, Farley said obediently. I'll give spacemen a few quarts ofwine, telling them to use it carefully for scientific purposes only,and then they will be able to see where they are going. Yes, sir. I turned to leave, then paused briefly. You can come along, Farley.I'm sure you want to see that we don't waste any of the stuff. <doc-sep>There they are! Nagurski called. Quade's footsteps again, justbeyond that rocky ridge. The landscape was rich chocolate ice cream smothered with chocolatesyrup, caramel, peanuts and maple syrup, eaten while you smoked an old,mellow Havana. The footsteps were faint traces of whipped cream acrossthe dark, rich taste of the planet. I splashed some wine from my drinking tube against the roof of my mouthto sharpen my taste. It brought out the footsteps sharper. It also madethe landscape more of a teen-ager's caloric nightmare. The four of us pulled ourselves closer together by reeling in moreof our safety line. Farley and Hoffman, Nagurski and myself, we werecabled together. It gave us a larger hunk of reality to hold onto. Evenso, things wavered for me during a wisp of time. We stumbled over the ridge, feeling out the territory. It was a stickyjob crawling over a melting, chunk-style Hershey bar. I was thankfulfor the invigorating Sousa march blasting inside my helmet. Before thetape had cut in, kicked on by the decibel gauge, I had heard or feltsomething dark and ominous in the outside air. Yes, this is definitely the trail of Quail, Nagurski said soberly.This is serious business. I must ask whoever has been giggling onthis channel to shut up. Pardon me, Captain. You weren't giggling,sir? I have never giggled in my life, Nagurski. Yes, sir. That's what we all thought. A moment later, Nagurski added, Anyway, I just noticed it was myshelf—my, that is, self. The basso profundo performing Figaro on my headset climbed to agirlish shriek. A sliver of ice. This was the call Quade and I hadfirst heard as we were about to troop over a cliff. I dug in my heels. Take a good look around, boys, I said. What do you see? Quail, Nagurski replied. That's what I see. You, I said carefully, have been in space a long time. Look again. I see our old buddy, Quail. I took another slosh of burgundy and peered up ahead. It was Quade. Aman in a spacesuit, faceplate in the dust, two hundred yards ahead. Grudgingly I stepped forward, out of the shadow of the ridge.A hysterically screaming wind rocked me on my toes. We pushedon sluggishly to Quade's side, moving to the tempo of Pomp andCircumstance . Farley lugged Quade over on his back and read his gauges. The Quartermaster rose with grim deliberation, and hiccuped. Betterget him back to the spaceship fast. I've seen this kind of thingbefore with transphasia. His body cooled down because of the screamingwind—psychosomatic reaction—and his heating circuits compensated forthe cool flesh. The poor devil's got frostbite and heat prostration. <doc-sep>The four of us managed to haul Quade back by using the powered jointsin our suits. Hoffman suggested that he had once seen an injuredman walked back inside his suit like a robot, but it was a delicateadjustment, controlling power circuits from outside a suit. It was toomuch for us—we were too tired, too numb, too drunk. At first sight of the spacer in the distance, transphasia left me withonly a chocolate-tasting pink after-image on my retina. It was nowshowing bare skeleton from cannibalization for tractor parts, but itlooked good to me, like home. The wailing call sounded through the amber twilight. I realized that I was actually hearing it for the first time. The alien stood between us and the ship. It was a great pot-belliedlizard as tall as a man. Its sound came from a flat, vibrating beavertail. Others of its kind were coming into view behind it. Stand your ground, I warned the others thickly. They may bedangerous. Quade sat up on our crisscross litter of arms. Aliens can't behostile. Ethnic impossibility. I'll show you. Quade was delirious and we were drunk. He got away from us and joggedtoward the herd. Let's give him a hand! Farley shouted. We'll take us a specimen! I couldn't stop them. Being in Alpine rope with them, I went along. Atthe time, it even seemed vaguely like a good idea. As we lumbered toward them, the aliens fell back in a solid line exceptfor the first curious-looking one. Quade got there ahead of us and madea grab. The creature rose into the air with a screaming vibration ofhis tail and landed on top of him, flattening him instantly. Sssh, men, Nagurski said. Leave it to me. I'll surround him. The men followed the First Officer's example, and the rope tying themto him. I went along cheerfully myself, until an enormous rump struckme violently in the face. My leaded boots were driven down into fertilesoil, and my helmet was ringing like a bell. I got a jerky picture ofthe beast jumping up and down on top of the others joyously. Only thestiff space armor was holding up our slack frames. Let's let him escape, Hoffman suggested on the audio circuit. I'd like to, Nagurski admitted, but the other beasts won't let usget past their circle. It was true. The aliens formed a ring around us, and each time abouncing boy hit the line, he only bounced back on top of us. Flat! I yelled. Our seams can't take much more of this beating. I followed my own advice and landed in the dirt beside Quade. The bouncer came to rest and regarded us silently, head on aneighty-degree angle. I was stone sober. The others were lying around me quietly, passed out, knocked out, ortaking cover. The ring of aliens drew in about us, closer, tighter, as the bouncersat on his haunches and waited for us to move. <doc-sep>Feeling better? I asked Quade in the infirmary. He punched up his pillow and settled back. I guess so. But when Ithink of all the ways I nearly got myself killed out there.... How farhave you got in the tractors? I'm having the tractors torn down and the parts put back into thespaceship where they belong. We shouldn't risk losing them andgetting stuck here. Are you settling for a primary exploration? No. I think I had the right idea on your rescue party. You have tomeet and fight a planet on its own terms. Fighting confused sounds andtastes with music and wine was crude, but it was on the right track.Out there, we understood language because we were familiar with alienlanguages changed to other sense mediums by cybernetic translators.Using the translator, we can learn to recognize all confused data aseasily. I'm starting indoctrination courses. I doubt that that is necessary, sir, Quade said. Experiencedspacemen are experienced with transphasia. You don't have to worry. Inthe future, I'll be able to resist sensations that tell me I'm freezingto death—if my gauges tell me it's a lie. I examined his bandisprayed hide. I think my way of gaining experienceis less painful and more efficient. Quade squirmed. Yes, sir. One thing, sir—I don't understand how yougot me away from those aliens. The aliens were trying to help. They knew something was wrong and theywere prodding and probing. When the first tractor pulled up and the mengot out, they seemed to realize our own people could help us easierthan they could. I am not quite convinced that those babies just meant to help us allthe time. But they did! First, that call of theirs—it wasn't to lead us intodanger, but to warn us of the cliff, the freezing wind. They saw wewere trying to find out things about their world, so they even offeredus one of their own kind to study. Unfortunately, he was too much forus. They didn't give us their top man, of course, only the villageidiot. It's just as well. We aren't allowed to dissect creatures thatfar up the intelligence scale. But why should they want to help us? Quade demanded suspiciously. I think it's like Nagurski's dog. The dog came to him when it wantedsomebody to own it, protect it, feed it, love it. These aliens want Earthmen to colonize the planet. We came here, you see, same as the dogcame to Nagurski. Well, I've learned one thing from all of this, Quade said. I've beena blind, arrogant, cocksure fool, following courses that were good on some worlds, most worlds, but not good on all worlds. I'm nevergoing to be that foolhardy again. But you're losing confidence , Quade! You aren't sure of yourself anymore. Isn't confidence a spaceman's most valuable asset? The hell it is, Quade said grimly. It's his deadliest liability. In that case, I must inform you that I am demoting you to ActingExecutive Officer. Huh? Quade gawked. But dammit, Captain, you can't do that to me!I'll lose hazard pay and be that much further from retirement! That's tough, I sympathized, but in every service a chap gets brokenin rank now and then. Maybe it's worth it, Quade said heavily. Now maybe I've learned howto stay alive out here. I just hope I don't forget. I thought about that. I was nearly through with my first mission andI could speak with experience, even if it was the least amount ofexperience aboard. Quade, I said, space isn't as dangerous as all that. I clapped himon the shoulder fraternally. You worry too much! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the reason and development of the conflict between the Captain and Quade?

Quade holds the captain in low regard, he believes to be much more experienced and knowledgeable and disagrees with Gavin's decisions. Therefore, Quade doesn't want to obey the captain and constantly confronts him. Gavin, in turn, wants to be obeyed and considers his position enough reason to ask for that. The captain is new to the crew and he doesn't try to get closer to it, while all the other members have known each other for a while. Moreover, the captain constantly takes risks and suggests new methods, in which the crew and Quade are not sure. Gavin also feels jealous as the crew respects Quade much more than the captain himself. Quade acts on his own according to what he considers right, and Gavin has to fight him for leadership and make him obey, not to lose charge. Their relationship changes when Gavin starts blaming himself for Quade's leave and possible death, considering his own jealousy the reason of neglect. When he saves Quade, the least also changes his mind because he recognizes the foolishness of his actions and the two come to an agreement.

What is the difference in Gavin's and Nagurski's attitudes? [SEP] <s> THE SPICY SOUND OF SUCCESS By JIM HARMON Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Now was the captain's chance to prove he knew less than the crew—all their lives hung upon it! There was nothing showing on the video screen. That was why we werelooking at it so analytically. Transphasia, that's what it is, Ordinary Spaceman Quade stated witha definite thrust of his angular jaw in my direction. You can take myword on that, Captain Gavin. Can't, I told him. I can't trust your opinion. I can't trust anything . That's why I'm Captain. You'll get over feeling like that. I know. Then I'll become First Officer. But look at that screen, sir, Quade said with an emphatic swing ofhis scarred arm. I've seen blank scanning like that before and youhaven't—it's your first trip. This always means transphasia—cortexdissolution, motor area feedback, the Aitchell Effect—call it anythingyou like, it's still transphasia. I know what transphasia is, I said moderately. It means anelectrogravitational disturbance of incoming sense data, rechannelingit to the wrong receptive areas. Besides the human brain, it alsoeffects electronic equipment, like radar and television. Obviously. Quade glanced disgustedly at the screen. Too obvious. This time it might not be a familiar condition of manyplanetary gravitational fields. On this planet, that blank kinescopemay mean our Big Brother kites were knocked down by hostile natives. You are plain wrong, Captain. Traditionally, alien races neverinterfere with our explorations. Generally, they are so alien to usthey can't even recognize our existence. <doc-sep>I drew myself up to my full height—and noticed in irritation it wasstill an inch less than Quade's. I don't understand you men. Look atyourself, Quade. You've been busted to Ordinary Spaceman for just thatkind of thinking, for relying on tradition, on things that have workedbefore. Not only your thinking is slipshod, you've grown careless abouteverything else, even your own life. Just a minute, Captain. I've never been 'busted.' In the ExplorationService, we regard Ordinary Spaceman as our highest rank. With myhazard pay, I get more hard cash than you do, and I'm closer toretirement. That's a shallow excuse for complacency. Complacency! I've seen ten thousand wonders in twenty years of space,with a million variations. But the patterns repeat themselves. We learnto know what to expect, so maybe we can't maintain the reactionarycaution the service likes in officers. I resent the word 'reactionary,' Spaceman! In civilian life, I wasa lapidary and I learned the value of deliberation. But I never gottoo cataleptic to tap a million-dollar gem, which is more than mycontemporaries can say, many of 'em. Captain Gavin, Quade said patiently, you must realize that anoutsider like you, among a crew of skilled spacemen, can never be morethan a figurehead. Was this the way I was to be treated? Why, this man had deliberatelyinsulted me, his captain. I controlled myself, remembering thefamiliarity that had always existed between members of a crew workingunder close conditions, from the time of the ancient submarines and thefirst orbital ships. Quade, I said, there's only one way for us to find out which of usis right about the cause of our scanning blackout. We go out and find the reason. Exactly. We go. You and me. I hope you can stand my company. I'm not sure I can, he answered reluctantly. My hazard pay doesn'tcover exploring with rookies. With all due respect, Captain. I clapped him on the shoulder. But, man, you have just been tellingme all we had to worry about was common transphasia. A man with yourexperience could protect himself and cover even a rookie, under suchfamiliar conditions—right? Yes, sir, I suppose I could, Quade said, bitterly aware he had lostout somewhere and hoping that it wasn't the start of a trend. <doc-sep>Looks okay to me, I said. Quade passed a gauntlet over his faceplate.It's real. I can blur it with a smudged visor. When it blurs, it'ssolid. The landscape beyond the black corona left by our landing rockets wasunimpressive. The rocky desert was made up of silicon and iron oxide,so it looked much the same as a terrestrial location. Yellowish-whitesand ran up to and around reddish brown rock clawing into the pinksunlight. I don't understand it, Quade admitted. Transphasia hits you a foulas soon as you let it into the airlock. Apparently, Quade, this thing is going to creep up on us. Don't sound smug, Captain. It's pitty-pattying behind you too. The keening call across the surface of consciousness postponed my reply. The wail was ominously forlorn, defiant of description. I turned myhead around slowly inside my helmet, not even sure that I had heard it. But what else can you do with a wail but hear it? Quade nodded. I've felt this before. It usually hits sooner. Let'strace it. I don't like this, I admitted. It's not at all what I expected fromwhat you said about transphasia. It must be something else. It couldn't be anything else. I know what to expect. You don't. Youmay begin smelling sensations, tasting sounds, hearing sights, seeingtastes, touching odors—or any other combination. Don't let it botheryou. Of course not. I'll soothe my nerves by counting little shocks oflanolin jumping over a loud fence. Quade grinned behind his faceplate. Good idea. Then you can have it. I'm going to try keeping my eyes open andstaying alive. There was no reply. His expression was tart and greasy despite all his light talk, andI knew mine was the same. I tested the security rope between ourpressure suits. It was a taut and virile bass. We scaled a staccato of rocks, our suits grinding pepper against ourhides. The musk summit rose before us, a minor-key horizon with a shiftingtreble for as far as I could smell. It was primitive beauty that madeyou feel shocking pink inside. The most beautiful vista I had evertasted, it couldn't be dulled even by the sensation of beef broth undermy skin. Is this transphasia? I asked in awe. It always has been before, Quade remarked. Ready to swallow yourwords about this being something an old hand wouldn't recognize,Captain? I'm swallowing no words until I find out precisely how they tastehere. Not a bad taste. They're pretty. Or haven't you noticed? Quade, you're right! About the colors anyway. This reminds me of anilliscope recording from a cybernetic translator. It should. I don't suppose we could understand each other if it wasn'tfor our morphistudy courses in reading cross-sense translations ofCentauri blushtalk and the like. It became difficult to understand him, difficult to try talking in theface of such splendor. You never really appreciate colors until yousmell them for the first time. <doc-sep>Quade was as conversational as ever, though. I can't seeirregularities occurring in a gravitational field. We must havecompensated for the transphasia while we still had a point ofreference, the solid reality of the spaceship. But out here, where allwe have to hang onto is each other, our concept of reality goes bang and deflates to a tired joke. Before I could agree with one of his theories for once, a streak ofspice shot past us. It bounced back tangily and made a bitter ripbetween the two of us. There was no time to judge its size, if it hadsize, or its decibel range, or its caloric count, before a small, sharppain dug in and dwindled down to nothing in one long second. The new odor pattern in my head told me Quade was saying something Icouldn't quite make out. Quade then pulled me in the direction of the nasty little pain. Wait a minute, Spaceman! I bellowed. Where the devil do you thinkyou're dragging me? Halt! That's a direct order. He stopped. Don't you want to find out what that was? This is anexploration party, you know, sir. I'm not sure I do want to find out what that was just now. I didn'tlike the feel of it. But the important thing is for us not to get anyfurther from the ship. That's important, Captain? To the best of my judgment, yes. This—condition—didn't begin untilwe got so far away from the spacer—in time or distance. I don't wantit to get any worse. It's troublesome not to know black from white, butit would be a downright inconvenience not to know which way is up. Not for an experienced spaceman, Quade griped. I'm used tofree-fall. But he turned back. Just a minute, I said. There was something strange up ahead. I wantto see if short-range radar can get through our electrogravitationaljamming here. I took a sighting. My helmet set projected the pattern on the cornea.Sweetness building up to a stab of pure salt—those were the blips. Beside me, there was a thin thread of violet. Quade had whistled. Hewas reading the map too. The slope fell away sharply in front of us, becoming a deep gorge.There was something broken and twisted at the bottom, something we hadknown for an instant as a streak of spice. There's one free-fall, I said, where you wouldn't live long enoughto get used to it. He said nothing on the route back to the spacer. <doc-sep>I know all about this sort of thing, Gav, First Officer Nagurski saidexpansively. He was rubbing the well-worn ears of our beagle mascot,Bruce. A heavy tail thudded on the steel deck from time to time. My finger could barely get in the chafing band of my regulation collar.I was hot and tired, fresh—in only the chronological sense—from apressure suit. What do you know all about, Nagurski? Dogs? Spacemen? Women?Transphasia? Yes, he answered casually. But I had immediate reference to ourcurrent psychophysiological phenomenon. I collapsed into the swivel in front of the chart table. First off,let's hear what you know about—never mind, make it dogs. Take Bruce, for example, then— No, thanks. I was wondering why you did. I didn't. His dark, round face was bland. Bruce picked me. Followedme home one night in Chicago Port. The dog or the man who picks his ownmaster is the most content. Bruce is content, I admitted. He couldn't be any more content andstill be alive. But I'm not sure that theory works out with men. We'dhave anarchy if I tried to let these starbucks pick their own master. I had no trouble when I was a captain, Nagurski said. Ease thereins on the men. Just offer them your advice, your guidance. Theywill soon see why the service selected you as captain; they will pickyou themselves. Did your crew voluntarily elect you as their leader? Of course they did, Gav. I'm an old hand at controlling crews. Then why are you First Officer under me now? He blinked, then decided to laugh. I've been in space a good manyyears. I really wanted to relax a little bit more. Besides, theincrease in hazard pay was actually more than my salary as a captain.I'm a notch nearer retirement too. Tell me, did you always feel this way about letting the men selecttheir own leader? <doc-sep>Nagurski brought out a pipe. He would have a pipe, I decided. No, not always. I was like you at first. Fresh from the cosmic energytest lab, suspicious of everything, trying to tell the old hands whatto do. But I learned that they are pretty smart boys; they know whatthey are doing. You can rely on them absolutely. I leaned forward, elbows on knees. Let me tell you a thing,Nagurski. Your trust of these damn-fool spacemen is why you are nolonger a captain. You can't trust anything out here in space, much lesshuman nature. Even I know that much! He was pained. If you don't trust the men, they won't trust you, Gav. They don't have to trust me. All they have to do is obey me or, byJupiter, get frozen stiff and thawed out just in time for court-marshalback home. Listen, I continued earnestly, these men aren't going tothink of me—of us , the officers, as their leaders. As far as thecrew is concerned, Ordinary Spaceman Quade is the best man on thisship. He is a good man, Nagurski said. You mustn't be jealous of hisstatus. The dog growled. He must have sensed what I almost did to Nagurski. Never mind that for now, I said wearily. What was your idea forgetting our exploration parties through this transphasia? There's only one idea for that, said Quade, ducking his long headand stepping through the connecting hatch. With the Captain'spermission.... Go ahead, Quade, tell him, Nagurski invited. There's only one way to wade through transphasia with anyreliability, Quade told me. You keep some kind of physical contactwith the spaceship. Parties are strung out on guide line, like we were,but the cable has to be run back and made fast to the hull. How far can we run it back? Quade shrugged. Miles. How many? We have three miles of cable. As long as you can feel, taste, see,smell or hear that rope anchoring you to home, you aren't lost. Three miles isn't good enough. We don't have enough fuel to changesites that often. You can't use the drive in a gravitational field, youknow. What else can we do, Captain? Nagurski asked puzzledly. You've said that the spaceship is our only protection fromtransphasia. Is that it? Quade gave a curt nod. Then, I told them, we will have to start tearing apart this ship. <doc-sep>Sergeant-Major Hoffman and his team were doing a good job of rippingout the side of the afterhold. Through the portal I could see thesuited men expertly guiding the huge curved sections on their rayprojectors. Cannibalizing is dangerous. Nagurski put his pipe in his teeth andshook his head disapprovingly. Spaceships have parts as interchangeable as Erector sets. We cantake apart the tractors and put our ship back together again after wecomplete the survey. You can't assemble a jigsaw puzzle if some of the pieces are missing. You can't get a complete picture, but you can get a good idea ofwhat it looks like. We can take off in a reasonable facsimile of aspaceship. Not, he persisted, if too many parts are missing. Nagurski, if you are looking for a job safer than space exploration,why don't you go back to testing cosmic bomb shelters? Nagurski flushed. Look here, Captain, you are being too damnedcautious. There is a way one handles the survey of a planet like this,and this isn't the way. It's my way. You heard what Quade said. You know it yourself. The menhave to have something tangible to hang onto out there. One slendercable isn't enough of an edge on sensory anarchy. If the product oftheir own technological civilization can keep them sane, I say let 'emtake a part of that environment with them. In departing from standard procedure that we have learned to trust,you are risking more than a few men—you risk the whole mission ingambling so much of the ship. A captain doesn't take chances like that! I never said I wouldn't take chances. But I'm not going to take stupid chances. I might be doing the wrong thing, but I can see you would be doing it wrong. You know nothing about space, Captain! You have to trust us . That's it exactly, First Officer Nagurski, I said sociably. If youlazy, lax, complacent slobs want to do something in a particular way, Iknow it has to be wrong. I turned and found Wallace, the personnel man, standing in the hatchway. Pardon, Captain, but would you say we also lacked initiative? I would, I answered levelly. Then you'll be interested to hear that Spaceman Quade took a suit anda cartographer unit. He's out there somewhere, alone. The idiot! I yelped. Everyone needs a partner out there. Send out ateam to follow his cable and drag him in here by it. He didn't hook on a cable, Captain, Wallace said. I suppose heintended to go beyond the three-mile limit as you demanded. Shut up, Wallace. You don't have to like me, but you can't twist whatI said as long as I command this spacer. Cool off, Gav, Nagurski advised me. It's been done before. Anybodyelse would have been a fool to go out alone, but Quade is the mostexperienced man we have. He knows transphasia. Trust him. I trusted him too far by letting him run around loose. He needs aleash in more ways than one, and I'm going to put one on him. <doc-sep>For me, it was a nightmare. I lay down in my cabin and thought. I hadto think things through very carefully. One mistake was too many forme. My worst fear had been that someday I would overlook one tiny flawand ruin a gem. Now I might have ruined an exploration and destroyed aman, not a stone, because I had missed the flaw. No one but a reckless fool would have gone out alone on a strangeplanet with a terrifying phenomenon, but I'd had enough evidence to seethat space exploration made a man a reckless fool by doing things onone planet he had once found safe and wise on some other world. The thought intruded itself: why hadn't I recognized this before Ilet Quade escape to almost certain death? Wasn't it because I wantedhim dead, because I resented the crew's resentment of my authority, andrecognized in him the leader and symbol of this resentment? I threw away that idea along with my half-used cigarette. It might verywell be true, but how did that help now? I had to think . I was going after him, that was certain. Not only for humanereasons—he was the most important member of the crew. With him around,there were only two opinions, his and mine. Without him, I'd haveendless opinions to contend with. But it wouldn't do any good to go out no better equipped than he.There was no time to wait for tractors to be built if we wanted toreach him alive, and we certainly couldn't reach him five or tenmiles out with our three miles of safety line. We would have to go inspacesuits. But how would that leave us any better off than Quade? Why was Quade vulnerable in his spacesuit, as I knew from experience hewould be? How could we be less vulnerable, or preferably invulnerable? <doc-sep>Captain, you got nothing to worry about, Quartermaster Farley said.He patted a space helmet paternally. You got yourself a self-containedenvironment. The suit's eye looks into yours at the arteries in theback of your eyeball so it can read your amber corpuscles and feedyou your oxygen in the right amounts; you're a bottle-fed baby. Iftransphasia gets you seeing limburger, turn on the radar and you'reair-conditioned as an igloo. Nothing short of a cosmic blast can dentthat hide. You got it made. You are right, I said, only transphasia comes right through theseair-fast joints. Something strange about the trance, Captain, Farley said darkly. Anyspaceman can tell you that. Things we don't understand. I'm talking about something we do understand— sound . These suitsperfectly soundproof? Well, you can pick up sound by conduction. Like putting two helmetstogether and talking without using radio. You can't insulate enough toblock out all sound and still have a man-shaped suit. You have— I know. Then you have something like a tractor or a miniaturespaceship. There isn't time for that. We will have to live with thesound. What do you think he's going to hear out there, Captain? We'd like tofind one of those beautiful sirens on some planet, believe me, but— I believe you, I said quickly. Let's leave it at that. I don't knowwhat he will hear; what's worrying me is how he'll hear it, in whatsensory medium. I hope the sound doesn't blind him. His radar is hisonly chance. How do you figure on getting a better edge yourself, sir? I have the idea, but not the word for it. Tonal compensation, Isuppose. If you can't shut out the noise, we'll have to drown it out. Farley nodded. Beat like a telephone time signal? That would do it. It would do something else. It would drive you nuts. <doc-sep>I shrugged. It might be distracting. Captain, take my word for it, argued Farley. Constant sonicfeedback inside a spacesuit will set you rocking against the grain. Devise some regular system of interruptions, I suggested. Then the pattern will drive you crazy. Maybe in a few months, withluck, I could plan some harmonic scale you could tolerate— We don't have a few months, I said. How about music? There's aharmonic scale for you, and we can endure it, some of it. Figaro and Asleep in the Cradle of the Deep can compensate for high-pitchedoutside temperatures, and Flight of the Bumble Bee to block bassnotes. Farley nodded. Might work. I can program the tapes from the library. Good. There's one more thing—how are our stores of medicinal liquor? Farley paled. Captain, are you implying that I should be runningshort on alcohol? Where do you get off suggesting a thing like that? I'm getting off at the right stop, apparently, I sighed. Okay,Farley, no evasions. In plain figures, how much drinking alcohol do wehave left? The quartermaster slumped a bit. Twenty-one liters unbroken. One moreabout half full. Half full? How did that ever happen? I mean you had some left ? We'lltake this up later. I want you to run it through the synthesizer to getsome light wine.... Light wine? Farley looked in pain. Not whiskey, brandy, beer? Light wine. Then ration it out to some of the men. Ration it to the men! That's an accurate interpretation of my orders. But, sir, Farley protested, you don't give alcohol to the crew inthe middle of a mission. It's not done. What reason can you have? To sharpen their taste and olfactory senses. We can turn up or blockout sound. We can use radar to extend our sight, but the Space Servicehasn't yet developed anything to make spacemen taste or smell better. They are going to smell like a herd of winos, Farley said. I don'tlike to think how they would taste. It's an entirely practical idea. Tea-tasters used to drinkalmond-and-barley water to sharpen their senses. I've observed thatwine helps you appreciate culinary art more. Considering the mixed-upsensory data under transphasia, wine may help us to see where we aregoing. Yes, sir, Farley said obediently. I'll give spacemen a few quarts ofwine, telling them to use it carefully for scientific purposes only,and then they will be able to see where they are going. Yes, sir. I turned to leave, then paused briefly. You can come along, Farley.I'm sure you want to see that we don't waste any of the stuff. <doc-sep>There they are! Nagurski called. Quade's footsteps again, justbeyond that rocky ridge. The landscape was rich chocolate ice cream smothered with chocolatesyrup, caramel, peanuts and maple syrup, eaten while you smoked an old,mellow Havana. The footsteps were faint traces of whipped cream acrossthe dark, rich taste of the planet. I splashed some wine from my drinking tube against the roof of my mouthto sharpen my taste. It brought out the footsteps sharper. It also madethe landscape more of a teen-ager's caloric nightmare. The four of us pulled ourselves closer together by reeling in moreof our safety line. Farley and Hoffman, Nagurski and myself, we werecabled together. It gave us a larger hunk of reality to hold onto. Evenso, things wavered for me during a wisp of time. We stumbled over the ridge, feeling out the territory. It was a stickyjob crawling over a melting, chunk-style Hershey bar. I was thankfulfor the invigorating Sousa march blasting inside my helmet. Before thetape had cut in, kicked on by the decibel gauge, I had heard or feltsomething dark and ominous in the outside air. Yes, this is definitely the trail of Quail, Nagurski said soberly.This is serious business. I must ask whoever has been giggling onthis channel to shut up. Pardon me, Captain. You weren't giggling,sir? I have never giggled in my life, Nagurski. Yes, sir. That's what we all thought. A moment later, Nagurski added, Anyway, I just noticed it was myshelf—my, that is, self. The basso profundo performing Figaro on my headset climbed to agirlish shriek. A sliver of ice. This was the call Quade and I hadfirst heard as we were about to troop over a cliff. I dug in my heels. Take a good look around, boys, I said. What do you see? Quail, Nagurski replied. That's what I see. You, I said carefully, have been in space a long time. Look again. I see our old buddy, Quail. I took another slosh of burgundy and peered up ahead. It was Quade. Aman in a spacesuit, faceplate in the dust, two hundred yards ahead. Grudgingly I stepped forward, out of the shadow of the ridge.A hysterically screaming wind rocked me on my toes. We pushedon sluggishly to Quade's side, moving to the tempo of Pomp andCircumstance . Farley lugged Quade over on his back and read his gauges. The Quartermaster rose with grim deliberation, and hiccuped. Betterget him back to the spaceship fast. I've seen this kind of thingbefore with transphasia. His body cooled down because of the screamingwind—psychosomatic reaction—and his heating circuits compensated forthe cool flesh. The poor devil's got frostbite and heat prostration. <doc-sep>The four of us managed to haul Quade back by using the powered jointsin our suits. Hoffman suggested that he had once seen an injuredman walked back inside his suit like a robot, but it was a delicateadjustment, controlling power circuits from outside a suit. It was toomuch for us—we were too tired, too numb, too drunk. At first sight of the spacer in the distance, transphasia left me withonly a chocolate-tasting pink after-image on my retina. It was nowshowing bare skeleton from cannibalization for tractor parts, but itlooked good to me, like home. The wailing call sounded through the amber twilight. I realized that I was actually hearing it for the first time. The alien stood between us and the ship. It was a great pot-belliedlizard as tall as a man. Its sound came from a flat, vibrating beavertail. Others of its kind were coming into view behind it. Stand your ground, I warned the others thickly. They may bedangerous. Quade sat up on our crisscross litter of arms. Aliens can't behostile. Ethnic impossibility. I'll show you. Quade was delirious and we were drunk. He got away from us and joggedtoward the herd. Let's give him a hand! Farley shouted. We'll take us a specimen! I couldn't stop them. Being in Alpine rope with them, I went along. Atthe time, it even seemed vaguely like a good idea. As we lumbered toward them, the aliens fell back in a solid line exceptfor the first curious-looking one. Quade got there ahead of us and madea grab. The creature rose into the air with a screaming vibration ofhis tail and landed on top of him, flattening him instantly. Sssh, men, Nagurski said. Leave it to me. I'll surround him. The men followed the First Officer's example, and the rope tying themto him. I went along cheerfully myself, until an enormous rump struckme violently in the face. My leaded boots were driven down into fertilesoil, and my helmet was ringing like a bell. I got a jerky picture ofthe beast jumping up and down on top of the others joyously. Only thestiff space armor was holding up our slack frames. Let's let him escape, Hoffman suggested on the audio circuit. I'd like to, Nagurski admitted, but the other beasts won't let usget past their circle. It was true. The aliens formed a ring around us, and each time abouncing boy hit the line, he only bounced back on top of us. Flat! I yelled. Our seams can't take much more of this beating. I followed my own advice and landed in the dirt beside Quade. The bouncer came to rest and regarded us silently, head on aneighty-degree angle. I was stone sober. The others were lying around me quietly, passed out, knocked out, ortaking cover. The ring of aliens drew in about us, closer, tighter, as the bouncersat on his haunches and waited for us to move. <doc-sep>Feeling better? I asked Quade in the infirmary. He punched up his pillow and settled back. I guess so. But when Ithink of all the ways I nearly got myself killed out there.... How farhave you got in the tractors? I'm having the tractors torn down and the parts put back into thespaceship where they belong. We shouldn't risk losing them andgetting stuck here. Are you settling for a primary exploration? No. I think I had the right idea on your rescue party. You have tomeet and fight a planet on its own terms. Fighting confused sounds andtastes with music and wine was crude, but it was on the right track.Out there, we understood language because we were familiar with alienlanguages changed to other sense mediums by cybernetic translators.Using the translator, we can learn to recognize all confused data aseasily. I'm starting indoctrination courses. I doubt that that is necessary, sir, Quade said. Experiencedspacemen are experienced with transphasia. You don't have to worry. Inthe future, I'll be able to resist sensations that tell me I'm freezingto death—if my gauges tell me it's a lie. I examined his bandisprayed hide. I think my way of gaining experienceis less painful and more efficient. Quade squirmed. Yes, sir. One thing, sir—I don't understand how yougot me away from those aliens. The aliens were trying to help. They knew something was wrong and theywere prodding and probing. When the first tractor pulled up and the mengot out, they seemed to realize our own people could help us easierthan they could. I am not quite convinced that those babies just meant to help us allthe time. But they did! First, that call of theirs—it wasn't to lead us intodanger, but to warn us of the cliff, the freezing wind. They saw wewere trying to find out things about their world, so they even offeredus one of their own kind to study. Unfortunately, he was too much forus. They didn't give us their top man, of course, only the villageidiot. It's just as well. We aren't allowed to dissect creatures thatfar up the intelligence scale. But why should they want to help us? Quade demanded suspiciously. I think it's like Nagurski's dog. The dog came to him when it wantedsomebody to own it, protect it, feed it, love it. These aliens want Earthmen to colonize the planet. We came here, you see, same as the dogcame to Nagurski. Well, I've learned one thing from all of this, Quade said. I've beena blind, arrogant, cocksure fool, following courses that were good on some worlds, most worlds, but not good on all worlds. I'm nevergoing to be that foolhardy again. But you're losing confidence , Quade! You aren't sure of yourself anymore. Isn't confidence a spaceman's most valuable asset? The hell it is, Quade said grimly. It's his deadliest liability. In that case, I must inform you that I am demoting you to ActingExecutive Officer. Huh? Quade gawked. But dammit, Captain, you can't do that to me!I'll lose hazard pay and be that much further from retirement! That's tough, I sympathized, but in every service a chap gets brokenin rank now and then. Maybe it's worth it, Quade said heavily. Now maybe I've learned howto stay alive out here. I just hope I don't forget. I thought about that. I was nearly through with my first mission andI could speak with experience, even if it was the least amount ofexperience aboard. Quade, I said, space isn't as dangerous as all that. I clapped himon the shoulder fraternally. You worry too much! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the difference in Gavin's and Nagurski's attitudes?

Nagurski used to be a captain and Gavin is now, though their methods and thoughts about this position differ. Nagurski believes the crew must elect their leader, and if a captain guides the crew, this will happen. Gavin thinks such attitude will lead to anarchy. Moreover, Nagurski learned to trust his men in order to make them trust him. Gavin does not trust anyone in space and doesn't want his crew to trust him as well, simply obey. Gavin tries to adapt to the new conditions, acting creatively and according to situation, while Nagurski sticks to old patterns and rules. Nagurski is afraid to risk, he opposes taking apart the ship, being afraid to lose too many parts. Nagurski is neither afraid for Quade going out alone as he believes in the least, while the captain heads to save the man.

What happens to Quade throughout the story? [SEP] <s> THE SPICY SOUND OF SUCCESS By JIM HARMON Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Now was the captain's chance to prove he knew less than the crew—all their lives hung upon it! There was nothing showing on the video screen. That was why we werelooking at it so analytically. Transphasia, that's what it is, Ordinary Spaceman Quade stated witha definite thrust of his angular jaw in my direction. You can take myword on that, Captain Gavin. Can't, I told him. I can't trust your opinion. I can't trust anything . That's why I'm Captain. You'll get over feeling like that. I know. Then I'll become First Officer. But look at that screen, sir, Quade said with an emphatic swing ofhis scarred arm. I've seen blank scanning like that before and youhaven't—it's your first trip. This always means transphasia—cortexdissolution, motor area feedback, the Aitchell Effect—call it anythingyou like, it's still transphasia. I know what transphasia is, I said moderately. It means anelectrogravitational disturbance of incoming sense data, rechannelingit to the wrong receptive areas. Besides the human brain, it alsoeffects electronic equipment, like radar and television. Obviously. Quade glanced disgustedly at the screen. Too obvious. This time it might not be a familiar condition of manyplanetary gravitational fields. On this planet, that blank kinescopemay mean our Big Brother kites were knocked down by hostile natives. You are plain wrong, Captain. Traditionally, alien races neverinterfere with our explorations. Generally, they are so alien to usthey can't even recognize our existence. <doc-sep>I drew myself up to my full height—and noticed in irritation it wasstill an inch less than Quade's. I don't understand you men. Look atyourself, Quade. You've been busted to Ordinary Spaceman for just thatkind of thinking, for relying on tradition, on things that have workedbefore. Not only your thinking is slipshod, you've grown careless abouteverything else, even your own life. Just a minute, Captain. I've never been 'busted.' In the ExplorationService, we regard Ordinary Spaceman as our highest rank. With myhazard pay, I get more hard cash than you do, and I'm closer toretirement. That's a shallow excuse for complacency. Complacency! I've seen ten thousand wonders in twenty years of space,with a million variations. But the patterns repeat themselves. We learnto know what to expect, so maybe we can't maintain the reactionarycaution the service likes in officers. I resent the word 'reactionary,' Spaceman! In civilian life, I wasa lapidary and I learned the value of deliberation. But I never gottoo cataleptic to tap a million-dollar gem, which is more than mycontemporaries can say, many of 'em. Captain Gavin, Quade said patiently, you must realize that anoutsider like you, among a crew of skilled spacemen, can never be morethan a figurehead. Was this the way I was to be treated? Why, this man had deliberatelyinsulted me, his captain. I controlled myself, remembering thefamiliarity that had always existed between members of a crew workingunder close conditions, from the time of the ancient submarines and thefirst orbital ships. Quade, I said, there's only one way for us to find out which of usis right about the cause of our scanning blackout. We go out and find the reason. Exactly. We go. You and me. I hope you can stand my company. I'm not sure I can, he answered reluctantly. My hazard pay doesn'tcover exploring with rookies. With all due respect, Captain. I clapped him on the shoulder. But, man, you have just been tellingme all we had to worry about was common transphasia. A man with yourexperience could protect himself and cover even a rookie, under suchfamiliar conditions—right? Yes, sir, I suppose I could, Quade said, bitterly aware he had lostout somewhere and hoping that it wasn't the start of a trend. <doc-sep>Looks okay to me, I said. Quade passed a gauntlet over his faceplate.It's real. I can blur it with a smudged visor. When it blurs, it'ssolid. The landscape beyond the black corona left by our landing rockets wasunimpressive. The rocky desert was made up of silicon and iron oxide,so it looked much the same as a terrestrial location. Yellowish-whitesand ran up to and around reddish brown rock clawing into the pinksunlight. I don't understand it, Quade admitted. Transphasia hits you a foulas soon as you let it into the airlock. Apparently, Quade, this thing is going to creep up on us. Don't sound smug, Captain. It's pitty-pattying behind you too. The keening call across the surface of consciousness postponed my reply. The wail was ominously forlorn, defiant of description. I turned myhead around slowly inside my helmet, not even sure that I had heard it. But what else can you do with a wail but hear it? Quade nodded. I've felt this before. It usually hits sooner. Let'strace it. I don't like this, I admitted. It's not at all what I expected fromwhat you said about transphasia. It must be something else. It couldn't be anything else. I know what to expect. You don't. Youmay begin smelling sensations, tasting sounds, hearing sights, seeingtastes, touching odors—or any other combination. Don't let it botheryou. Of course not. I'll soothe my nerves by counting little shocks oflanolin jumping over a loud fence. Quade grinned behind his faceplate. Good idea. Then you can have it. I'm going to try keeping my eyes open andstaying alive. There was no reply. His expression was tart and greasy despite all his light talk, andI knew mine was the same. I tested the security rope between ourpressure suits. It was a taut and virile bass. We scaled a staccato of rocks, our suits grinding pepper against ourhides. The musk summit rose before us, a minor-key horizon with a shiftingtreble for as far as I could smell. It was primitive beauty that madeyou feel shocking pink inside. The most beautiful vista I had evertasted, it couldn't be dulled even by the sensation of beef broth undermy skin. Is this transphasia? I asked in awe. It always has been before, Quade remarked. Ready to swallow yourwords about this being something an old hand wouldn't recognize,Captain? I'm swallowing no words until I find out precisely how they tastehere. Not a bad taste. They're pretty. Or haven't you noticed? Quade, you're right! About the colors anyway. This reminds me of anilliscope recording from a cybernetic translator. It should. I don't suppose we could understand each other if it wasn'tfor our morphistudy courses in reading cross-sense translations ofCentauri blushtalk and the like. It became difficult to understand him, difficult to try talking in theface of such splendor. You never really appreciate colors until yousmell them for the first time. <doc-sep>Quade was as conversational as ever, though. I can't seeirregularities occurring in a gravitational field. We must havecompensated for the transphasia while we still had a point ofreference, the solid reality of the spaceship. But out here, where allwe have to hang onto is each other, our concept of reality goes bang and deflates to a tired joke. Before I could agree with one of his theories for once, a streak ofspice shot past us. It bounced back tangily and made a bitter ripbetween the two of us. There was no time to judge its size, if it hadsize, or its decibel range, or its caloric count, before a small, sharppain dug in and dwindled down to nothing in one long second. The new odor pattern in my head told me Quade was saying something Icouldn't quite make out. Quade then pulled me in the direction of the nasty little pain. Wait a minute, Spaceman! I bellowed. Where the devil do you thinkyou're dragging me? Halt! That's a direct order. He stopped. Don't you want to find out what that was? This is anexploration party, you know, sir. I'm not sure I do want to find out what that was just now. I didn'tlike the feel of it. But the important thing is for us not to get anyfurther from the ship. That's important, Captain? To the best of my judgment, yes. This—condition—didn't begin untilwe got so far away from the spacer—in time or distance. I don't wantit to get any worse. It's troublesome not to know black from white, butit would be a downright inconvenience not to know which way is up. Not for an experienced spaceman, Quade griped. I'm used tofree-fall. But he turned back. Just a minute, I said. There was something strange up ahead. I wantto see if short-range radar can get through our electrogravitationaljamming here. I took a sighting. My helmet set projected the pattern on the cornea.Sweetness building up to a stab of pure salt—those were the blips. Beside me, there was a thin thread of violet. Quade had whistled. Hewas reading the map too. The slope fell away sharply in front of us, becoming a deep gorge.There was something broken and twisted at the bottom, something we hadknown for an instant as a streak of spice. There's one free-fall, I said, where you wouldn't live long enoughto get used to it. He said nothing on the route back to the spacer. <doc-sep>I know all about this sort of thing, Gav, First Officer Nagurski saidexpansively. He was rubbing the well-worn ears of our beagle mascot,Bruce. A heavy tail thudded on the steel deck from time to time. My finger could barely get in the chafing band of my regulation collar.I was hot and tired, fresh—in only the chronological sense—from apressure suit. What do you know all about, Nagurski? Dogs? Spacemen? Women?Transphasia? Yes, he answered casually. But I had immediate reference to ourcurrent psychophysiological phenomenon. I collapsed into the swivel in front of the chart table. First off,let's hear what you know about—never mind, make it dogs. Take Bruce, for example, then— No, thanks. I was wondering why you did. I didn't. His dark, round face was bland. Bruce picked me. Followedme home one night in Chicago Port. The dog or the man who picks his ownmaster is the most content. Bruce is content, I admitted. He couldn't be any more content andstill be alive. But I'm not sure that theory works out with men. We'dhave anarchy if I tried to let these starbucks pick their own master. I had no trouble when I was a captain, Nagurski said. Ease thereins on the men. Just offer them your advice, your guidance. Theywill soon see why the service selected you as captain; they will pickyou themselves. Did your crew voluntarily elect you as their leader? Of course they did, Gav. I'm an old hand at controlling crews. Then why are you First Officer under me now? He blinked, then decided to laugh. I've been in space a good manyyears. I really wanted to relax a little bit more. Besides, theincrease in hazard pay was actually more than my salary as a captain.I'm a notch nearer retirement too. Tell me, did you always feel this way about letting the men selecttheir own leader? <doc-sep>Nagurski brought out a pipe. He would have a pipe, I decided. No, not always. I was like you at first. Fresh from the cosmic energytest lab, suspicious of everything, trying to tell the old hands whatto do. But I learned that they are pretty smart boys; they know whatthey are doing. You can rely on them absolutely. I leaned forward, elbows on knees. Let me tell you a thing,Nagurski. Your trust of these damn-fool spacemen is why you are nolonger a captain. You can't trust anything out here in space, much lesshuman nature. Even I know that much! He was pained. If you don't trust the men, they won't trust you, Gav. They don't have to trust me. All they have to do is obey me or, byJupiter, get frozen stiff and thawed out just in time for court-marshalback home. Listen, I continued earnestly, these men aren't going tothink of me—of us , the officers, as their leaders. As far as thecrew is concerned, Ordinary Spaceman Quade is the best man on thisship. He is a good man, Nagurski said. You mustn't be jealous of hisstatus. The dog growled. He must have sensed what I almost did to Nagurski. Never mind that for now, I said wearily. What was your idea forgetting our exploration parties through this transphasia? There's only one idea for that, said Quade, ducking his long headand stepping through the connecting hatch. With the Captain'spermission.... Go ahead, Quade, tell him, Nagurski invited. There's only one way to wade through transphasia with anyreliability, Quade told me. You keep some kind of physical contactwith the spaceship. Parties are strung out on guide line, like we were,but the cable has to be run back and made fast to the hull. How far can we run it back? Quade shrugged. Miles. How many? We have three miles of cable. As long as you can feel, taste, see,smell or hear that rope anchoring you to home, you aren't lost. Three miles isn't good enough. We don't have enough fuel to changesites that often. You can't use the drive in a gravitational field, youknow. What else can we do, Captain? Nagurski asked puzzledly. You've said that the spaceship is our only protection fromtransphasia. Is that it? Quade gave a curt nod. Then, I told them, we will have to start tearing apart this ship. <doc-sep>Sergeant-Major Hoffman and his team were doing a good job of rippingout the side of the afterhold. Through the portal I could see thesuited men expertly guiding the huge curved sections on their rayprojectors. Cannibalizing is dangerous. Nagurski put his pipe in his teeth andshook his head disapprovingly. Spaceships have parts as interchangeable as Erector sets. We cantake apart the tractors and put our ship back together again after wecomplete the survey. You can't assemble a jigsaw puzzle if some of the pieces are missing. You can't get a complete picture, but you can get a good idea ofwhat it looks like. We can take off in a reasonable facsimile of aspaceship. Not, he persisted, if too many parts are missing. Nagurski, if you are looking for a job safer than space exploration,why don't you go back to testing cosmic bomb shelters? Nagurski flushed. Look here, Captain, you are being too damnedcautious. There is a way one handles the survey of a planet like this,and this isn't the way. It's my way. You heard what Quade said. You know it yourself. The menhave to have something tangible to hang onto out there. One slendercable isn't enough of an edge on sensory anarchy. If the product oftheir own technological civilization can keep them sane, I say let 'emtake a part of that environment with them. In departing from standard procedure that we have learned to trust,you are risking more than a few men—you risk the whole mission ingambling so much of the ship. A captain doesn't take chances like that! I never said I wouldn't take chances. But I'm not going to take stupid chances. I might be doing the wrong thing, but I can see you would be doing it wrong. You know nothing about space, Captain! You have to trust us . That's it exactly, First Officer Nagurski, I said sociably. If youlazy, lax, complacent slobs want to do something in a particular way, Iknow it has to be wrong. I turned and found Wallace, the personnel man, standing in the hatchway. Pardon, Captain, but would you say we also lacked initiative? I would, I answered levelly. Then you'll be interested to hear that Spaceman Quade took a suit anda cartographer unit. He's out there somewhere, alone. The idiot! I yelped. Everyone needs a partner out there. Send out ateam to follow his cable and drag him in here by it. He didn't hook on a cable, Captain, Wallace said. I suppose heintended to go beyond the three-mile limit as you demanded. Shut up, Wallace. You don't have to like me, but you can't twist whatI said as long as I command this spacer. Cool off, Gav, Nagurski advised me. It's been done before. Anybodyelse would have been a fool to go out alone, but Quade is the mostexperienced man we have. He knows transphasia. Trust him. I trusted him too far by letting him run around loose. He needs aleash in more ways than one, and I'm going to put one on him. <doc-sep>For me, it was a nightmare. I lay down in my cabin and thought. I hadto think things through very carefully. One mistake was too many forme. My worst fear had been that someday I would overlook one tiny flawand ruin a gem. Now I might have ruined an exploration and destroyed aman, not a stone, because I had missed the flaw. No one but a reckless fool would have gone out alone on a strangeplanet with a terrifying phenomenon, but I'd had enough evidence to seethat space exploration made a man a reckless fool by doing things onone planet he had once found safe and wise on some other world. The thought intruded itself: why hadn't I recognized this before Ilet Quade escape to almost certain death? Wasn't it because I wantedhim dead, because I resented the crew's resentment of my authority, andrecognized in him the leader and symbol of this resentment? I threw away that idea along with my half-used cigarette. It might verywell be true, but how did that help now? I had to think . I was going after him, that was certain. Not only for humanereasons—he was the most important member of the crew. With him around,there were only two opinions, his and mine. Without him, I'd haveendless opinions to contend with. But it wouldn't do any good to go out no better equipped than he.There was no time to wait for tractors to be built if we wanted toreach him alive, and we certainly couldn't reach him five or tenmiles out with our three miles of safety line. We would have to go inspacesuits. But how would that leave us any better off than Quade? Why was Quade vulnerable in his spacesuit, as I knew from experience hewould be? How could we be less vulnerable, or preferably invulnerable? <doc-sep>Captain, you got nothing to worry about, Quartermaster Farley said.He patted a space helmet paternally. You got yourself a self-containedenvironment. The suit's eye looks into yours at the arteries in theback of your eyeball so it can read your amber corpuscles and feedyou your oxygen in the right amounts; you're a bottle-fed baby. Iftransphasia gets you seeing limburger, turn on the radar and you'reair-conditioned as an igloo. Nothing short of a cosmic blast can dentthat hide. You got it made. You are right, I said, only transphasia comes right through theseair-fast joints. Something strange about the trance, Captain, Farley said darkly. Anyspaceman can tell you that. Things we don't understand. I'm talking about something we do understand— sound . These suitsperfectly soundproof? Well, you can pick up sound by conduction. Like putting two helmetstogether and talking without using radio. You can't insulate enough toblock out all sound and still have a man-shaped suit. You have— I know. Then you have something like a tractor or a miniaturespaceship. There isn't time for that. We will have to live with thesound. What do you think he's going to hear out there, Captain? We'd like tofind one of those beautiful sirens on some planet, believe me, but— I believe you, I said quickly. Let's leave it at that. I don't knowwhat he will hear; what's worrying me is how he'll hear it, in whatsensory medium. I hope the sound doesn't blind him. His radar is hisonly chance. How do you figure on getting a better edge yourself, sir? I have the idea, but not the word for it. Tonal compensation, Isuppose. If you can't shut out the noise, we'll have to drown it out. Farley nodded. Beat like a telephone time signal? That would do it. It would do something else. It would drive you nuts. <doc-sep>I shrugged. It might be distracting. Captain, take my word for it, argued Farley. Constant sonicfeedback inside a spacesuit will set you rocking against the grain. Devise some regular system of interruptions, I suggested. Then the pattern will drive you crazy. Maybe in a few months, withluck, I could plan some harmonic scale you could tolerate— We don't have a few months, I said. How about music? There's aharmonic scale for you, and we can endure it, some of it. Figaro and Asleep in the Cradle of the Deep can compensate for high-pitchedoutside temperatures, and Flight of the Bumble Bee to block bassnotes. Farley nodded. Might work. I can program the tapes from the library. Good. There's one more thing—how are our stores of medicinal liquor? Farley paled. Captain, are you implying that I should be runningshort on alcohol? Where do you get off suggesting a thing like that? I'm getting off at the right stop, apparently, I sighed. Okay,Farley, no evasions. In plain figures, how much drinking alcohol do wehave left? The quartermaster slumped a bit. Twenty-one liters unbroken. One moreabout half full. Half full? How did that ever happen? I mean you had some left ? We'lltake this up later. I want you to run it through the synthesizer to getsome light wine.... Light wine? Farley looked in pain. Not whiskey, brandy, beer? Light wine. Then ration it out to some of the men. Ration it to the men! That's an accurate interpretation of my orders. But, sir, Farley protested, you don't give alcohol to the crew inthe middle of a mission. It's not done. What reason can you have? To sharpen their taste and olfactory senses. We can turn up or blockout sound. We can use radar to extend our sight, but the Space Servicehasn't yet developed anything to make spacemen taste or smell better. They are going to smell like a herd of winos, Farley said. I don'tlike to think how they would taste. It's an entirely practical idea. Tea-tasters used to drinkalmond-and-barley water to sharpen their senses. I've observed thatwine helps you appreciate culinary art more. Considering the mixed-upsensory data under transphasia, wine may help us to see where we aregoing. Yes, sir, Farley said obediently. I'll give spacemen a few quarts ofwine, telling them to use it carefully for scientific purposes only,and then they will be able to see where they are going. Yes, sir. I turned to leave, then paused briefly. You can come along, Farley.I'm sure you want to see that we don't waste any of the stuff. <doc-sep>There they are! Nagurski called. Quade's footsteps again, justbeyond that rocky ridge. The landscape was rich chocolate ice cream smothered with chocolatesyrup, caramel, peanuts and maple syrup, eaten while you smoked an old,mellow Havana. The footsteps were faint traces of whipped cream acrossthe dark, rich taste of the planet. I splashed some wine from my drinking tube against the roof of my mouthto sharpen my taste. It brought out the footsteps sharper. It also madethe landscape more of a teen-ager's caloric nightmare. The four of us pulled ourselves closer together by reeling in moreof our safety line. Farley and Hoffman, Nagurski and myself, we werecabled together. It gave us a larger hunk of reality to hold onto. Evenso, things wavered for me during a wisp of time. We stumbled over the ridge, feeling out the territory. It was a stickyjob crawling over a melting, chunk-style Hershey bar. I was thankfulfor the invigorating Sousa march blasting inside my helmet. Before thetape had cut in, kicked on by the decibel gauge, I had heard or feltsomething dark and ominous in the outside air. Yes, this is definitely the trail of Quail, Nagurski said soberly.This is serious business. I must ask whoever has been giggling onthis channel to shut up. Pardon me, Captain. You weren't giggling,sir? I have never giggled in my life, Nagurski. Yes, sir. That's what we all thought. A moment later, Nagurski added, Anyway, I just noticed it was myshelf—my, that is, self. The basso profundo performing Figaro on my headset climbed to agirlish shriek. A sliver of ice. This was the call Quade and I hadfirst heard as we were about to troop over a cliff. I dug in my heels. Take a good look around, boys, I said. What do you see? Quail, Nagurski replied. That's what I see. You, I said carefully, have been in space a long time. Look again. I see our old buddy, Quail. I took another slosh of burgundy and peered up ahead. It was Quade. Aman in a spacesuit, faceplate in the dust, two hundred yards ahead. Grudgingly I stepped forward, out of the shadow of the ridge.A hysterically screaming wind rocked me on my toes. We pushedon sluggishly to Quade's side, moving to the tempo of Pomp andCircumstance . Farley lugged Quade over on his back and read his gauges. The Quartermaster rose with grim deliberation, and hiccuped. Betterget him back to the spaceship fast. I've seen this kind of thingbefore with transphasia. His body cooled down because of the screamingwind—psychosomatic reaction—and his heating circuits compensated forthe cool flesh. The poor devil's got frostbite and heat prostration. <doc-sep>The four of us managed to haul Quade back by using the powered jointsin our suits. Hoffman suggested that he had once seen an injuredman walked back inside his suit like a robot, but it was a delicateadjustment, controlling power circuits from outside a suit. It was toomuch for us—we were too tired, too numb, too drunk. At first sight of the spacer in the distance, transphasia left me withonly a chocolate-tasting pink after-image on my retina. It was nowshowing bare skeleton from cannibalization for tractor parts, but itlooked good to me, like home. The wailing call sounded through the amber twilight. I realized that I was actually hearing it for the first time. The alien stood between us and the ship. It was a great pot-belliedlizard as tall as a man. Its sound came from a flat, vibrating beavertail. Others of its kind were coming into view behind it. Stand your ground, I warned the others thickly. They may bedangerous. Quade sat up on our crisscross litter of arms. Aliens can't behostile. Ethnic impossibility. I'll show you. Quade was delirious and we were drunk. He got away from us and joggedtoward the herd. Let's give him a hand! Farley shouted. We'll take us a specimen! I couldn't stop them. Being in Alpine rope with them, I went along. Atthe time, it even seemed vaguely like a good idea. As we lumbered toward them, the aliens fell back in a solid line exceptfor the first curious-looking one. Quade got there ahead of us and madea grab. The creature rose into the air with a screaming vibration ofhis tail and landed on top of him, flattening him instantly. Sssh, men, Nagurski said. Leave it to me. I'll surround him. The men followed the First Officer's example, and the rope tying themto him. I went along cheerfully myself, until an enormous rump struckme violently in the face. My leaded boots were driven down into fertilesoil, and my helmet was ringing like a bell. I got a jerky picture ofthe beast jumping up and down on top of the others joyously. Only thestiff space armor was holding up our slack frames. Let's let him escape, Hoffman suggested on the audio circuit. I'd like to, Nagurski admitted, but the other beasts won't let usget past their circle. It was true. The aliens formed a ring around us, and each time abouncing boy hit the line, he only bounced back on top of us. Flat! I yelled. Our seams can't take much more of this beating. I followed my own advice and landed in the dirt beside Quade. The bouncer came to rest and regarded us silently, head on aneighty-degree angle. I was stone sober. The others were lying around me quietly, passed out, knocked out, ortaking cover. The ring of aliens drew in about us, closer, tighter, as the bouncersat on his haunches and waited for us to move. <doc-sep>Feeling better? I asked Quade in the infirmary. He punched up his pillow and settled back. I guess so. But when Ithink of all the ways I nearly got myself killed out there.... How farhave you got in the tractors? I'm having the tractors torn down and the parts put back into thespaceship where they belong. We shouldn't risk losing them andgetting stuck here. Are you settling for a primary exploration? No. I think I had the right idea on your rescue party. You have tomeet and fight a planet on its own terms. Fighting confused sounds andtastes with music and wine was crude, but it was on the right track.Out there, we understood language because we were familiar with alienlanguages changed to other sense mediums by cybernetic translators.Using the translator, we can learn to recognize all confused data aseasily. I'm starting indoctrination courses. I doubt that that is necessary, sir, Quade said. Experiencedspacemen are experienced with transphasia. You don't have to worry. Inthe future, I'll be able to resist sensations that tell me I'm freezingto death—if my gauges tell me it's a lie. I examined his bandisprayed hide. I think my way of gaining experienceis less painful and more efficient. Quade squirmed. Yes, sir. One thing, sir—I don't understand how yougot me away from those aliens. The aliens were trying to help. They knew something was wrong and theywere prodding and probing. When the first tractor pulled up and the mengot out, they seemed to realize our own people could help us easierthan they could. I am not quite convinced that those babies just meant to help us allthe time. But they did! First, that call of theirs—it wasn't to lead us intodanger, but to warn us of the cliff, the freezing wind. They saw wewere trying to find out things about their world, so they even offeredus one of their own kind to study. Unfortunately, he was too much forus. They didn't give us their top man, of course, only the villageidiot. It's just as well. We aren't allowed to dissect creatures thatfar up the intelligence scale. But why should they want to help us? Quade demanded suspiciously. I think it's like Nagurski's dog. The dog came to him when it wantedsomebody to own it, protect it, feed it, love it. These aliens want Earthmen to colonize the planet. We came here, you see, same as the dogcame to Nagurski. Well, I've learned one thing from all of this, Quade said. I've beena blind, arrogant, cocksure fool, following courses that were good on some worlds, most worlds, but not good on all worlds. I'm nevergoing to be that foolhardy again. But you're losing confidence , Quade! You aren't sure of yourself anymore. Isn't confidence a spaceman's most valuable asset? The hell it is, Quade said grimly. It's his deadliest liability. In that case, I must inform you that I am demoting you to ActingExecutive Officer. Huh? Quade gawked. But dammit, Captain, you can't do that to me!I'll lose hazard pay and be that much further from retirement! That's tough, I sympathized, but in every service a chap gets brokenin rank now and then. Maybe it's worth it, Quade said heavily. Now maybe I've learned howto stay alive out here. I just hope I don't forget. I thought about that. I was nearly through with my first mission andI could speak with experience, even if it was the least amount ofexperience aboard. Quade, I said, space isn't as dangerous as all that. I clapped himon the shoulder fraternally. You worry too much! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What happens to Quade throughout the story?

In the very beginning, Quade confronts the new captain in a challenging and harsh manner. Quade believes he knows everything better than the captain and neglects the least as he is a rookie. Quade goes out one on one with the captain to prove he was right about transphasia. When the two face it, Quade is trying to drag the captain towards transphasia, but has to follow the orders and return to the ship. He suggests to keep contact with the ship and run back the cable. His idea is declined and he recklessly goes out alone in a suit without the cable. There his senses are deceived and he is found lying in the dust and brought to the ship. Facing the aliens there, Quade approaches them and is beaten. He finds himself in an infirmary then and acknowledges his lack of judgement to the captain. He is demoted after and accepts this punishment.

What is the significance of cohesion in the story? [SEP] <s> THE SPICY SOUND OF SUCCESS By JIM HARMON Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Now was the captain's chance to prove he knew less than the crew—all their lives hung upon it! There was nothing showing on the video screen. That was why we werelooking at it so analytically. Transphasia, that's what it is, Ordinary Spaceman Quade stated witha definite thrust of his angular jaw in my direction. You can take myword on that, Captain Gavin. Can't, I told him. I can't trust your opinion. I can't trust anything . That's why I'm Captain. You'll get over feeling like that. I know. Then I'll become First Officer. But look at that screen, sir, Quade said with an emphatic swing ofhis scarred arm. I've seen blank scanning like that before and youhaven't—it's your first trip. This always means transphasia—cortexdissolution, motor area feedback, the Aitchell Effect—call it anythingyou like, it's still transphasia. I know what transphasia is, I said moderately. It means anelectrogravitational disturbance of incoming sense data, rechannelingit to the wrong receptive areas. Besides the human brain, it alsoeffects electronic equipment, like radar and television. Obviously. Quade glanced disgustedly at the screen. Too obvious. This time it might not be a familiar condition of manyplanetary gravitational fields. On this planet, that blank kinescopemay mean our Big Brother kites were knocked down by hostile natives. You are plain wrong, Captain. Traditionally, alien races neverinterfere with our explorations. Generally, they are so alien to usthey can't even recognize our existence. <doc-sep>I drew myself up to my full height—and noticed in irritation it wasstill an inch less than Quade's. I don't understand you men. Look atyourself, Quade. You've been busted to Ordinary Spaceman for just thatkind of thinking, for relying on tradition, on things that have workedbefore. Not only your thinking is slipshod, you've grown careless abouteverything else, even your own life. Just a minute, Captain. I've never been 'busted.' In the ExplorationService, we regard Ordinary Spaceman as our highest rank. With myhazard pay, I get more hard cash than you do, and I'm closer toretirement. That's a shallow excuse for complacency. Complacency! I've seen ten thousand wonders in twenty years of space,with a million variations. But the patterns repeat themselves. We learnto know what to expect, so maybe we can't maintain the reactionarycaution the service likes in officers. I resent the word 'reactionary,' Spaceman! In civilian life, I wasa lapidary and I learned the value of deliberation. But I never gottoo cataleptic to tap a million-dollar gem, which is more than mycontemporaries can say, many of 'em. Captain Gavin, Quade said patiently, you must realize that anoutsider like you, among a crew of skilled spacemen, can never be morethan a figurehead. Was this the way I was to be treated? Why, this man had deliberatelyinsulted me, his captain. I controlled myself, remembering thefamiliarity that had always existed between members of a crew workingunder close conditions, from the time of the ancient submarines and thefirst orbital ships. Quade, I said, there's only one way for us to find out which of usis right about the cause of our scanning blackout. We go out and find the reason. Exactly. We go. You and me. I hope you can stand my company. I'm not sure I can, he answered reluctantly. My hazard pay doesn'tcover exploring with rookies. With all due respect, Captain. I clapped him on the shoulder. But, man, you have just been tellingme all we had to worry about was common transphasia. A man with yourexperience could protect himself and cover even a rookie, under suchfamiliar conditions—right? Yes, sir, I suppose I could, Quade said, bitterly aware he had lostout somewhere and hoping that it wasn't the start of a trend. <doc-sep>Looks okay to me, I said. Quade passed a gauntlet over his faceplate.It's real. I can blur it with a smudged visor. When it blurs, it'ssolid. The landscape beyond the black corona left by our landing rockets wasunimpressive. The rocky desert was made up of silicon and iron oxide,so it looked much the same as a terrestrial location. Yellowish-whitesand ran up to and around reddish brown rock clawing into the pinksunlight. I don't understand it, Quade admitted. Transphasia hits you a foulas soon as you let it into the airlock. Apparently, Quade, this thing is going to creep up on us. Don't sound smug, Captain. It's pitty-pattying behind you too. The keening call across the surface of consciousness postponed my reply. The wail was ominously forlorn, defiant of description. I turned myhead around slowly inside my helmet, not even sure that I had heard it. But what else can you do with a wail but hear it? Quade nodded. I've felt this before. It usually hits sooner. Let'strace it. I don't like this, I admitted. It's not at all what I expected fromwhat you said about transphasia. It must be something else. It couldn't be anything else. I know what to expect. You don't. Youmay begin smelling sensations, tasting sounds, hearing sights, seeingtastes, touching odors—or any other combination. Don't let it botheryou. Of course not. I'll soothe my nerves by counting little shocks oflanolin jumping over a loud fence. Quade grinned behind his faceplate. Good idea. Then you can have it. I'm going to try keeping my eyes open andstaying alive. There was no reply. His expression was tart and greasy despite all his light talk, andI knew mine was the same. I tested the security rope between ourpressure suits. It was a taut and virile bass. We scaled a staccato of rocks, our suits grinding pepper against ourhides. The musk summit rose before us, a minor-key horizon with a shiftingtreble for as far as I could smell. It was primitive beauty that madeyou feel shocking pink inside. The most beautiful vista I had evertasted, it couldn't be dulled even by the sensation of beef broth undermy skin. Is this transphasia? I asked in awe. It always has been before, Quade remarked. Ready to swallow yourwords about this being something an old hand wouldn't recognize,Captain? I'm swallowing no words until I find out precisely how they tastehere. Not a bad taste. They're pretty. Or haven't you noticed? Quade, you're right! About the colors anyway. This reminds me of anilliscope recording from a cybernetic translator. It should. I don't suppose we could understand each other if it wasn'tfor our morphistudy courses in reading cross-sense translations ofCentauri blushtalk and the like. It became difficult to understand him, difficult to try talking in theface of such splendor. You never really appreciate colors until yousmell them for the first time. <doc-sep>Quade was as conversational as ever, though. I can't seeirregularities occurring in a gravitational field. We must havecompensated for the transphasia while we still had a point ofreference, the solid reality of the spaceship. But out here, where allwe have to hang onto is each other, our concept of reality goes bang and deflates to a tired joke. Before I could agree with one of his theories for once, a streak ofspice shot past us. It bounced back tangily and made a bitter ripbetween the two of us. There was no time to judge its size, if it hadsize, or its decibel range, or its caloric count, before a small, sharppain dug in and dwindled down to nothing in one long second. The new odor pattern in my head told me Quade was saying something Icouldn't quite make out. Quade then pulled me in the direction of the nasty little pain. Wait a minute, Spaceman! I bellowed. Where the devil do you thinkyou're dragging me? Halt! That's a direct order. He stopped. Don't you want to find out what that was? This is anexploration party, you know, sir. I'm not sure I do want to find out what that was just now. I didn'tlike the feel of it. But the important thing is for us not to get anyfurther from the ship. That's important, Captain? To the best of my judgment, yes. This—condition—didn't begin untilwe got so far away from the spacer—in time or distance. I don't wantit to get any worse. It's troublesome not to know black from white, butit would be a downright inconvenience not to know which way is up. Not for an experienced spaceman, Quade griped. I'm used tofree-fall. But he turned back. Just a minute, I said. There was something strange up ahead. I wantto see if short-range radar can get through our electrogravitationaljamming here. I took a sighting. My helmet set projected the pattern on the cornea.Sweetness building up to a stab of pure salt—those were the blips. Beside me, there was a thin thread of violet. Quade had whistled. Hewas reading the map too. The slope fell away sharply in front of us, becoming a deep gorge.There was something broken and twisted at the bottom, something we hadknown for an instant as a streak of spice. There's one free-fall, I said, where you wouldn't live long enoughto get used to it. He said nothing on the route back to the spacer. <doc-sep>I know all about this sort of thing, Gav, First Officer Nagurski saidexpansively. He was rubbing the well-worn ears of our beagle mascot,Bruce. A heavy tail thudded on the steel deck from time to time. My finger could barely get in the chafing band of my regulation collar.I was hot and tired, fresh—in only the chronological sense—from apressure suit. What do you know all about, Nagurski? Dogs? Spacemen? Women?Transphasia? Yes, he answered casually. But I had immediate reference to ourcurrent psychophysiological phenomenon. I collapsed into the swivel in front of the chart table. First off,let's hear what you know about—never mind, make it dogs. Take Bruce, for example, then— No, thanks. I was wondering why you did. I didn't. His dark, round face was bland. Bruce picked me. Followedme home one night in Chicago Port. The dog or the man who picks his ownmaster is the most content. Bruce is content, I admitted. He couldn't be any more content andstill be alive. But I'm not sure that theory works out with men. We'dhave anarchy if I tried to let these starbucks pick their own master. I had no trouble when I was a captain, Nagurski said. Ease thereins on the men. Just offer them your advice, your guidance. Theywill soon see why the service selected you as captain; they will pickyou themselves. Did your crew voluntarily elect you as their leader? Of course they did, Gav. I'm an old hand at controlling crews. Then why are you First Officer under me now? He blinked, then decided to laugh. I've been in space a good manyyears. I really wanted to relax a little bit more. Besides, theincrease in hazard pay was actually more than my salary as a captain.I'm a notch nearer retirement too. Tell me, did you always feel this way about letting the men selecttheir own leader? <doc-sep>Nagurski brought out a pipe. He would have a pipe, I decided. No, not always. I was like you at first. Fresh from the cosmic energytest lab, suspicious of everything, trying to tell the old hands whatto do. But I learned that they are pretty smart boys; they know whatthey are doing. You can rely on them absolutely. I leaned forward, elbows on knees. Let me tell you a thing,Nagurski. Your trust of these damn-fool spacemen is why you are nolonger a captain. You can't trust anything out here in space, much lesshuman nature. Even I know that much! He was pained. If you don't trust the men, they won't trust you, Gav. They don't have to trust me. All they have to do is obey me or, byJupiter, get frozen stiff and thawed out just in time for court-marshalback home. Listen, I continued earnestly, these men aren't going tothink of me—of us , the officers, as their leaders. As far as thecrew is concerned, Ordinary Spaceman Quade is the best man on thisship. He is a good man, Nagurski said. You mustn't be jealous of hisstatus. The dog growled. He must have sensed what I almost did to Nagurski. Never mind that for now, I said wearily. What was your idea forgetting our exploration parties through this transphasia? There's only one idea for that, said Quade, ducking his long headand stepping through the connecting hatch. With the Captain'spermission.... Go ahead, Quade, tell him, Nagurski invited. There's only one way to wade through transphasia with anyreliability, Quade told me. You keep some kind of physical contactwith the spaceship. Parties are strung out on guide line, like we were,but the cable has to be run back and made fast to the hull. How far can we run it back? Quade shrugged. Miles. How many? We have three miles of cable. As long as you can feel, taste, see,smell or hear that rope anchoring you to home, you aren't lost. Three miles isn't good enough. We don't have enough fuel to changesites that often. You can't use the drive in a gravitational field, youknow. What else can we do, Captain? Nagurski asked puzzledly. You've said that the spaceship is our only protection fromtransphasia. Is that it? Quade gave a curt nod. Then, I told them, we will have to start tearing apart this ship. <doc-sep>Sergeant-Major Hoffman and his team were doing a good job of rippingout the side of the afterhold. Through the portal I could see thesuited men expertly guiding the huge curved sections on their rayprojectors. Cannibalizing is dangerous. Nagurski put his pipe in his teeth andshook his head disapprovingly. Spaceships have parts as interchangeable as Erector sets. We cantake apart the tractors and put our ship back together again after wecomplete the survey. You can't assemble a jigsaw puzzle if some of the pieces are missing. You can't get a complete picture, but you can get a good idea ofwhat it looks like. We can take off in a reasonable facsimile of aspaceship. Not, he persisted, if too many parts are missing. Nagurski, if you are looking for a job safer than space exploration,why don't you go back to testing cosmic bomb shelters? Nagurski flushed. Look here, Captain, you are being too damnedcautious. There is a way one handles the survey of a planet like this,and this isn't the way. It's my way. You heard what Quade said. You know it yourself. The menhave to have something tangible to hang onto out there. One slendercable isn't enough of an edge on sensory anarchy. If the product oftheir own technological civilization can keep them sane, I say let 'emtake a part of that environment with them. In departing from standard procedure that we have learned to trust,you are risking more than a few men—you risk the whole mission ingambling so much of the ship. A captain doesn't take chances like that! I never said I wouldn't take chances. But I'm not going to take stupid chances. I might be doing the wrong thing, but I can see you would be doing it wrong. You know nothing about space, Captain! You have to trust us . That's it exactly, First Officer Nagurski, I said sociably. If youlazy, lax, complacent slobs want to do something in a particular way, Iknow it has to be wrong. I turned and found Wallace, the personnel man, standing in the hatchway. Pardon, Captain, but would you say we also lacked initiative? I would, I answered levelly. Then you'll be interested to hear that Spaceman Quade took a suit anda cartographer unit. He's out there somewhere, alone. The idiot! I yelped. Everyone needs a partner out there. Send out ateam to follow his cable and drag him in here by it. He didn't hook on a cable, Captain, Wallace said. I suppose heintended to go beyond the three-mile limit as you demanded. Shut up, Wallace. You don't have to like me, but you can't twist whatI said as long as I command this spacer. Cool off, Gav, Nagurski advised me. It's been done before. Anybodyelse would have been a fool to go out alone, but Quade is the mostexperienced man we have. He knows transphasia. Trust him. I trusted him too far by letting him run around loose. He needs aleash in more ways than one, and I'm going to put one on him. <doc-sep>For me, it was a nightmare. I lay down in my cabin and thought. I hadto think things through very carefully. One mistake was too many forme. My worst fear had been that someday I would overlook one tiny flawand ruin a gem. Now I might have ruined an exploration and destroyed aman, not a stone, because I had missed the flaw. No one but a reckless fool would have gone out alone on a strangeplanet with a terrifying phenomenon, but I'd had enough evidence to seethat space exploration made a man a reckless fool by doing things onone planet he had once found safe and wise on some other world. The thought intruded itself: why hadn't I recognized this before Ilet Quade escape to almost certain death? Wasn't it because I wantedhim dead, because I resented the crew's resentment of my authority, andrecognized in him the leader and symbol of this resentment? I threw away that idea along with my half-used cigarette. It might verywell be true, but how did that help now? I had to think . I was going after him, that was certain. Not only for humanereasons—he was the most important member of the crew. With him around,there were only two opinions, his and mine. Without him, I'd haveendless opinions to contend with. But it wouldn't do any good to go out no better equipped than he.There was no time to wait for tractors to be built if we wanted toreach him alive, and we certainly couldn't reach him five or tenmiles out with our three miles of safety line. We would have to go inspacesuits. But how would that leave us any better off than Quade? Why was Quade vulnerable in his spacesuit, as I knew from experience hewould be? How could we be less vulnerable, or preferably invulnerable? <doc-sep>Captain, you got nothing to worry about, Quartermaster Farley said.He patted a space helmet paternally. You got yourself a self-containedenvironment. The suit's eye looks into yours at the arteries in theback of your eyeball so it can read your amber corpuscles and feedyou your oxygen in the right amounts; you're a bottle-fed baby. Iftransphasia gets you seeing limburger, turn on the radar and you'reair-conditioned as an igloo. Nothing short of a cosmic blast can dentthat hide. You got it made. You are right, I said, only transphasia comes right through theseair-fast joints. Something strange about the trance, Captain, Farley said darkly. Anyspaceman can tell you that. Things we don't understand. I'm talking about something we do understand— sound . These suitsperfectly soundproof? Well, you can pick up sound by conduction. Like putting two helmetstogether and talking without using radio. You can't insulate enough toblock out all sound and still have a man-shaped suit. You have— I know. Then you have something like a tractor or a miniaturespaceship. There isn't time for that. We will have to live with thesound. What do you think he's going to hear out there, Captain? We'd like tofind one of those beautiful sirens on some planet, believe me, but— I believe you, I said quickly. Let's leave it at that. I don't knowwhat he will hear; what's worrying me is how he'll hear it, in whatsensory medium. I hope the sound doesn't blind him. His radar is hisonly chance. How do you figure on getting a better edge yourself, sir? I have the idea, but not the word for it. Tonal compensation, Isuppose. If you can't shut out the noise, we'll have to drown it out. Farley nodded. Beat like a telephone time signal? That would do it. It would do something else. It would drive you nuts. <doc-sep>I shrugged. It might be distracting. Captain, take my word for it, argued Farley. Constant sonicfeedback inside a spacesuit will set you rocking against the grain. Devise some regular system of interruptions, I suggested. Then the pattern will drive you crazy. Maybe in a few months, withluck, I could plan some harmonic scale you could tolerate— We don't have a few months, I said. How about music? There's aharmonic scale for you, and we can endure it, some of it. Figaro and Asleep in the Cradle of the Deep can compensate for high-pitchedoutside temperatures, and Flight of the Bumble Bee to block bassnotes. Farley nodded. Might work. I can program the tapes from the library. Good. There's one more thing—how are our stores of medicinal liquor? Farley paled. Captain, are you implying that I should be runningshort on alcohol? Where do you get off suggesting a thing like that? I'm getting off at the right stop, apparently, I sighed. Okay,Farley, no evasions. In plain figures, how much drinking alcohol do wehave left? The quartermaster slumped a bit. Twenty-one liters unbroken. One moreabout half full. Half full? How did that ever happen? I mean you had some left ? We'lltake this up later. I want you to run it through the synthesizer to getsome light wine.... Light wine? Farley looked in pain. Not whiskey, brandy, beer? Light wine. Then ration it out to some of the men. Ration it to the men! That's an accurate interpretation of my orders. But, sir, Farley protested, you don't give alcohol to the crew inthe middle of a mission. It's not done. What reason can you have? To sharpen their taste and olfactory senses. We can turn up or blockout sound. We can use radar to extend our sight, but the Space Servicehasn't yet developed anything to make spacemen taste or smell better. They are going to smell like a herd of winos, Farley said. I don'tlike to think how they would taste. It's an entirely practical idea. Tea-tasters used to drinkalmond-and-barley water to sharpen their senses. I've observed thatwine helps you appreciate culinary art more. Considering the mixed-upsensory data under transphasia, wine may help us to see where we aregoing. Yes, sir, Farley said obediently. I'll give spacemen a few quarts ofwine, telling them to use it carefully for scientific purposes only,and then they will be able to see where they are going. Yes, sir. I turned to leave, then paused briefly. You can come along, Farley.I'm sure you want to see that we don't waste any of the stuff. <doc-sep>There they are! Nagurski called. Quade's footsteps again, justbeyond that rocky ridge. The landscape was rich chocolate ice cream smothered with chocolatesyrup, caramel, peanuts and maple syrup, eaten while you smoked an old,mellow Havana. The footsteps were faint traces of whipped cream acrossthe dark, rich taste of the planet. I splashed some wine from my drinking tube against the roof of my mouthto sharpen my taste. It brought out the footsteps sharper. It also madethe landscape more of a teen-ager's caloric nightmare. The four of us pulled ourselves closer together by reeling in moreof our safety line. Farley and Hoffman, Nagurski and myself, we werecabled together. It gave us a larger hunk of reality to hold onto. Evenso, things wavered for me during a wisp of time. We stumbled over the ridge, feeling out the territory. It was a stickyjob crawling over a melting, chunk-style Hershey bar. I was thankfulfor the invigorating Sousa march blasting inside my helmet. Before thetape had cut in, kicked on by the decibel gauge, I had heard or feltsomething dark and ominous in the outside air. Yes, this is definitely the trail of Quail, Nagurski said soberly.This is serious business. I must ask whoever has been giggling onthis channel to shut up. Pardon me, Captain. You weren't giggling,sir? I have never giggled in my life, Nagurski. Yes, sir. That's what we all thought. A moment later, Nagurski added, Anyway, I just noticed it was myshelf—my, that is, self. The basso profundo performing Figaro on my headset climbed to agirlish shriek. A sliver of ice. This was the call Quade and I hadfirst heard as we were about to troop over a cliff. I dug in my heels. Take a good look around, boys, I said. What do you see? Quail, Nagurski replied. That's what I see. You, I said carefully, have been in space a long time. Look again. I see our old buddy, Quail. I took another slosh of burgundy and peered up ahead. It was Quade. Aman in a spacesuit, faceplate in the dust, two hundred yards ahead. Grudgingly I stepped forward, out of the shadow of the ridge.A hysterically screaming wind rocked me on my toes. We pushedon sluggishly to Quade's side, moving to the tempo of Pomp andCircumstance . Farley lugged Quade over on his back and read his gauges. The Quartermaster rose with grim deliberation, and hiccuped. Betterget him back to the spaceship fast. I've seen this kind of thingbefore with transphasia. His body cooled down because of the screamingwind—psychosomatic reaction—and his heating circuits compensated forthe cool flesh. The poor devil's got frostbite and heat prostration. <doc-sep>The four of us managed to haul Quade back by using the powered jointsin our suits. Hoffman suggested that he had once seen an injuredman walked back inside his suit like a robot, but it was a delicateadjustment, controlling power circuits from outside a suit. It was toomuch for us—we were too tired, too numb, too drunk. At first sight of the spacer in the distance, transphasia left me withonly a chocolate-tasting pink after-image on my retina. It was nowshowing bare skeleton from cannibalization for tractor parts, but itlooked good to me, like home. The wailing call sounded through the amber twilight. I realized that I was actually hearing it for the first time. The alien stood between us and the ship. It was a great pot-belliedlizard as tall as a man. Its sound came from a flat, vibrating beavertail. Others of its kind were coming into view behind it. Stand your ground, I warned the others thickly. They may bedangerous. Quade sat up on our crisscross litter of arms. Aliens can't behostile. Ethnic impossibility. I'll show you. Quade was delirious and we were drunk. He got away from us and joggedtoward the herd. Let's give him a hand! Farley shouted. We'll take us a specimen! I couldn't stop them. Being in Alpine rope with them, I went along. Atthe time, it even seemed vaguely like a good idea. As we lumbered toward them, the aliens fell back in a solid line exceptfor the first curious-looking one. Quade got there ahead of us and madea grab. The creature rose into the air with a screaming vibration ofhis tail and landed on top of him, flattening him instantly. Sssh, men, Nagurski said. Leave it to me. I'll surround him. The men followed the First Officer's example, and the rope tying themto him. I went along cheerfully myself, until an enormous rump struckme violently in the face. My leaded boots were driven down into fertilesoil, and my helmet was ringing like a bell. I got a jerky picture ofthe beast jumping up and down on top of the others joyously. Only thestiff space armor was holding up our slack frames. Let's let him escape, Hoffman suggested on the audio circuit. I'd like to, Nagurski admitted, but the other beasts won't let usget past their circle. It was true. The aliens formed a ring around us, and each time abouncing boy hit the line, he only bounced back on top of us. Flat! I yelled. Our seams can't take much more of this beating. I followed my own advice and landed in the dirt beside Quade. The bouncer came to rest and regarded us silently, head on aneighty-degree angle. I was stone sober. The others were lying around me quietly, passed out, knocked out, ortaking cover. The ring of aliens drew in about us, closer, tighter, as the bouncersat on his haunches and waited for us to move. <doc-sep>Feeling better? I asked Quade in the infirmary. He punched up his pillow and settled back. I guess so. But when Ithink of all the ways I nearly got myself killed out there.... How farhave you got in the tractors? I'm having the tractors torn down and the parts put back into thespaceship where they belong. We shouldn't risk losing them andgetting stuck here. Are you settling for a primary exploration? No. I think I had the right idea on your rescue party. You have tomeet and fight a planet on its own terms. Fighting confused sounds andtastes with music and wine was crude, but it was on the right track.Out there, we understood language because we were familiar with alienlanguages changed to other sense mediums by cybernetic translators.Using the translator, we can learn to recognize all confused data aseasily. I'm starting indoctrination courses. I doubt that that is necessary, sir, Quade said. Experiencedspacemen are experienced with transphasia. You don't have to worry. Inthe future, I'll be able to resist sensations that tell me I'm freezingto death—if my gauges tell me it's a lie. I examined his bandisprayed hide. I think my way of gaining experienceis less painful and more efficient. Quade squirmed. Yes, sir. One thing, sir—I don't understand how yougot me away from those aliens. The aliens were trying to help. They knew something was wrong and theywere prodding and probing. When the first tractor pulled up and the mengot out, they seemed to realize our own people could help us easierthan they could. I am not quite convinced that those babies just meant to help us allthe time. But they did! First, that call of theirs—it wasn't to lead us intodanger, but to warn us of the cliff, the freezing wind. They saw wewere trying to find out things about their world, so they even offeredus one of their own kind to study. Unfortunately, he was too much forus. They didn't give us their top man, of course, only the villageidiot. It's just as well. We aren't allowed to dissect creatures thatfar up the intelligence scale. But why should they want to help us? Quade demanded suspiciously. I think it's like Nagurski's dog. The dog came to him when it wantedsomebody to own it, protect it, feed it, love it. These aliens want Earthmen to colonize the planet. We came here, you see, same as the dogcame to Nagurski. Well, I've learned one thing from all of this, Quade said. I've beena blind, arrogant, cocksure fool, following courses that were good on some worlds, most worlds, but not good on all worlds. I'm nevergoing to be that foolhardy again. But you're losing confidence , Quade! You aren't sure of yourself anymore. Isn't confidence a spaceman's most valuable asset? The hell it is, Quade said grimly. It's his deadliest liability. In that case, I must inform you that I am demoting you to ActingExecutive Officer. Huh? Quade gawked. But dammit, Captain, you can't do that to me!I'll lose hazard pay and be that much further from retirement! That's tough, I sympathized, but in every service a chap gets brokenin rank now and then. Maybe it's worth it, Quade said heavily. Now maybe I've learned howto stay alive out here. I just hope I don't forget. I thought about that. I was nearly through with my first mission andI could speak with experience, even if it was the least amount ofexperience aboard. Quade, I said, space isn't as dangerous as all that. I clapped himon the shoulder fraternally. You worry too much! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of cohesion in the story?

Every conflict and dangerous mistake throughout the story was caused by the lack of unity among the characters. The confrontation between Gavin and Quade caused the two to go alone towards transphasia and put themselves in danger. Gavin's lack of desire to work on mutual trust with the crew caused their condemnation of his actions and disobedience during such ab dangerous mission. The mutual offenses and tense arguments between the captain and the crew turned the least to Quade's side. All of this led to Quade going out alone and approaching death, for what Gavin and the crew would blame the captain himself. The arguments between the captain and different members of the crew take a lot of time and the job is done unwillingly, making it not as productive as it could be. The final peace and cohesion, on the contrary, lead to saving Quade, dealing with the aliens and coming to an understanding.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> END AS A HERO By KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by SCHELLING [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Granthan's mission was the most vital of the war. It would mean instant victory—but for whom? I In the dream I was swimming in a river of white fire and the dream wenton and on. And then I was awake—and the fire was still there, fiercelyburning at me. I tried to move to get away from the flames, and then the real painhit me. I tried to go back to sleep and the relative comfort of theriver of fire, but it was no go. For better or worse, I was alive andconscious. I opened my eyes and took a look around. I was on the floor next toan unpadded acceleration couch—the kind the Terrestrial Space Arminstalls in seldom-used lifeboats. There were three more couches, butno one in them. I tried to sit up. It wasn't easy but, by applying alot more will-power than should be required of a sick man, I made it.I took a look at my left arm. Baked. The hand was only medium rare,but the forearm was black, with deep red showing at the bottom of thecracks where the crisped upper layers had burst.... There was a first-aid cabinet across the compartment from me. Itried my right leg, felt broken bone-ends grate with a sensationthat transcended pain. I heaved with the other leg, scrabbled withthe charred arm. The crawl to the cabinet dwarfed Hillary's trekup Everest, but I reached it after a couple of years, and found themicroswitch on the floor that activated the thing, and then I wasfading out again.... <doc-sep>I came out of it clear-headed but weak. My right leg was numb, butreasonably comfortable, clamped tight in a walking brace. I put upa hand and felt a shaved skull, with sutures. It must have been afracture. The left arm—well, it was still there, wrapped to theshoulder and held out stiffly by a power truss that would keep the scartissue from pulling up and crippling me. The steady pressure as thetruss contracted wasn't anything to do a sense-tape on for replaying atleisure moments, but at least the cabinet hadn't amputated. I wasn'tcomplaining. As far as I knew, I was the first recorded survivor of contact with theGool—if I survived. I was still a long way from home, and I hadn't yet checked on thecondition of the lifeboat. I glanced toward the entry port. It wasdogged shut. I could see black marks where my burned hand had been atwork. I fumbled my way into a couch and tried to think. In my condition—witha broken leg and third-degree burns, plus a fractured skull—Ishouldn't have been able to fall out of bed, much less make the tripfrom Belshazzar's CCC to the boat; and how had I managed to dog thatport shut? In an emergency a man was capable of great exertions. Butrunning on a broken femur, handling heavy levers with charred fingersand thinking with a cracked head were overdoing it. Still, I washere—and it was time to get a call through to TSA headquarters. I flipped the switch and gave the emergency call-letters Col. AusarKayle of Aerospace Intelligence had assigned to me a few weeks before.It was almost five minutes before the acknowledge came through fromthe Ganymede relay station, another ten minutes before Kayle's faceswam into view. Even through the blur of the screen I could see thehaggard look. Granthan! he burst out. Where are the others? What happened outthere? I turned him down to a mutter. Hold on, I said. I'll tell you. Recorders going? I didn't wait foran answer—not with a fifteen-minute transmission lag. I plowed on: Belshazzar was sabotaged. So was Gilgamesh —I think. I got out. Ilost a little skin, but the aid cabinet has the case in hand. Tell theMed people the drinks are on me. I finished talking and flopped back, waiting for Kayle's reply. On thescreen, his flickering image gazed back impatiently, looking as hostileas a swing-shift ward nurse. It would be half an hour before I wouldget his reaction to my report. I dozed off—and awoke with a start.Kayle was talking. —your report. I won't mince words. They're wondering at your role inthe disaster. How does it happen that you alone survived? How the hell do I know? I yelled—or croaked. But Kayle's voice wasdroning on: ... you Psychodynamics people have been telling me the Gool mayhave some kind of long-range telehypnotic ability that might make itpossible for them to subvert a loyal man without his knowledge. You'vetold me yourself that you blacked out during the attack—and came to onthe lifeboat, with no recollection of how you got there. This is war, Granthan. War against a vicious enemy who strike withoutwarning and without mercy. You were sent out to investigate thepossibility of—what's that term you use?—hyper-cortical invasion. Youknow better than most the risk I'd be running if you were allowed topass the patrol line. I'm sorry, Granthan. I can't let you land on Earth. I can't acceptthe risk. What do I do now? I stormed. Go into orbit and eat pills and hopeyou think of something? I need a doctor! Presently Kayle replied. Yes, he said. You'll have to enter aparking orbit. Perhaps there will be developments soon which will makeit possible to ... ah ... restudy the situation. He didn't meet myeye. I knew what he was thinking. He'd spare me the mental anguish ofknowing what was coming. I couldn't really blame him; he was doingwhat he thought was the right thing. And I'd have to go along andpretend—right up until the warheads struck—that I didn't know I'dbeen condemned to death. II I tried to gather my wits and think my way through the situation. Iwas alone and injured, aboard a lifeboat that would be the focus of aconverging flight of missiles as soon as I approached within batteryrange of Earth. I had gotten clear of the Gool, but I wouldn't survivemy next meeting with my own kind. They couldn't take the chance that Iwas acting under Gool orders. I wasn't, of course. I was still the same Peter Granthan,psychodynamicist, who had started out with Dayan's fleet six weeksearlier. The thoughts I was having weren't brilliant, but they weremine, all mine.... But how could I be sure of that? Maybe there was something in Kayle's suspicion. If the Gool were asskillful as we thought, they would have left no overt indications oftheir tampering—not at a conscious level. But this was where psychodynamics training came in. I had been reactinglike any scared casualty, aching to get home and lick his wounds. But Iwasn't just any casualty. I had been trained in the subtleties of themind—and I had been prepared for just such an attack. Now was the time to make use of that training. It had given me oneresource. I could unlock the memories of my subconscious—and see againwhat had happened. I lay back, cleared my mind of extraneous thoughts, and concentrated onthe trigger word that would key an auto-hypnotic sequence.... Sense impressions faded. I was alone in the nebulous emptiness of afirst-level trance. I keyed a second word, slipped below the mistysurface into a dreamworld of vague phantasmagoric figures milling intheir limbo of sub-conceptualization. I penetrated deeper, brokethrough into the vividly hallucinatory third level, where images ofmirror-bright immediacy clamored for attention. And deeper.... <doc-sep>The immense orderly confusion of the basic memory level lay beforeme. Abstracted from it, aloof and observant, the monitoringpersonality-fraction scanned the pattern, searching the polydimensionalcontinuum for evidence of an alien intrusion. And found it. As the eye instantaneously detects a flicker of motion amid an infinityof static detail, so my inner eye perceived the subtle traces of theprobing Gool mind, like a whispered touch deftly rearranging my buriedmotivations. I focused selectively, tuned to the recorded gestalt. It is a contact, Effulgent One! Softly, now! Nurture the spark well. It but trembles at thethreshold.... It is elusive, Master! It wriggles like a gorm-worm in the eatingtrough! A part of my mind watched as the memory unreeled. I listened to thevoices—yet not voices, merely the shape of concepts, indescribablyintricate. I saw how the decoy pseudo-personality which I hadconcretized for the purpose in a hundred training sessions had foughtagainst the intruding stimuli—then yielded under the relentless thrustof the alien probe. I watched as the Gool operator took over the motorcenters, caused me to crawl through the choking smoke of the devastatedcontrol compartment toward the escape hatch. Fire leaped up, blockingthe way. I went on, felt ghostly flames whipping at me—and then thehatch was open and I pulled myself through, forcing the broken leg.My blackened hand fumbled at the locking wheel. Then the blast asthe lifeboat leaped clear of the disintegrating dreadnought—and theworld-ending impact as I fell. At a level far below the conscious, the embattled pseudo-personalitylashed out again—fighting the invader. Almost it eluded me then, Effulgent Lord. Link with this lowly one! Impossible! Do you forget all my teachings? Cling, though you expendthe last filament of your life-force! Free from all distraction, at a level where comprehension and retentionare instantaneous and total, my monitoring basic personality fractionfollowed the skillful Gool mind as it engraved its commands deep inmy subconscious. Then the touch withdrew, erasing the scars of itspassage, to leave me unaware of its tampering—at a conscious level. Watching the Gool mind, I learned. The insinuating probe—a concept regarding which psychodynamicists hadtheorized—was no more than a pattern in emptiness.... But a pattern which I could duplicate, now that I had seen what hadbeen done to me. Hesitantly, I felt for the immaterial fabric of the continuum, warpingand manipulating it, copying the Gool probe. Like planes of paper-thincrystal, the polyfinite aspects of reality shifted into focus, aligningthemselves. Abruptly, a channel lay open. As easily as I would stretch out my handto pluck a moth from a night-flower, I reached across the unimaginablevoid—and sensed a pit blacker than the bottom floor of hell, and aglistening dark shape. There was a soundless shriek. Effulgence! It reached out—touchedme! <doc-sep>Using the technique I had grasped from the Gool itself, I struck,stifling the outcry, invaded the fetid blackness and grappled theobscene gelatinous immensity of the Gool spy as it spasmed in a frenzyof xenophobia—a ton of liver writhing at the bottom of a dark well. I clamped down control. The Gool mind folded in on itself, gibbering.Not pausing to rest, I followed up, probed along my channel of contact,tracing patterns, scanning the flaccid Gool mind.... I saw a world of yellow seas lapping at endless shores of mud. Therewas a fuming pit, where liquid sulphur bubbled up from some innersource, filling an immense natural basin. The Gool clustered at itsrim, feeding, each monstrous shape heaving against its neighbors for amore favorable position. I probed farther, saw the great cables of living nervous tissue thatlinked each eating organ with the brain-mass far underground. I tracedthe passages through which tendrils ran out to immense caverns wheresmaller creatures labored over strange devices. These, my host's memorytold me, were the young of the Gool. Here they built the fleets thatwould transport the spawn to the new worlds the Prime Overlord haddiscovered, worlds where food was free for the taking. Not sulphuralone, but potassium, calcium, iron and all the metals—richesbeyond belief in endless profusion. No longer would the Gool tribecluster—those who remained of a once-great race—at a single feedingtrough. They would spread out across a galaxy—and beyond. But not if I could help it. The Gool had evolved a plan—but they'd had a stroke of bad luck. In the past, they had managed to control a man here and there, amongthe fleets, far from home, but only at a superficial level. Enough,perhaps, to wreck a ship, but not the complete control needed to send aman back to Earth under Gool compulsion, to carry out complex sabotage. Then they had found me, alone, a sole survivor, free from the clutterof the other mind-fields. It had been their misfortune to pick apsychodynamicist. Instead of gaining a patient slave, they had openedthe fortress door to an unseen spy. Now that I was there, I would seewhat I could steal. A timeless time passed. I wandered among patterns of white light andwhite sound, plumbed the deepest recesses of hidden Gool thoughts,fared along strange ways examining the shapes and colors of theconcepts of an alien mind. I paused at last, scanning a multi-ordinal structure of pattern withinpattern; the diagrammed circuits of a strange machine. I followed through its logic-sequence; and, like a bomb-burst, itsmeaning exploded in my mind. From the vile nest deep under the dark surface of the Gool world inits lonely trans-Plutonian orbit, I had plucked the ultimate secret oftheir kind. Matter across space. <doc-sep>You've got to listen to me, Kayle, I shouted. I know you think I'ma Gool robot. But what I have is too big to let you blow it up withouta fight. Matter transmission! You know what that can mean to us. Theconcept is too complex to try to describe in words. You'll have to takemy word for it. I can build it, though, using standard components, plusan infinite-area antenna and a moebius-wound coil—and a few otherthings.... I harangued Kayle for a while, and then sweated out his answer. I wasgetting close now. If he couldn't see the beauty of my proposal, myscreens would start to register the radiation of warheads any time now. Kayle came back—and his answer boiled down to no. I tried to reason with him. I reminded him how I had readied myselffor the trip with sessions on the encephaloscope, setting up thecross-networks of conditioned defensive responses, the shunt circuitsto the decoy pseudo-personality, leaving my volitional ego free. Italked about subliminal hypnotics and the resilience quotient of theego-complex. I might have saved my breath. I don't understand that psychodynamics jargon, Granthan, he snapped.It smacks of mysticism. But I understand what the Gool have done toyou well enough. I'm sorry. I leaned back and chewed the inside of my lip and thought unkindthoughts about Colonel Ausar Kayle. Then I settled down to solve theproblem at hand. I keyed the chart file, flashed pages from the standard index on thereference screen, checking radar coverages, beacon ranges, monitorstations, controller fields. It looked as though a radar-negative boatthe size of mine might possibly get through the defensive net with adaring pilot, and as a condemned spy, I could afford to be daring. And I had a few ideas. III The shrilling of the proximity alarm blasted through the silence. For awild moment I thought Kayle had beaten me to the punch; then I realizedit was the routine DEW line patrol contact. Z four-oh-two, I am reading your IFF. Decelerate at 1.8 geepreparatory to picking up approach orbit.... The screen went on droning out instructions. I fed them into theautopilot, at the same time running over my approach plan. The scoutwas moving in closer. I licked dry lips. It was time to try. I closed my eyes, reached out—as the Gool mind had reached out tome—and felt the touch of a Signals Officer's mind, forty thousandmiles distant, aboard the patrol vessel. There was a brief flurry ofstruggle; then I dictated my instructions. The Signals Officer punchedkeys, spoke into his microphone: As you were, Z four-oh-two. Continue on present course. At Oh-nineteenseconds, pick up planetary for re-entry and let-down. I blanked out the man's recollection of what had happened, caught hisbelated puzzlement as I broke contact. But I was clear of the DEW linenow, rapidly approaching atmosphere. Z four-oh-two, the speaker crackled. This is planetary control. I ampicking you up on channel forty-three, for re-entry and let-down. There was a long pause. Then: Z four-oh-two, countermand DEW Line clearance! Repeat, clearancecountermanded! Emergency course change to standard hyperbolic codeninety-eight. Do not attempt re-entry. Repeat: do not attempt re-entry! It hadn't taken Kayle long to see that I'd gotten past the outer lineof defense. A few more minutes' grace would have helped. I'd play itdumb, and hope for a little luck. Planetary, Z four-oh-two here. Say, I'm afraid I missed part of that,fellows. I'm a little banged up—I guess I switched frequencies on you.What was that after 'pick up channel forty-three'...? Four-oh-two, sheer off there! You're not cleared for re-entry! Hey, you birds are mixed up, I protested. I'm cleared all the way. Ichecked in with DEW— It was time to disappear. I blanked off all transmission, hit thecontrols, following my evasive pattern. And again I reached out— A radar man at a site in the Pacific, fifteen thousand miles away, rosefrom his chair, crossed the darkened room and threw a switch. The radarscreens blanked off.... For an hour I rode the long orbit down, fending off attack afterattack. Then I was clear, skimming the surface of the ocean a few milessoutheast of Key West. The boat hit hard. I felt the floor rise up,over, buffeting me against the restraining harness. I hauled at the release lever, felt a long moment of giddydisorientation as the escape capsule separated from the sinkinglifeboat deep under the surface. Then my escape capsule was bobbing onthe water. I would have to risk calling Kayle now—but by voluntarily giving myposition away, I should convince him I was still on our side—and I wasbadly in need of a pick-up. I flipped the sending key. This is Z four-oh-two, I said. I have an urgent report for ColonelKayle of Aerospace Intelligence. Kayle's face appeared. Don't fight it, Granthan, he croaked. Youpenetrated the planetary defenses—God knows how. I— Later, I snapped. How about calling off your dogs now? And sendsomebody out here to pick me up, before I add sea-sickness to my othercomplaints. We have you pinpointed, Kayle cut in. It's no use fighting it,Granthan. <doc-sep>I felt cold sweat pop out on my forehead. You've got to listen,Kayle, I shouted. I suppose you've got missiles on the way already.Call them back! I have information that can win the war— I'm sorry, Granthan, Kayle said. It's too late—even if I couldtake the chance you were right. A different face appeared on the screen. Mr. Granthan, I am General Titus. On behalf of your country, andin the name of the President—who has been apprised of this tragicsituation—it is my privilege to inform you that you will be awardedthe Congressional Medal of Honor—posthumously—for your heroic effort.Although you failed, and have in fact been forced, against your will,to carry out the schemes of the inhuman enemy, this in no way detractsfrom your gallant attempt. Mr. Granthan, I salute you. The general's arm went up in a rigid gesture. Stow that, you pompous idiot! I barked. I'm no spy! Kayle was back, blanking out the startled face of the general. Goodbye, Granthan. Try to understand.... I flipped the switch, sat gripping the couch, my stomach rising witheach heave of the floating escape capsule. I had perhaps five minutes.The missiles would be from Canaveral. I closed my eyes, forced myself to relax, reached out.... I sensed the distant shore, the hot buzz of human minds at work in thecities. I followed the coastline, found the Missile Base, flickedthrough the cluster of minds. — missile on course; do right, baby. That's it, right in the slot. I fingered my way through the man's mind and found the control centers.He turned stiffly from the plotting board, tottered to a panel to slamhis hand against the destruct button. Men fell on him, dragged him back. — fool, why did you blow it? I dropped the contact, found another, who leaped to the panel,detonated the remainder of the flight of six missiles. Then I withdrew.I would have a few minutes' stay of execution now. I was ten miles from shore. The capsule had its own power plant. Istarted it up, switched on the external viewer. I saw dark sea, theglint of star-light on the choppy surface, in the distance a glow onthe horizon that would be Key West. I plugged the course into thepilot, then leaned back and felt outward with my mind for the nextattacker. IV It was dark in the trainyard. I moved along the tracks in a stumblingwalk. Just a few more minutes, I was telling myself. A few moreminutes and you can lie down ... rest.... The shadowed bulk of a box car loomed up, its open door a blackersquare. I leaned against the sill, breathing hard, then reached insidefor a grip with my good hand. Gravel scrunched nearby. The beam of a flashlight lanced out, slippedalong the weathered car, caught me. There was a startled exclamation.I ducked back, closed my eyes, felt out for his mind. There was aconfused murmur of thought, a random intrusion of impressions from thecity all around. It was hard, too hard. I had to sleep— I heard the snick of a revolver being cocked, and dropped flat as agout of flame stabbed toward me, the imperative Bam! echoing betweenthe cars. I caught the clear thought: God-awful looking, shaved head, arm stuck out; him all right— I reached out to his mind and struck at random. The light fell, wentout, and I heard the unconscious body slam to the ground like a poledsteer. It was easy—if I could only stay awake. I gritted my teeth, pulled myself into the car, crawled to a darkcorner behind a crate and slumped down. I tried to evoke a personalityfraction to set as a guard, a part of my mind to stay awake and warnme of danger. It was too much trouble. I relaxed and let it all slidedown into darkness. <doc-sep>The car swayed, click-clack, click-clack. I opened my eyes, saw yellowsunlight in a bar across the litter on the floor. The power trusscreaked, pulling at my arm. My broken leg was throbbing its indignationat the treatment it had received—walking brace and all—and the burnedarm was yelling aloud for more of that nice dope that had been keepingit from realizing how bad it was. All things considered, I felt like abadly embalmed mummy—except that I was hungry. I had been a fool notto fill my pockets when I left the escape capsule in the shallows offKey Largo, but things had been happening too fast. I had barely made it to the fishing boat, whose owner I had coercedinto rendezvousing with me before shells started dropping around us. Ifthe gunners on the cruiser ten miles away had had any luck, they wouldhave finished me—and the hapless fisherman—right then. We rode out acouple of near misses, before I put the cruiser's gunnery crew off theair. At a fishing camp on the beach, I found a car—with driver. He droppedme at the railyard, and drove off under the impression he was in townfor groceries. He'd never believe he'd seen me. Now I'd had my sleep. I had to start getting ready for the next act ofthe farce. I pressed the release on the power truss, gingerly unclamped it, thenrigged a sling from a strip of shirt tail. I tied the arm to my side asinconspicuously as possible. I didn't disturb the bandages. I needed new clothes—or at least different ones—and something tocover my shaved skull. I couldn't stay hidden forever. The yard cop hadrecognized me at a glance. I lay back, waiting for the train to slow for a town. I wasn't undulyworried—at the moment. The watchman probably hadn't convinced anyonehe'd actually seen me. Maybe he hadn't been too sure himself. The click-clack slowed and the train shuddered to a stop. I crept tothe door, peered through the crack. There were sunny fields, a few lowbuildings in the distance, the corner of a platform. I closed my eyesand let my awareness stretch out. — lousy job. What's the use? Little witch in the lunch room ... up inthe hills, squirrel hunting, bottle of whiskey.... I settled into control gently, trying not to alarm the man. I sawthrough his eyes the dusty box car, the rust on the tracks, thelistless weeds growing among cinders, and the weathered boards ofthe platform. I turned him, and saw the dingy glass of the telegraphwindow, a sagging screen door with a chipped enameled cola sign. I walked the man to the door, and through it. Behind a linoleum-toppedcounter, a coarse-skinned teen-age girl with heavy breasts and wetpatches under her arms looked up without interest as the door banged. My host went on to the counter, gestured toward the waxed-paper-wrappedsandwiches under a glass cover. I'll take 'em all. And candy bars, andcigarettes. And give me a big glass of water. Better git out there and look after yer train, the girl saidcarelessly. When'd you git so all-fired hungry all of a sudden? Put it in a bag. Quick. Look who's getting bossy— My host rounded the counter, picked up a used paper bag, began stuffingfood in it. The girl stared at him, then pushed him back. You git backaround that counter! She filled the bag, took a pencil from behind her ear. That'll be one eighty-five. Cash. My host took two dog-eared bills from his shirt pocket, dropped themon the counter and waited while the girl filled a glass. He picked itup and started out. Hey! Where you goin' with my glass? The trainman crossed the platform, headed for the boxcar. He slid theloose door back a few inches against the slack latch, pushed the baginside, placed the glass of water beside it, then pulled off his grimyrailroader's cap and pushed it through the opening. He turned. The girlwatched from the platform. A rattle passed down the line and the trainstarted up with a lurch. The man walked back toward the girl. I heardhim say: Friend o' mine in there—just passin' through. I was discovering that it wasn't necessary to hold tight control overevery move of a subject. Once given the impulse to act, he wouldrationalize his behavior, fill in the details—and never know that theoriginal idea hadn't been his own. I drank the water first, ate a sandwich, then lit a cigarette and layback. So far so good. The crates in the car were marked U. S. NavalAerospace Station, Bayou Le Cochon. With any luck I'd reach NewOrleans in another twelve hours. The first step of my plan included araid on the Delta National Labs; but that was tomorrow. That couldwait. <doc-sep>It was a little before dawn when I crawled out of the car at a sidingin the swampy country a few miles out of New Orleans. I wasn't feelinggood, but I had a stake in staying on my feet. I still had a few milesin me. I had my supplies—a few candy bars and some cigarettes—stuffedin the pockets of the tattered issue coverall. Otherwise, I wasunencumbered. Unless you wanted to count the walking brace on my rightleg and the sling binding my arm. I picked my way across mushy ground to a pot-holed black-top road,started limping toward a few car lights visible half a mile away. Itwas already hot. The swamp air was like warmed-over subway fumes.Through the drugs, I could feel my pulse throbbing in my variouswounds. I reached out and touched the driver's mind; he was thinkingabout shrimps, a fish-hook wound on his left thumb and a girl withblack hair. Want a lift? he called. I thanked him and got in. He gave me a glance and I pinched off hisbudding twinge of curiosity. It was almost an effort now not to followhis thoughts. It was as though my mind, having learned the trick ofcommunications with others, instinctively reached out toward them. An hour later he dropped me on a street corner in a shabby marketingdistrict of the city and drove off. I hoped he made out all right withthe dark-haired girl. I spotted a used-clothing store and headed for it. Twenty minutes later I was back on the sidewalk, dressed in apinkish-gray suit that had been cut a long time ago by a Latintailor—maybe to settle a grudge. The shirt that went with it wasan unsuccessful violet. The black string tie lent a dubious air ofdistinction. I'd swapped the railroader's cap for a tarnished beret.The man who had supplied the outfit was still asleep. I figuredI'd done him a favor by taking it. I couldn't hope to pass for afisherman—I wasn't the type. Maybe I'd get by as a coffee-housederelict. I walked past fly-covered fish stalls, racks of faded garments, grimyvegetables in bins, enough paint-flaked wrought iron to cage a herd ofbrontosauri, and fetched up at a cab stand. I picked a fat driver witha wart. How much to the Delta National Laboratories? He rolled an eye toward me, shifted his toothpick. What ya wanna go out there for? Nothing out there. I'm a tourist, I said. They told me before I left home not to missit. He grunted, reached back and opened the door. I got in. He flipped hisflag down, started up with a clash of gears and pulled out withoutlooking. How far is it? I asked him. It ain't far. Mile, mile and a quarter. Pretty big place, I guess. He didn't answer. We went through a warehousing district, swung left along thewaterfront, bumped over railroad tracks, and pulled up at a nine-footcyclone fence with a locked gate. A buck ten, my driver said. I looked out at the fence, a barren field, a distant group of lowbuildings. What's this? This is the place you ast for. That'll be a buck ten, mister. I touched his mind, planted a couple of false impressions and withdrew.He blinked, then started up, drove around the field, pulled up at anopen gate with a blue-uniformed guard. He looked back at me. You want I should drive in, sir? I'll get out here. He jumped out, opened my door, helped me out with a hand under my goodelbow. I'll get your change, sir, he said, reaching for his hip. Keep it. Thank YOU. He hesitated. Maybe I oughta stick around. You know. I'll be all right. I hope so, he said. A man like you—you and me— he winked. Afterall, we ain't both wearing berets fer nothing. True, I said. Consider your tip doubled. Now drive away into thesunrise and forget you ever saw me. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Peter Granthan, a psychodynamicist, wakes up severely injured on a lifeboat after his spaceship "Belshazzar" has been mysteriously destroyed. He has no recollection of what has happened to him. He thinks to himself he must have been the first ever survivor to come into contact with a "Gool", a fierce alien race who infiltrate and control people's minds. He makes a call to TSA headquarters back on Earth, who control the mission from the ground. On the other end is Ausar Kayle. Kayle asks Granthan what happened to the rest of the crew. Granthan relays how he got out. Kayle thinks that Granthan may be under the control of the Gool, and he may be the one who inadvertently caused the destruction of the ship. Kayle orders Granthan to stay in Orbit around Earth. Granthan knows that if he stays in orbit, there is sure to be a fleet of missiles on their way towards him. He decides to enter his own mind, in search of a Gool spy that may be tampering with it. He dives deep into his sub conscious. He looks into his memory, where he finds a Gool. He sees how it controlled him as he unknowingly made his way onto the lifeboat, escaping the burning ship. He follows the Gool, studying how it infiltrates minds and controls them as it goes. He reaches out to the Gool, infiltrating it's mind. Granthan takes control of the Gool's mind, inside of his own. He see's the Gool's home world. In it he finds the secret to Matter across space. He calls Kayle, explaining the information he has just found. Kayle doesn't believe Granthan, still thinking he is being controlled by the Gool. Granthan plans his course of re-entry. Now knowing the secret to the Gool's mind control, he uses the technique to convince various stations on Earth to allow him to land, and not raise suspicion. He eventually lands in the ocean, some distance outside Key West. Kayle realises Granthan has landed, and he readies the missiles. Granthan finds the man's mind who controls the missiles, enters it, and forces him to hit the self destruct button. He infiltrates a fisherman's mind, convincing him to take him to shore, while bombs are being dropped around them. He then gets a driver to take him to a rail yard. When he arrives at a train yard, he lays down to rest in the empty box car where he just fought a guard. While the train is stopped, he convinces a man to buy him food and water. The train is headed for New Orleans, and his plan is to raid the Delta National Labs. He arrives before dawn, and crawls out of the car.He gets a man to drive him into town, where he buys new clothes and hails a cab, who takes him to the Laboratories. They arrive, Granthan gets out of the car. The taxi driver drives away.

Why Does Kayle Not Allow Granthan to Re-enter Earth? [SEP] <s> END AS A HERO By KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by SCHELLING [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Granthan's mission was the most vital of the war. It would mean instant victory—but for whom? I In the dream I was swimming in a river of white fire and the dream wenton and on. And then I was awake—and the fire was still there, fiercelyburning at me. I tried to move to get away from the flames, and then the real painhit me. I tried to go back to sleep and the relative comfort of theriver of fire, but it was no go. For better or worse, I was alive andconscious. I opened my eyes and took a look around. I was on the floor next toan unpadded acceleration couch—the kind the Terrestrial Space Arminstalls in seldom-used lifeboats. There were three more couches, butno one in them. I tried to sit up. It wasn't easy but, by applying alot more will-power than should be required of a sick man, I made it.I took a look at my left arm. Baked. The hand was only medium rare,but the forearm was black, with deep red showing at the bottom of thecracks where the crisped upper layers had burst.... There was a first-aid cabinet across the compartment from me. Itried my right leg, felt broken bone-ends grate with a sensationthat transcended pain. I heaved with the other leg, scrabbled withthe charred arm. The crawl to the cabinet dwarfed Hillary's trekup Everest, but I reached it after a couple of years, and found themicroswitch on the floor that activated the thing, and then I wasfading out again.... <doc-sep>I came out of it clear-headed but weak. My right leg was numb, butreasonably comfortable, clamped tight in a walking brace. I put upa hand and felt a shaved skull, with sutures. It must have been afracture. The left arm—well, it was still there, wrapped to theshoulder and held out stiffly by a power truss that would keep the scartissue from pulling up and crippling me. The steady pressure as thetruss contracted wasn't anything to do a sense-tape on for replaying atleisure moments, but at least the cabinet hadn't amputated. I wasn'tcomplaining. As far as I knew, I was the first recorded survivor of contact with theGool—if I survived. I was still a long way from home, and I hadn't yet checked on thecondition of the lifeboat. I glanced toward the entry port. It wasdogged shut. I could see black marks where my burned hand had been atwork. I fumbled my way into a couch and tried to think. In my condition—witha broken leg and third-degree burns, plus a fractured skull—Ishouldn't have been able to fall out of bed, much less make the tripfrom Belshazzar's CCC to the boat; and how had I managed to dog thatport shut? In an emergency a man was capable of great exertions. Butrunning on a broken femur, handling heavy levers with charred fingersand thinking with a cracked head were overdoing it. Still, I washere—and it was time to get a call through to TSA headquarters. I flipped the switch and gave the emergency call-letters Col. AusarKayle of Aerospace Intelligence had assigned to me a few weeks before.It was almost five minutes before the acknowledge came through fromthe Ganymede relay station, another ten minutes before Kayle's faceswam into view. Even through the blur of the screen I could see thehaggard look. Granthan! he burst out. Where are the others? What happened outthere? I turned him down to a mutter. Hold on, I said. I'll tell you. Recorders going? I didn't wait foran answer—not with a fifteen-minute transmission lag. I plowed on: Belshazzar was sabotaged. So was Gilgamesh —I think. I got out. Ilost a little skin, but the aid cabinet has the case in hand. Tell theMed people the drinks are on me. I finished talking and flopped back, waiting for Kayle's reply. On thescreen, his flickering image gazed back impatiently, looking as hostileas a swing-shift ward nurse. It would be half an hour before I wouldget his reaction to my report. I dozed off—and awoke with a start.Kayle was talking. —your report. I won't mince words. They're wondering at your role inthe disaster. How does it happen that you alone survived? How the hell do I know? I yelled—or croaked. But Kayle's voice wasdroning on: ... you Psychodynamics people have been telling me the Gool mayhave some kind of long-range telehypnotic ability that might make itpossible for them to subvert a loyal man without his knowledge. You'vetold me yourself that you blacked out during the attack—and came to onthe lifeboat, with no recollection of how you got there. This is war, Granthan. War against a vicious enemy who strike withoutwarning and without mercy. You were sent out to investigate thepossibility of—what's that term you use?—hyper-cortical invasion. Youknow better than most the risk I'd be running if you were allowed topass the patrol line. I'm sorry, Granthan. I can't let you land on Earth. I can't acceptthe risk. What do I do now? I stormed. Go into orbit and eat pills and hopeyou think of something? I need a doctor! Presently Kayle replied. Yes, he said. You'll have to enter aparking orbit. Perhaps there will be developments soon which will makeit possible to ... ah ... restudy the situation. He didn't meet myeye. I knew what he was thinking. He'd spare me the mental anguish ofknowing what was coming. I couldn't really blame him; he was doingwhat he thought was the right thing. And I'd have to go along andpretend—right up until the warheads struck—that I didn't know I'dbeen condemned to death. II I tried to gather my wits and think my way through the situation. Iwas alone and injured, aboard a lifeboat that would be the focus of aconverging flight of missiles as soon as I approached within batteryrange of Earth. I had gotten clear of the Gool, but I wouldn't survivemy next meeting with my own kind. They couldn't take the chance that Iwas acting under Gool orders. I wasn't, of course. I was still the same Peter Granthan,psychodynamicist, who had started out with Dayan's fleet six weeksearlier. The thoughts I was having weren't brilliant, but they weremine, all mine.... But how could I be sure of that? Maybe there was something in Kayle's suspicion. If the Gool were asskillful as we thought, they would have left no overt indications oftheir tampering—not at a conscious level. But this was where psychodynamics training came in. I had been reactinglike any scared casualty, aching to get home and lick his wounds. But Iwasn't just any casualty. I had been trained in the subtleties of themind—and I had been prepared for just such an attack. Now was the time to make use of that training. It had given me oneresource. I could unlock the memories of my subconscious—and see againwhat had happened. I lay back, cleared my mind of extraneous thoughts, and concentrated onthe trigger word that would key an auto-hypnotic sequence.... Sense impressions faded. I was alone in the nebulous emptiness of afirst-level trance. I keyed a second word, slipped below the mistysurface into a dreamworld of vague phantasmagoric figures milling intheir limbo of sub-conceptualization. I penetrated deeper, brokethrough into the vividly hallucinatory third level, where images ofmirror-bright immediacy clamored for attention. And deeper.... <doc-sep>The immense orderly confusion of the basic memory level lay beforeme. Abstracted from it, aloof and observant, the monitoringpersonality-fraction scanned the pattern, searching the polydimensionalcontinuum for evidence of an alien intrusion. And found it. As the eye instantaneously detects a flicker of motion amid an infinityof static detail, so my inner eye perceived the subtle traces of theprobing Gool mind, like a whispered touch deftly rearranging my buriedmotivations. I focused selectively, tuned to the recorded gestalt. It is a contact, Effulgent One! Softly, now! Nurture the spark well. It but trembles at thethreshold.... It is elusive, Master! It wriggles like a gorm-worm in the eatingtrough! A part of my mind watched as the memory unreeled. I listened to thevoices—yet not voices, merely the shape of concepts, indescribablyintricate. I saw how the decoy pseudo-personality which I hadconcretized for the purpose in a hundred training sessions had foughtagainst the intruding stimuli—then yielded under the relentless thrustof the alien probe. I watched as the Gool operator took over the motorcenters, caused me to crawl through the choking smoke of the devastatedcontrol compartment toward the escape hatch. Fire leaped up, blockingthe way. I went on, felt ghostly flames whipping at me—and then thehatch was open and I pulled myself through, forcing the broken leg.My blackened hand fumbled at the locking wheel. Then the blast asthe lifeboat leaped clear of the disintegrating dreadnought—and theworld-ending impact as I fell. At a level far below the conscious, the embattled pseudo-personalitylashed out again—fighting the invader. Almost it eluded me then, Effulgent Lord. Link with this lowly one! Impossible! Do you forget all my teachings? Cling, though you expendthe last filament of your life-force! Free from all distraction, at a level where comprehension and retentionare instantaneous and total, my monitoring basic personality fractionfollowed the skillful Gool mind as it engraved its commands deep inmy subconscious. Then the touch withdrew, erasing the scars of itspassage, to leave me unaware of its tampering—at a conscious level. Watching the Gool mind, I learned. The insinuating probe—a concept regarding which psychodynamicists hadtheorized—was no more than a pattern in emptiness.... But a pattern which I could duplicate, now that I had seen what hadbeen done to me. Hesitantly, I felt for the immaterial fabric of the continuum, warpingand manipulating it, copying the Gool probe. Like planes of paper-thincrystal, the polyfinite aspects of reality shifted into focus, aligningthemselves. Abruptly, a channel lay open. As easily as I would stretch out my handto pluck a moth from a night-flower, I reached across the unimaginablevoid—and sensed a pit blacker than the bottom floor of hell, and aglistening dark shape. There was a soundless shriek. Effulgence! It reached out—touchedme! <doc-sep>Using the technique I had grasped from the Gool itself, I struck,stifling the outcry, invaded the fetid blackness and grappled theobscene gelatinous immensity of the Gool spy as it spasmed in a frenzyof xenophobia—a ton of liver writhing at the bottom of a dark well. I clamped down control. The Gool mind folded in on itself, gibbering.Not pausing to rest, I followed up, probed along my channel of contact,tracing patterns, scanning the flaccid Gool mind.... I saw a world of yellow seas lapping at endless shores of mud. Therewas a fuming pit, where liquid sulphur bubbled up from some innersource, filling an immense natural basin. The Gool clustered at itsrim, feeding, each monstrous shape heaving against its neighbors for amore favorable position. I probed farther, saw the great cables of living nervous tissue thatlinked each eating organ with the brain-mass far underground. I tracedthe passages through which tendrils ran out to immense caverns wheresmaller creatures labored over strange devices. These, my host's memorytold me, were the young of the Gool. Here they built the fleets thatwould transport the spawn to the new worlds the Prime Overlord haddiscovered, worlds where food was free for the taking. Not sulphuralone, but potassium, calcium, iron and all the metals—richesbeyond belief in endless profusion. No longer would the Gool tribecluster—those who remained of a once-great race—at a single feedingtrough. They would spread out across a galaxy—and beyond. But not if I could help it. The Gool had evolved a plan—but they'd had a stroke of bad luck. In the past, they had managed to control a man here and there, amongthe fleets, far from home, but only at a superficial level. Enough,perhaps, to wreck a ship, but not the complete control needed to send aman back to Earth under Gool compulsion, to carry out complex sabotage. Then they had found me, alone, a sole survivor, free from the clutterof the other mind-fields. It had been their misfortune to pick apsychodynamicist. Instead of gaining a patient slave, they had openedthe fortress door to an unseen spy. Now that I was there, I would seewhat I could steal. A timeless time passed. I wandered among patterns of white light andwhite sound, plumbed the deepest recesses of hidden Gool thoughts,fared along strange ways examining the shapes and colors of theconcepts of an alien mind. I paused at last, scanning a multi-ordinal structure of pattern withinpattern; the diagrammed circuits of a strange machine. I followed through its logic-sequence; and, like a bomb-burst, itsmeaning exploded in my mind. From the vile nest deep under the dark surface of the Gool world inits lonely trans-Plutonian orbit, I had plucked the ultimate secret oftheir kind. Matter across space. <doc-sep>You've got to listen to me, Kayle, I shouted. I know you think I'ma Gool robot. But what I have is too big to let you blow it up withouta fight. Matter transmission! You know what that can mean to us. Theconcept is too complex to try to describe in words. You'll have to takemy word for it. I can build it, though, using standard components, plusan infinite-area antenna and a moebius-wound coil—and a few otherthings.... I harangued Kayle for a while, and then sweated out his answer. I wasgetting close now. If he couldn't see the beauty of my proposal, myscreens would start to register the radiation of warheads any time now. Kayle came back—and his answer boiled down to no. I tried to reason with him. I reminded him how I had readied myselffor the trip with sessions on the encephaloscope, setting up thecross-networks of conditioned defensive responses, the shunt circuitsto the decoy pseudo-personality, leaving my volitional ego free. Italked about subliminal hypnotics and the resilience quotient of theego-complex. I might have saved my breath. I don't understand that psychodynamics jargon, Granthan, he snapped.It smacks of mysticism. But I understand what the Gool have done toyou well enough. I'm sorry. I leaned back and chewed the inside of my lip and thought unkindthoughts about Colonel Ausar Kayle. Then I settled down to solve theproblem at hand. I keyed the chart file, flashed pages from the standard index on thereference screen, checking radar coverages, beacon ranges, monitorstations, controller fields. It looked as though a radar-negative boatthe size of mine might possibly get through the defensive net with adaring pilot, and as a condemned spy, I could afford to be daring. And I had a few ideas. III The shrilling of the proximity alarm blasted through the silence. For awild moment I thought Kayle had beaten me to the punch; then I realizedit was the routine DEW line patrol contact. Z four-oh-two, I am reading your IFF. Decelerate at 1.8 geepreparatory to picking up approach orbit.... The screen went on droning out instructions. I fed them into theautopilot, at the same time running over my approach plan. The scoutwas moving in closer. I licked dry lips. It was time to try. I closed my eyes, reached out—as the Gool mind had reached out tome—and felt the touch of a Signals Officer's mind, forty thousandmiles distant, aboard the patrol vessel. There was a brief flurry ofstruggle; then I dictated my instructions. The Signals Officer punchedkeys, spoke into his microphone: As you were, Z four-oh-two. Continue on present course. At Oh-nineteenseconds, pick up planetary for re-entry and let-down. I blanked out the man's recollection of what had happened, caught hisbelated puzzlement as I broke contact. But I was clear of the DEW linenow, rapidly approaching atmosphere. Z four-oh-two, the speaker crackled. This is planetary control. I ampicking you up on channel forty-three, for re-entry and let-down. There was a long pause. Then: Z four-oh-two, countermand DEW Line clearance! Repeat, clearancecountermanded! Emergency course change to standard hyperbolic codeninety-eight. Do not attempt re-entry. Repeat: do not attempt re-entry! It hadn't taken Kayle long to see that I'd gotten past the outer lineof defense. A few more minutes' grace would have helped. I'd play itdumb, and hope for a little luck. Planetary, Z four-oh-two here. Say, I'm afraid I missed part of that,fellows. I'm a little banged up—I guess I switched frequencies on you.What was that after 'pick up channel forty-three'...? Four-oh-two, sheer off there! You're not cleared for re-entry! Hey, you birds are mixed up, I protested. I'm cleared all the way. Ichecked in with DEW— It was time to disappear. I blanked off all transmission, hit thecontrols, following my evasive pattern. And again I reached out— A radar man at a site in the Pacific, fifteen thousand miles away, rosefrom his chair, crossed the darkened room and threw a switch. The radarscreens blanked off.... For an hour I rode the long orbit down, fending off attack afterattack. Then I was clear, skimming the surface of the ocean a few milessoutheast of Key West. The boat hit hard. I felt the floor rise up,over, buffeting me against the restraining harness. I hauled at the release lever, felt a long moment of giddydisorientation as the escape capsule separated from the sinkinglifeboat deep under the surface. Then my escape capsule was bobbing onthe water. I would have to risk calling Kayle now—but by voluntarily giving myposition away, I should convince him I was still on our side—and I wasbadly in need of a pick-up. I flipped the sending key. This is Z four-oh-two, I said. I have an urgent report for ColonelKayle of Aerospace Intelligence. Kayle's face appeared. Don't fight it, Granthan, he croaked. Youpenetrated the planetary defenses—God knows how. I— Later, I snapped. How about calling off your dogs now? And sendsomebody out here to pick me up, before I add sea-sickness to my othercomplaints. We have you pinpointed, Kayle cut in. It's no use fighting it,Granthan. <doc-sep>I felt cold sweat pop out on my forehead. You've got to listen,Kayle, I shouted. I suppose you've got missiles on the way already.Call them back! I have information that can win the war— I'm sorry, Granthan, Kayle said. It's too late—even if I couldtake the chance you were right. A different face appeared on the screen. Mr. Granthan, I am General Titus. On behalf of your country, andin the name of the President—who has been apprised of this tragicsituation—it is my privilege to inform you that you will be awardedthe Congressional Medal of Honor—posthumously—for your heroic effort.Although you failed, and have in fact been forced, against your will,to carry out the schemes of the inhuman enemy, this in no way detractsfrom your gallant attempt. Mr. Granthan, I salute you. The general's arm went up in a rigid gesture. Stow that, you pompous idiot! I barked. I'm no spy! Kayle was back, blanking out the startled face of the general. Goodbye, Granthan. Try to understand.... I flipped the switch, sat gripping the couch, my stomach rising witheach heave of the floating escape capsule. I had perhaps five minutes.The missiles would be from Canaveral. I closed my eyes, forced myself to relax, reached out.... I sensed the distant shore, the hot buzz of human minds at work in thecities. I followed the coastline, found the Missile Base, flickedthrough the cluster of minds. — missile on course; do right, baby. That's it, right in the slot. I fingered my way through the man's mind and found the control centers.He turned stiffly from the plotting board, tottered to a panel to slamhis hand against the destruct button. Men fell on him, dragged him back. — fool, why did you blow it? I dropped the contact, found another, who leaped to the panel,detonated the remainder of the flight of six missiles. Then I withdrew.I would have a few minutes' stay of execution now. I was ten miles from shore. The capsule had its own power plant. Istarted it up, switched on the external viewer. I saw dark sea, theglint of star-light on the choppy surface, in the distance a glow onthe horizon that would be Key West. I plugged the course into thepilot, then leaned back and felt outward with my mind for the nextattacker. IV It was dark in the trainyard. I moved along the tracks in a stumblingwalk. Just a few more minutes, I was telling myself. A few moreminutes and you can lie down ... rest.... The shadowed bulk of a box car loomed up, its open door a blackersquare. I leaned against the sill, breathing hard, then reached insidefor a grip with my good hand. Gravel scrunched nearby. The beam of a flashlight lanced out, slippedalong the weathered car, caught me. There was a startled exclamation.I ducked back, closed my eyes, felt out for his mind. There was aconfused murmur of thought, a random intrusion of impressions from thecity all around. It was hard, too hard. I had to sleep— I heard the snick of a revolver being cocked, and dropped flat as agout of flame stabbed toward me, the imperative Bam! echoing betweenthe cars. I caught the clear thought: God-awful looking, shaved head, arm stuck out; him all right— I reached out to his mind and struck at random. The light fell, wentout, and I heard the unconscious body slam to the ground like a poledsteer. It was easy—if I could only stay awake. I gritted my teeth, pulled myself into the car, crawled to a darkcorner behind a crate and slumped down. I tried to evoke a personalityfraction to set as a guard, a part of my mind to stay awake and warnme of danger. It was too much trouble. I relaxed and let it all slidedown into darkness. <doc-sep>The car swayed, click-clack, click-clack. I opened my eyes, saw yellowsunlight in a bar across the litter on the floor. The power trusscreaked, pulling at my arm. My broken leg was throbbing its indignationat the treatment it had received—walking brace and all—and the burnedarm was yelling aloud for more of that nice dope that had been keepingit from realizing how bad it was. All things considered, I felt like abadly embalmed mummy—except that I was hungry. I had been a fool notto fill my pockets when I left the escape capsule in the shallows offKey Largo, but things had been happening too fast. I had barely made it to the fishing boat, whose owner I had coercedinto rendezvousing with me before shells started dropping around us. Ifthe gunners on the cruiser ten miles away had had any luck, they wouldhave finished me—and the hapless fisherman—right then. We rode out acouple of near misses, before I put the cruiser's gunnery crew off theair. At a fishing camp on the beach, I found a car—with driver. He droppedme at the railyard, and drove off under the impression he was in townfor groceries. He'd never believe he'd seen me. Now I'd had my sleep. I had to start getting ready for the next act ofthe farce. I pressed the release on the power truss, gingerly unclamped it, thenrigged a sling from a strip of shirt tail. I tied the arm to my side asinconspicuously as possible. I didn't disturb the bandages. I needed new clothes—or at least different ones—and something tocover my shaved skull. I couldn't stay hidden forever. The yard cop hadrecognized me at a glance. I lay back, waiting for the train to slow for a town. I wasn't undulyworried—at the moment. The watchman probably hadn't convinced anyonehe'd actually seen me. Maybe he hadn't been too sure himself. The click-clack slowed and the train shuddered to a stop. I crept tothe door, peered through the crack. There were sunny fields, a few lowbuildings in the distance, the corner of a platform. I closed my eyesand let my awareness stretch out. — lousy job. What's the use? Little witch in the lunch room ... up inthe hills, squirrel hunting, bottle of whiskey.... I settled into control gently, trying not to alarm the man. I sawthrough his eyes the dusty box car, the rust on the tracks, thelistless weeds growing among cinders, and the weathered boards ofthe platform. I turned him, and saw the dingy glass of the telegraphwindow, a sagging screen door with a chipped enameled cola sign. I walked the man to the door, and through it. Behind a linoleum-toppedcounter, a coarse-skinned teen-age girl with heavy breasts and wetpatches under her arms looked up without interest as the door banged. My host went on to the counter, gestured toward the waxed-paper-wrappedsandwiches under a glass cover. I'll take 'em all. And candy bars, andcigarettes. And give me a big glass of water. Better git out there and look after yer train, the girl saidcarelessly. When'd you git so all-fired hungry all of a sudden? Put it in a bag. Quick. Look who's getting bossy— My host rounded the counter, picked up a used paper bag, began stuffingfood in it. The girl stared at him, then pushed him back. You git backaround that counter! She filled the bag, took a pencil from behind her ear. That'll be one eighty-five. Cash. My host took two dog-eared bills from his shirt pocket, dropped themon the counter and waited while the girl filled a glass. He picked itup and started out. Hey! Where you goin' with my glass? The trainman crossed the platform, headed for the boxcar. He slid theloose door back a few inches against the slack latch, pushed the baginside, placed the glass of water beside it, then pulled off his grimyrailroader's cap and pushed it through the opening. He turned. The girlwatched from the platform. A rattle passed down the line and the trainstarted up with a lurch. The man walked back toward the girl. I heardhim say: Friend o' mine in there—just passin' through. I was discovering that it wasn't necessary to hold tight control overevery move of a subject. Once given the impulse to act, he wouldrationalize his behavior, fill in the details—and never know that theoriginal idea hadn't been his own. I drank the water first, ate a sandwich, then lit a cigarette and layback. So far so good. The crates in the car were marked U. S. NavalAerospace Station, Bayou Le Cochon. With any luck I'd reach NewOrleans in another twelve hours. The first step of my plan included araid on the Delta National Labs; but that was tomorrow. That couldwait. <doc-sep>It was a little before dawn when I crawled out of the car at a sidingin the swampy country a few miles out of New Orleans. I wasn't feelinggood, but I had a stake in staying on my feet. I still had a few milesin me. I had my supplies—a few candy bars and some cigarettes—stuffedin the pockets of the tattered issue coverall. Otherwise, I wasunencumbered. Unless you wanted to count the walking brace on my rightleg and the sling binding my arm. I picked my way across mushy ground to a pot-holed black-top road,started limping toward a few car lights visible half a mile away. Itwas already hot. The swamp air was like warmed-over subway fumes.Through the drugs, I could feel my pulse throbbing in my variouswounds. I reached out and touched the driver's mind; he was thinkingabout shrimps, a fish-hook wound on his left thumb and a girl withblack hair. Want a lift? he called. I thanked him and got in. He gave me a glance and I pinched off hisbudding twinge of curiosity. It was almost an effort now not to followhis thoughts. It was as though my mind, having learned the trick ofcommunications with others, instinctively reached out toward them. An hour later he dropped me on a street corner in a shabby marketingdistrict of the city and drove off. I hoped he made out all right withthe dark-haired girl. I spotted a used-clothing store and headed for it. Twenty minutes later I was back on the sidewalk, dressed in apinkish-gray suit that had been cut a long time ago by a Latintailor—maybe to settle a grudge. The shirt that went with it wasan unsuccessful violet. The black string tie lent a dubious air ofdistinction. I'd swapped the railroader's cap for a tarnished beret.The man who had supplied the outfit was still asleep. I figuredI'd done him a favor by taking it. I couldn't hope to pass for afisherman—I wasn't the type. Maybe I'd get by as a coffee-housederelict. I walked past fly-covered fish stalls, racks of faded garments, grimyvegetables in bins, enough paint-flaked wrought iron to cage a herd ofbrontosauri, and fetched up at a cab stand. I picked a fat driver witha wart. How much to the Delta National Laboratories? He rolled an eye toward me, shifted his toothpick. What ya wanna go out there for? Nothing out there. I'm a tourist, I said. They told me before I left home not to missit. He grunted, reached back and opened the door. I got in. He flipped hisflag down, started up with a clash of gears and pulled out withoutlooking. How far is it? I asked him. It ain't far. Mile, mile and a quarter. Pretty big place, I guess. He didn't answer. We went through a warehousing district, swung left along thewaterfront, bumped over railroad tracks, and pulled up at a nine-footcyclone fence with a locked gate. A buck ten, my driver said. I looked out at the fence, a barren field, a distant group of lowbuildings. What's this? This is the place you ast for. That'll be a buck ten, mister. I touched his mind, planted a couple of false impressions and withdrew.He blinked, then started up, drove around the field, pulled up at anopen gate with a blue-uniformed guard. He looked back at me. You want I should drive in, sir? I'll get out here. He jumped out, opened my door, helped me out with a hand under my goodelbow. I'll get your change, sir, he said, reaching for his hip. Keep it. Thank YOU. He hesitated. Maybe I oughta stick around. You know. I'll be all right. I hope so, he said. A man like you—you and me— he winked. Afterall, we ain't both wearing berets fer nothing. True, I said. Consider your tip doubled. Now drive away into thesunrise and forget you ever saw me. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Why Does Kayle Not Allow Granthan to Re-enter Earth?

Kayle does not allow Granthan to re-enter Earth because he has a suspicion that Granthan might be under the control of the Gool. When Grantahn escaped the burning Belshazzar, he blacked out. He has no recollection of the incident. Granthan can also offer no explanation to Kayle as to why the ship was destroyed, or what happened to the rest of his crew. It is mysterious that Granthan was able to escape, especially while being so badly injured. Kayle believes that the Gool might have been the one to infiltrate Granthan's mind, and sabotage the mission, saving Granthan's life so he could return as a host to Earth. This would then allow the Gool to have a spy on Earth during the ongoing war. Even when Granthan tries to explain to Kayle that he has broken into a Gool's mind, and found data that would win them the war, Kayle is not convinced. He believes that the Gool will try anything to allow it's host to land. Kayle readies the missiles in the direction of Granthan's ship. While it is obvious that Kayle likes Granthan, and feels deep sympathy for him, he cannot take the risk of letting a Gool onto planet Earth. Even when Granthan manages to get past initial security on his descent, Kayle orders Granthan to stop. When Granthan lands on Earth, Kayle sends missiles to his location to take him out. Kayle can't let Granthan free on planet Earth, the risk would be too big in the war between mankind and the Gools.

How does Granthan learn, and use the Gool's mind control technique to his advantage? [SEP] <s> END AS A HERO By KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by SCHELLING [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Granthan's mission was the most vital of the war. It would mean instant victory—but for whom? I In the dream I was swimming in a river of white fire and the dream wenton and on. And then I was awake—and the fire was still there, fiercelyburning at me. I tried to move to get away from the flames, and then the real painhit me. I tried to go back to sleep and the relative comfort of theriver of fire, but it was no go. For better or worse, I was alive andconscious. I opened my eyes and took a look around. I was on the floor next toan unpadded acceleration couch—the kind the Terrestrial Space Arminstalls in seldom-used lifeboats. There were three more couches, butno one in them. I tried to sit up. It wasn't easy but, by applying alot more will-power than should be required of a sick man, I made it.I took a look at my left arm. Baked. The hand was only medium rare,but the forearm was black, with deep red showing at the bottom of thecracks where the crisped upper layers had burst.... There was a first-aid cabinet across the compartment from me. Itried my right leg, felt broken bone-ends grate with a sensationthat transcended pain. I heaved with the other leg, scrabbled withthe charred arm. The crawl to the cabinet dwarfed Hillary's trekup Everest, but I reached it after a couple of years, and found themicroswitch on the floor that activated the thing, and then I wasfading out again.... <doc-sep>I came out of it clear-headed but weak. My right leg was numb, butreasonably comfortable, clamped tight in a walking brace. I put upa hand and felt a shaved skull, with sutures. It must have been afracture. The left arm—well, it was still there, wrapped to theshoulder and held out stiffly by a power truss that would keep the scartissue from pulling up and crippling me. The steady pressure as thetruss contracted wasn't anything to do a sense-tape on for replaying atleisure moments, but at least the cabinet hadn't amputated. I wasn'tcomplaining. As far as I knew, I was the first recorded survivor of contact with theGool—if I survived. I was still a long way from home, and I hadn't yet checked on thecondition of the lifeboat. I glanced toward the entry port. It wasdogged shut. I could see black marks where my burned hand had been atwork. I fumbled my way into a couch and tried to think. In my condition—witha broken leg and third-degree burns, plus a fractured skull—Ishouldn't have been able to fall out of bed, much less make the tripfrom Belshazzar's CCC to the boat; and how had I managed to dog thatport shut? In an emergency a man was capable of great exertions. Butrunning on a broken femur, handling heavy levers with charred fingersand thinking with a cracked head were overdoing it. Still, I washere—and it was time to get a call through to TSA headquarters. I flipped the switch and gave the emergency call-letters Col. AusarKayle of Aerospace Intelligence had assigned to me a few weeks before.It was almost five minutes before the acknowledge came through fromthe Ganymede relay station, another ten minutes before Kayle's faceswam into view. Even through the blur of the screen I could see thehaggard look. Granthan! he burst out. Where are the others? What happened outthere? I turned him down to a mutter. Hold on, I said. I'll tell you. Recorders going? I didn't wait foran answer—not with a fifteen-minute transmission lag. I plowed on: Belshazzar was sabotaged. So was Gilgamesh —I think. I got out. Ilost a little skin, but the aid cabinet has the case in hand. Tell theMed people the drinks are on me. I finished talking and flopped back, waiting for Kayle's reply. On thescreen, his flickering image gazed back impatiently, looking as hostileas a swing-shift ward nurse. It would be half an hour before I wouldget his reaction to my report. I dozed off—and awoke with a start.Kayle was talking. —your report. I won't mince words. They're wondering at your role inthe disaster. How does it happen that you alone survived? How the hell do I know? I yelled—or croaked. But Kayle's voice wasdroning on: ... you Psychodynamics people have been telling me the Gool mayhave some kind of long-range telehypnotic ability that might make itpossible for them to subvert a loyal man without his knowledge. You'vetold me yourself that you blacked out during the attack—and came to onthe lifeboat, with no recollection of how you got there. This is war, Granthan. War against a vicious enemy who strike withoutwarning and without mercy. You were sent out to investigate thepossibility of—what's that term you use?—hyper-cortical invasion. Youknow better than most the risk I'd be running if you were allowed topass the patrol line. I'm sorry, Granthan. I can't let you land on Earth. I can't acceptthe risk. What do I do now? I stormed. Go into orbit and eat pills and hopeyou think of something? I need a doctor! Presently Kayle replied. Yes, he said. You'll have to enter aparking orbit. Perhaps there will be developments soon which will makeit possible to ... ah ... restudy the situation. He didn't meet myeye. I knew what he was thinking. He'd spare me the mental anguish ofknowing what was coming. I couldn't really blame him; he was doingwhat he thought was the right thing. And I'd have to go along andpretend—right up until the warheads struck—that I didn't know I'dbeen condemned to death. II I tried to gather my wits and think my way through the situation. Iwas alone and injured, aboard a lifeboat that would be the focus of aconverging flight of missiles as soon as I approached within batteryrange of Earth. I had gotten clear of the Gool, but I wouldn't survivemy next meeting with my own kind. They couldn't take the chance that Iwas acting under Gool orders. I wasn't, of course. I was still the same Peter Granthan,psychodynamicist, who had started out with Dayan's fleet six weeksearlier. The thoughts I was having weren't brilliant, but they weremine, all mine.... But how could I be sure of that? Maybe there was something in Kayle's suspicion. If the Gool were asskillful as we thought, they would have left no overt indications oftheir tampering—not at a conscious level. But this was where psychodynamics training came in. I had been reactinglike any scared casualty, aching to get home and lick his wounds. But Iwasn't just any casualty. I had been trained in the subtleties of themind—and I had been prepared for just such an attack. Now was the time to make use of that training. It had given me oneresource. I could unlock the memories of my subconscious—and see againwhat had happened. I lay back, cleared my mind of extraneous thoughts, and concentrated onthe trigger word that would key an auto-hypnotic sequence.... Sense impressions faded. I was alone in the nebulous emptiness of afirst-level trance. I keyed a second word, slipped below the mistysurface into a dreamworld of vague phantasmagoric figures milling intheir limbo of sub-conceptualization. I penetrated deeper, brokethrough into the vividly hallucinatory third level, where images ofmirror-bright immediacy clamored for attention. And deeper.... <doc-sep>The immense orderly confusion of the basic memory level lay beforeme. Abstracted from it, aloof and observant, the monitoringpersonality-fraction scanned the pattern, searching the polydimensionalcontinuum for evidence of an alien intrusion. And found it. As the eye instantaneously detects a flicker of motion amid an infinityof static detail, so my inner eye perceived the subtle traces of theprobing Gool mind, like a whispered touch deftly rearranging my buriedmotivations. I focused selectively, tuned to the recorded gestalt. It is a contact, Effulgent One! Softly, now! Nurture the spark well. It but trembles at thethreshold.... It is elusive, Master! It wriggles like a gorm-worm in the eatingtrough! A part of my mind watched as the memory unreeled. I listened to thevoices—yet not voices, merely the shape of concepts, indescribablyintricate. I saw how the decoy pseudo-personality which I hadconcretized for the purpose in a hundred training sessions had foughtagainst the intruding stimuli—then yielded under the relentless thrustof the alien probe. I watched as the Gool operator took over the motorcenters, caused me to crawl through the choking smoke of the devastatedcontrol compartment toward the escape hatch. Fire leaped up, blockingthe way. I went on, felt ghostly flames whipping at me—and then thehatch was open and I pulled myself through, forcing the broken leg.My blackened hand fumbled at the locking wheel. Then the blast asthe lifeboat leaped clear of the disintegrating dreadnought—and theworld-ending impact as I fell. At a level far below the conscious, the embattled pseudo-personalitylashed out again—fighting the invader. Almost it eluded me then, Effulgent Lord. Link with this lowly one! Impossible! Do you forget all my teachings? Cling, though you expendthe last filament of your life-force! Free from all distraction, at a level where comprehension and retentionare instantaneous and total, my monitoring basic personality fractionfollowed the skillful Gool mind as it engraved its commands deep inmy subconscious. Then the touch withdrew, erasing the scars of itspassage, to leave me unaware of its tampering—at a conscious level. Watching the Gool mind, I learned. The insinuating probe—a concept regarding which psychodynamicists hadtheorized—was no more than a pattern in emptiness.... But a pattern which I could duplicate, now that I had seen what hadbeen done to me. Hesitantly, I felt for the immaterial fabric of the continuum, warpingand manipulating it, copying the Gool probe. Like planes of paper-thincrystal, the polyfinite aspects of reality shifted into focus, aligningthemselves. Abruptly, a channel lay open. As easily as I would stretch out my handto pluck a moth from a night-flower, I reached across the unimaginablevoid—and sensed a pit blacker than the bottom floor of hell, and aglistening dark shape. There was a soundless shriek. Effulgence! It reached out—touchedme! <doc-sep>Using the technique I had grasped from the Gool itself, I struck,stifling the outcry, invaded the fetid blackness and grappled theobscene gelatinous immensity of the Gool spy as it spasmed in a frenzyof xenophobia—a ton of liver writhing at the bottom of a dark well. I clamped down control. The Gool mind folded in on itself, gibbering.Not pausing to rest, I followed up, probed along my channel of contact,tracing patterns, scanning the flaccid Gool mind.... I saw a world of yellow seas lapping at endless shores of mud. Therewas a fuming pit, where liquid sulphur bubbled up from some innersource, filling an immense natural basin. The Gool clustered at itsrim, feeding, each monstrous shape heaving against its neighbors for amore favorable position. I probed farther, saw the great cables of living nervous tissue thatlinked each eating organ with the brain-mass far underground. I tracedthe passages through which tendrils ran out to immense caverns wheresmaller creatures labored over strange devices. These, my host's memorytold me, were the young of the Gool. Here they built the fleets thatwould transport the spawn to the new worlds the Prime Overlord haddiscovered, worlds where food was free for the taking. Not sulphuralone, but potassium, calcium, iron and all the metals—richesbeyond belief in endless profusion. No longer would the Gool tribecluster—those who remained of a once-great race—at a single feedingtrough. They would spread out across a galaxy—and beyond. But not if I could help it. The Gool had evolved a plan—but they'd had a stroke of bad luck. In the past, they had managed to control a man here and there, amongthe fleets, far from home, but only at a superficial level. Enough,perhaps, to wreck a ship, but not the complete control needed to send aman back to Earth under Gool compulsion, to carry out complex sabotage. Then they had found me, alone, a sole survivor, free from the clutterof the other mind-fields. It had been their misfortune to pick apsychodynamicist. Instead of gaining a patient slave, they had openedthe fortress door to an unseen spy. Now that I was there, I would seewhat I could steal. A timeless time passed. I wandered among patterns of white light andwhite sound, plumbed the deepest recesses of hidden Gool thoughts,fared along strange ways examining the shapes and colors of theconcepts of an alien mind. I paused at last, scanning a multi-ordinal structure of pattern withinpattern; the diagrammed circuits of a strange machine. I followed through its logic-sequence; and, like a bomb-burst, itsmeaning exploded in my mind. From the vile nest deep under the dark surface of the Gool world inits lonely trans-Plutonian orbit, I had plucked the ultimate secret oftheir kind. Matter across space. <doc-sep>You've got to listen to me, Kayle, I shouted. I know you think I'ma Gool robot. But what I have is too big to let you blow it up withouta fight. Matter transmission! You know what that can mean to us. Theconcept is too complex to try to describe in words. You'll have to takemy word for it. I can build it, though, using standard components, plusan infinite-area antenna and a moebius-wound coil—and a few otherthings.... I harangued Kayle for a while, and then sweated out his answer. I wasgetting close now. If he couldn't see the beauty of my proposal, myscreens would start to register the radiation of warheads any time now. Kayle came back—and his answer boiled down to no. I tried to reason with him. I reminded him how I had readied myselffor the trip with sessions on the encephaloscope, setting up thecross-networks of conditioned defensive responses, the shunt circuitsto the decoy pseudo-personality, leaving my volitional ego free. Italked about subliminal hypnotics and the resilience quotient of theego-complex. I might have saved my breath. I don't understand that psychodynamics jargon, Granthan, he snapped.It smacks of mysticism. But I understand what the Gool have done toyou well enough. I'm sorry. I leaned back and chewed the inside of my lip and thought unkindthoughts about Colonel Ausar Kayle. Then I settled down to solve theproblem at hand. I keyed the chart file, flashed pages from the standard index on thereference screen, checking radar coverages, beacon ranges, monitorstations, controller fields. It looked as though a radar-negative boatthe size of mine might possibly get through the defensive net with adaring pilot, and as a condemned spy, I could afford to be daring. And I had a few ideas. III The shrilling of the proximity alarm blasted through the silence. For awild moment I thought Kayle had beaten me to the punch; then I realizedit was the routine DEW line patrol contact. Z four-oh-two, I am reading your IFF. Decelerate at 1.8 geepreparatory to picking up approach orbit.... The screen went on droning out instructions. I fed them into theautopilot, at the same time running over my approach plan. The scoutwas moving in closer. I licked dry lips. It was time to try. I closed my eyes, reached out—as the Gool mind had reached out tome—and felt the touch of a Signals Officer's mind, forty thousandmiles distant, aboard the patrol vessel. There was a brief flurry ofstruggle; then I dictated my instructions. The Signals Officer punchedkeys, spoke into his microphone: As you were, Z four-oh-two. Continue on present course. At Oh-nineteenseconds, pick up planetary for re-entry and let-down. I blanked out the man's recollection of what had happened, caught hisbelated puzzlement as I broke contact. But I was clear of the DEW linenow, rapidly approaching atmosphere. Z four-oh-two, the speaker crackled. This is planetary control. I ampicking you up on channel forty-three, for re-entry and let-down. There was a long pause. Then: Z four-oh-two, countermand DEW Line clearance! Repeat, clearancecountermanded! Emergency course change to standard hyperbolic codeninety-eight. Do not attempt re-entry. Repeat: do not attempt re-entry! It hadn't taken Kayle long to see that I'd gotten past the outer lineof defense. A few more minutes' grace would have helped. I'd play itdumb, and hope for a little luck. Planetary, Z four-oh-two here. Say, I'm afraid I missed part of that,fellows. I'm a little banged up—I guess I switched frequencies on you.What was that after 'pick up channel forty-three'...? Four-oh-two, sheer off there! You're not cleared for re-entry! Hey, you birds are mixed up, I protested. I'm cleared all the way. Ichecked in with DEW— It was time to disappear. I blanked off all transmission, hit thecontrols, following my evasive pattern. And again I reached out— A radar man at a site in the Pacific, fifteen thousand miles away, rosefrom his chair, crossed the darkened room and threw a switch. The radarscreens blanked off.... For an hour I rode the long orbit down, fending off attack afterattack. Then I was clear, skimming the surface of the ocean a few milessoutheast of Key West. The boat hit hard. I felt the floor rise up,over, buffeting me against the restraining harness. I hauled at the release lever, felt a long moment of giddydisorientation as the escape capsule separated from the sinkinglifeboat deep under the surface. Then my escape capsule was bobbing onthe water. I would have to risk calling Kayle now—but by voluntarily giving myposition away, I should convince him I was still on our side—and I wasbadly in need of a pick-up. I flipped the sending key. This is Z four-oh-two, I said. I have an urgent report for ColonelKayle of Aerospace Intelligence. Kayle's face appeared. Don't fight it, Granthan, he croaked. Youpenetrated the planetary defenses—God knows how. I— Later, I snapped. How about calling off your dogs now? And sendsomebody out here to pick me up, before I add sea-sickness to my othercomplaints. We have you pinpointed, Kayle cut in. It's no use fighting it,Granthan. <doc-sep>I felt cold sweat pop out on my forehead. You've got to listen,Kayle, I shouted. I suppose you've got missiles on the way already.Call them back! I have information that can win the war— I'm sorry, Granthan, Kayle said. It's too late—even if I couldtake the chance you were right. A different face appeared on the screen. Mr. Granthan, I am General Titus. On behalf of your country, andin the name of the President—who has been apprised of this tragicsituation—it is my privilege to inform you that you will be awardedthe Congressional Medal of Honor—posthumously—for your heroic effort.Although you failed, and have in fact been forced, against your will,to carry out the schemes of the inhuman enemy, this in no way detractsfrom your gallant attempt. Mr. Granthan, I salute you. The general's arm went up in a rigid gesture. Stow that, you pompous idiot! I barked. I'm no spy! Kayle was back, blanking out the startled face of the general. Goodbye, Granthan. Try to understand.... I flipped the switch, sat gripping the couch, my stomach rising witheach heave of the floating escape capsule. I had perhaps five minutes.The missiles would be from Canaveral. I closed my eyes, forced myself to relax, reached out.... I sensed the distant shore, the hot buzz of human minds at work in thecities. I followed the coastline, found the Missile Base, flickedthrough the cluster of minds. — missile on course; do right, baby. That's it, right in the slot. I fingered my way through the man's mind and found the control centers.He turned stiffly from the plotting board, tottered to a panel to slamhis hand against the destruct button. Men fell on him, dragged him back. — fool, why did you blow it? I dropped the contact, found another, who leaped to the panel,detonated the remainder of the flight of six missiles. Then I withdrew.I would have a few minutes' stay of execution now. I was ten miles from shore. The capsule had its own power plant. Istarted it up, switched on the external viewer. I saw dark sea, theglint of star-light on the choppy surface, in the distance a glow onthe horizon that would be Key West. I plugged the course into thepilot, then leaned back and felt outward with my mind for the nextattacker. IV It was dark in the trainyard. I moved along the tracks in a stumblingwalk. Just a few more minutes, I was telling myself. A few moreminutes and you can lie down ... rest.... The shadowed bulk of a box car loomed up, its open door a blackersquare. I leaned against the sill, breathing hard, then reached insidefor a grip with my good hand. Gravel scrunched nearby. The beam of a flashlight lanced out, slippedalong the weathered car, caught me. There was a startled exclamation.I ducked back, closed my eyes, felt out for his mind. There was aconfused murmur of thought, a random intrusion of impressions from thecity all around. It was hard, too hard. I had to sleep— I heard the snick of a revolver being cocked, and dropped flat as agout of flame stabbed toward me, the imperative Bam! echoing betweenthe cars. I caught the clear thought: God-awful looking, shaved head, arm stuck out; him all right— I reached out to his mind and struck at random. The light fell, wentout, and I heard the unconscious body slam to the ground like a poledsteer. It was easy—if I could only stay awake. I gritted my teeth, pulled myself into the car, crawled to a darkcorner behind a crate and slumped down. I tried to evoke a personalityfraction to set as a guard, a part of my mind to stay awake and warnme of danger. It was too much trouble. I relaxed and let it all slidedown into darkness. <doc-sep>The car swayed, click-clack, click-clack. I opened my eyes, saw yellowsunlight in a bar across the litter on the floor. The power trusscreaked, pulling at my arm. My broken leg was throbbing its indignationat the treatment it had received—walking brace and all—and the burnedarm was yelling aloud for more of that nice dope that had been keepingit from realizing how bad it was. All things considered, I felt like abadly embalmed mummy—except that I was hungry. I had been a fool notto fill my pockets when I left the escape capsule in the shallows offKey Largo, but things had been happening too fast. I had barely made it to the fishing boat, whose owner I had coercedinto rendezvousing with me before shells started dropping around us. Ifthe gunners on the cruiser ten miles away had had any luck, they wouldhave finished me—and the hapless fisherman—right then. We rode out acouple of near misses, before I put the cruiser's gunnery crew off theair. At a fishing camp on the beach, I found a car—with driver. He droppedme at the railyard, and drove off under the impression he was in townfor groceries. He'd never believe he'd seen me. Now I'd had my sleep. I had to start getting ready for the next act ofthe farce. I pressed the release on the power truss, gingerly unclamped it, thenrigged a sling from a strip of shirt tail. I tied the arm to my side asinconspicuously as possible. I didn't disturb the bandages. I needed new clothes—or at least different ones—and something tocover my shaved skull. I couldn't stay hidden forever. The yard cop hadrecognized me at a glance. I lay back, waiting for the train to slow for a town. I wasn't undulyworried—at the moment. The watchman probably hadn't convinced anyonehe'd actually seen me. Maybe he hadn't been too sure himself. The click-clack slowed and the train shuddered to a stop. I crept tothe door, peered through the crack. There were sunny fields, a few lowbuildings in the distance, the corner of a platform. I closed my eyesand let my awareness stretch out. — lousy job. What's the use? Little witch in the lunch room ... up inthe hills, squirrel hunting, bottle of whiskey.... I settled into control gently, trying not to alarm the man. I sawthrough his eyes the dusty box car, the rust on the tracks, thelistless weeds growing among cinders, and the weathered boards ofthe platform. I turned him, and saw the dingy glass of the telegraphwindow, a sagging screen door with a chipped enameled cola sign. I walked the man to the door, and through it. Behind a linoleum-toppedcounter, a coarse-skinned teen-age girl with heavy breasts and wetpatches under her arms looked up without interest as the door banged. My host went on to the counter, gestured toward the waxed-paper-wrappedsandwiches under a glass cover. I'll take 'em all. And candy bars, andcigarettes. And give me a big glass of water. Better git out there and look after yer train, the girl saidcarelessly. When'd you git so all-fired hungry all of a sudden? Put it in a bag. Quick. Look who's getting bossy— My host rounded the counter, picked up a used paper bag, began stuffingfood in it. The girl stared at him, then pushed him back. You git backaround that counter! She filled the bag, took a pencil from behind her ear. That'll be one eighty-five. Cash. My host took two dog-eared bills from his shirt pocket, dropped themon the counter and waited while the girl filled a glass. He picked itup and started out. Hey! Where you goin' with my glass? The trainman crossed the platform, headed for the boxcar. He slid theloose door back a few inches against the slack latch, pushed the baginside, placed the glass of water beside it, then pulled off his grimyrailroader's cap and pushed it through the opening. He turned. The girlwatched from the platform. A rattle passed down the line and the trainstarted up with a lurch. The man walked back toward the girl. I heardhim say: Friend o' mine in there—just passin' through. I was discovering that it wasn't necessary to hold tight control overevery move of a subject. Once given the impulse to act, he wouldrationalize his behavior, fill in the details—and never know that theoriginal idea hadn't been his own. I drank the water first, ate a sandwich, then lit a cigarette and layback. So far so good. The crates in the car were marked U. S. NavalAerospace Station, Bayou Le Cochon. With any luck I'd reach NewOrleans in another twelve hours. The first step of my plan included araid on the Delta National Labs; but that was tomorrow. That couldwait. <doc-sep>It was a little before dawn when I crawled out of the car at a sidingin the swampy country a few miles out of New Orleans. I wasn't feelinggood, but I had a stake in staying on my feet. I still had a few milesin me. I had my supplies—a few candy bars and some cigarettes—stuffedin the pockets of the tattered issue coverall. Otherwise, I wasunencumbered. Unless you wanted to count the walking brace on my rightleg and the sling binding my arm. I picked my way across mushy ground to a pot-holed black-top road,started limping toward a few car lights visible half a mile away. Itwas already hot. The swamp air was like warmed-over subway fumes.Through the drugs, I could feel my pulse throbbing in my variouswounds. I reached out and touched the driver's mind; he was thinkingabout shrimps, a fish-hook wound on his left thumb and a girl withblack hair. Want a lift? he called. I thanked him and got in. He gave me a glance and I pinched off hisbudding twinge of curiosity. It was almost an effort now not to followhis thoughts. It was as though my mind, having learned the trick ofcommunications with others, instinctively reached out toward them. An hour later he dropped me on a street corner in a shabby marketingdistrict of the city and drove off. I hoped he made out all right withthe dark-haired girl. I spotted a used-clothing store and headed for it. Twenty minutes later I was back on the sidewalk, dressed in apinkish-gray suit that had been cut a long time ago by a Latintailor—maybe to settle a grudge. The shirt that went with it wasan unsuccessful violet. The black string tie lent a dubious air ofdistinction. I'd swapped the railroader's cap for a tarnished beret.The man who had supplied the outfit was still asleep. I figuredI'd done him a favor by taking it. I couldn't hope to pass for afisherman—I wasn't the type. Maybe I'd get by as a coffee-housederelict. I walked past fly-covered fish stalls, racks of faded garments, grimyvegetables in bins, enough paint-flaked wrought iron to cage a herd ofbrontosauri, and fetched up at a cab stand. I picked a fat driver witha wart. How much to the Delta National Laboratories? He rolled an eye toward me, shifted his toothpick. What ya wanna go out there for? Nothing out there. I'm a tourist, I said. They told me before I left home not to missit. He grunted, reached back and opened the door. I got in. He flipped hisflag down, started up with a clash of gears and pulled out withoutlooking. How far is it? I asked him. It ain't far. Mile, mile and a quarter. Pretty big place, I guess. He didn't answer. We went through a warehousing district, swung left along thewaterfront, bumped over railroad tracks, and pulled up at a nine-footcyclone fence with a locked gate. A buck ten, my driver said. I looked out at the fence, a barren field, a distant group of lowbuildings. What's this? This is the place you ast for. That'll be a buck ten, mister. I touched his mind, planted a couple of false impressions and withdrew.He blinked, then started up, drove around the field, pulled up at anopen gate with a blue-uniformed guard. He looked back at me. You want I should drive in, sir? I'll get out here. He jumped out, opened my door, helped me out with a hand under my goodelbow. I'll get your change, sir, he said, reaching for his hip. Keep it. Thank YOU. He hesitated. Maybe I oughta stick around. You know. I'll be all right. I hope so, he said. A man like you—you and me— he winked. Afterall, we ain't both wearing berets fer nothing. True, I said. Consider your tip doubled. Now drive away into thesunrise and forget you ever saw me. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does Granthan learn, and use the Gool's mind control technique to his advantage?

While searching his mind, Granthan finds a Gool, using this technique on him. He watches as the Gool traces out the pattern in his subconscious, studies and remembers it. He uses this new found skill to infiltrate the Gool's mind. In it he sees the Gool's home world, along with the rest of its colony, and a piece of theory that could win the war for Earth. When Granthan returns to the physical world to share the good news with Kayle, he is dismissed, and sentenced to death. Granthan flies onto Earth, reaches out with his mind, finding a Signal Officer. He convinces the officer to let him pass. He then infiltrates the mind of a radar man, forcing him to switch off the radar screens. When Kayle decides to send a fleet of missiles to Granthan's location in the pacific, Granthan reaches out with his mind, finds two men working in the control centre, and forces them to hit the self-destruct button on the bombs, saving his life. To escape his life boat, Granthan coerces a fisherman into taking him onboard, where they narrowly miss bombs being dropped on them. He then forces a driver to take him into town, convincing him that he was going to buy groceries. Granthan arrives at the train yard and uses his new power to defeat a guard who recognises Granthan, with a gun cocked towards him. While the train is stopped, he orders a man to buy him food, water and cigarettes, which the man delivers to him. When his train arrives in New Orleans, he forces a driver to take him into town, quickly diminishing his curiosity. When the cab driver arrives at the laboratories, Granthan finally convinces the man to drive around the field, leading to an open gate, where Granthan exits the car.

What is the setting of the story? [SEP] <s> END AS A HERO By KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by SCHELLING [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Granthan's mission was the most vital of the war. It would mean instant victory—but for whom? I In the dream I was swimming in a river of white fire and the dream wenton and on. And then I was awake—and the fire was still there, fiercelyburning at me. I tried to move to get away from the flames, and then the real painhit me. I tried to go back to sleep and the relative comfort of theriver of fire, but it was no go. For better or worse, I was alive andconscious. I opened my eyes and took a look around. I was on the floor next toan unpadded acceleration couch—the kind the Terrestrial Space Arminstalls in seldom-used lifeboats. There were three more couches, butno one in them. I tried to sit up. It wasn't easy but, by applying alot more will-power than should be required of a sick man, I made it.I took a look at my left arm. Baked. The hand was only medium rare,but the forearm was black, with deep red showing at the bottom of thecracks where the crisped upper layers had burst.... There was a first-aid cabinet across the compartment from me. Itried my right leg, felt broken bone-ends grate with a sensationthat transcended pain. I heaved with the other leg, scrabbled withthe charred arm. The crawl to the cabinet dwarfed Hillary's trekup Everest, but I reached it after a couple of years, and found themicroswitch on the floor that activated the thing, and then I wasfading out again.... <doc-sep>I came out of it clear-headed but weak. My right leg was numb, butreasonably comfortable, clamped tight in a walking brace. I put upa hand and felt a shaved skull, with sutures. It must have been afracture. The left arm—well, it was still there, wrapped to theshoulder and held out stiffly by a power truss that would keep the scartissue from pulling up and crippling me. The steady pressure as thetruss contracted wasn't anything to do a sense-tape on for replaying atleisure moments, but at least the cabinet hadn't amputated. I wasn'tcomplaining. As far as I knew, I was the first recorded survivor of contact with theGool—if I survived. I was still a long way from home, and I hadn't yet checked on thecondition of the lifeboat. I glanced toward the entry port. It wasdogged shut. I could see black marks where my burned hand had been atwork. I fumbled my way into a couch and tried to think. In my condition—witha broken leg and third-degree burns, plus a fractured skull—Ishouldn't have been able to fall out of bed, much less make the tripfrom Belshazzar's CCC to the boat; and how had I managed to dog thatport shut? In an emergency a man was capable of great exertions. Butrunning on a broken femur, handling heavy levers with charred fingersand thinking with a cracked head were overdoing it. Still, I washere—and it was time to get a call through to TSA headquarters. I flipped the switch and gave the emergency call-letters Col. AusarKayle of Aerospace Intelligence had assigned to me a few weeks before.It was almost five minutes before the acknowledge came through fromthe Ganymede relay station, another ten minutes before Kayle's faceswam into view. Even through the blur of the screen I could see thehaggard look. Granthan! he burst out. Where are the others? What happened outthere? I turned him down to a mutter. Hold on, I said. I'll tell you. Recorders going? I didn't wait foran answer—not with a fifteen-minute transmission lag. I plowed on: Belshazzar was sabotaged. So was Gilgamesh —I think. I got out. Ilost a little skin, but the aid cabinet has the case in hand. Tell theMed people the drinks are on me. I finished talking and flopped back, waiting for Kayle's reply. On thescreen, his flickering image gazed back impatiently, looking as hostileas a swing-shift ward nurse. It would be half an hour before I wouldget his reaction to my report. I dozed off—and awoke with a start.Kayle was talking. —your report. I won't mince words. They're wondering at your role inthe disaster. How does it happen that you alone survived? How the hell do I know? I yelled—or croaked. But Kayle's voice wasdroning on: ... you Psychodynamics people have been telling me the Gool mayhave some kind of long-range telehypnotic ability that might make itpossible for them to subvert a loyal man without his knowledge. You'vetold me yourself that you blacked out during the attack—and came to onthe lifeboat, with no recollection of how you got there. This is war, Granthan. War against a vicious enemy who strike withoutwarning and without mercy. You were sent out to investigate thepossibility of—what's that term you use?—hyper-cortical invasion. Youknow better than most the risk I'd be running if you were allowed topass the patrol line. I'm sorry, Granthan. I can't let you land on Earth. I can't acceptthe risk. What do I do now? I stormed. Go into orbit and eat pills and hopeyou think of something? I need a doctor! Presently Kayle replied. Yes, he said. You'll have to enter aparking orbit. Perhaps there will be developments soon which will makeit possible to ... ah ... restudy the situation. He didn't meet myeye. I knew what he was thinking. He'd spare me the mental anguish ofknowing what was coming. I couldn't really blame him; he was doingwhat he thought was the right thing. And I'd have to go along andpretend—right up until the warheads struck—that I didn't know I'dbeen condemned to death. II I tried to gather my wits and think my way through the situation. Iwas alone and injured, aboard a lifeboat that would be the focus of aconverging flight of missiles as soon as I approached within batteryrange of Earth. I had gotten clear of the Gool, but I wouldn't survivemy next meeting with my own kind. They couldn't take the chance that Iwas acting under Gool orders. I wasn't, of course. I was still the same Peter Granthan,psychodynamicist, who had started out with Dayan's fleet six weeksearlier. The thoughts I was having weren't brilliant, but they weremine, all mine.... But how could I be sure of that? Maybe there was something in Kayle's suspicion. If the Gool were asskillful as we thought, they would have left no overt indications oftheir tampering—not at a conscious level. But this was where psychodynamics training came in. I had been reactinglike any scared casualty, aching to get home and lick his wounds. But Iwasn't just any casualty. I had been trained in the subtleties of themind—and I had been prepared for just such an attack. Now was the time to make use of that training. It had given me oneresource. I could unlock the memories of my subconscious—and see againwhat had happened. I lay back, cleared my mind of extraneous thoughts, and concentrated onthe trigger word that would key an auto-hypnotic sequence.... Sense impressions faded. I was alone in the nebulous emptiness of afirst-level trance. I keyed a second word, slipped below the mistysurface into a dreamworld of vague phantasmagoric figures milling intheir limbo of sub-conceptualization. I penetrated deeper, brokethrough into the vividly hallucinatory third level, where images ofmirror-bright immediacy clamored for attention. And deeper.... <doc-sep>The immense orderly confusion of the basic memory level lay beforeme. Abstracted from it, aloof and observant, the monitoringpersonality-fraction scanned the pattern, searching the polydimensionalcontinuum for evidence of an alien intrusion. And found it. As the eye instantaneously detects a flicker of motion amid an infinityof static detail, so my inner eye perceived the subtle traces of theprobing Gool mind, like a whispered touch deftly rearranging my buriedmotivations. I focused selectively, tuned to the recorded gestalt. It is a contact, Effulgent One! Softly, now! Nurture the spark well. It but trembles at thethreshold.... It is elusive, Master! It wriggles like a gorm-worm in the eatingtrough! A part of my mind watched as the memory unreeled. I listened to thevoices—yet not voices, merely the shape of concepts, indescribablyintricate. I saw how the decoy pseudo-personality which I hadconcretized for the purpose in a hundred training sessions had foughtagainst the intruding stimuli—then yielded under the relentless thrustof the alien probe. I watched as the Gool operator took over the motorcenters, caused me to crawl through the choking smoke of the devastatedcontrol compartment toward the escape hatch. Fire leaped up, blockingthe way. I went on, felt ghostly flames whipping at me—and then thehatch was open and I pulled myself through, forcing the broken leg.My blackened hand fumbled at the locking wheel. Then the blast asthe lifeboat leaped clear of the disintegrating dreadnought—and theworld-ending impact as I fell. At a level far below the conscious, the embattled pseudo-personalitylashed out again—fighting the invader. Almost it eluded me then, Effulgent Lord. Link with this lowly one! Impossible! Do you forget all my teachings? Cling, though you expendthe last filament of your life-force! Free from all distraction, at a level where comprehension and retentionare instantaneous and total, my monitoring basic personality fractionfollowed the skillful Gool mind as it engraved its commands deep inmy subconscious. Then the touch withdrew, erasing the scars of itspassage, to leave me unaware of its tampering—at a conscious level. Watching the Gool mind, I learned. The insinuating probe—a concept regarding which psychodynamicists hadtheorized—was no more than a pattern in emptiness.... But a pattern which I could duplicate, now that I had seen what hadbeen done to me. Hesitantly, I felt for the immaterial fabric of the continuum, warpingand manipulating it, copying the Gool probe. Like planes of paper-thincrystal, the polyfinite aspects of reality shifted into focus, aligningthemselves. Abruptly, a channel lay open. As easily as I would stretch out my handto pluck a moth from a night-flower, I reached across the unimaginablevoid—and sensed a pit blacker than the bottom floor of hell, and aglistening dark shape. There was a soundless shriek. Effulgence! It reached out—touchedme! <doc-sep>Using the technique I had grasped from the Gool itself, I struck,stifling the outcry, invaded the fetid blackness and grappled theobscene gelatinous immensity of the Gool spy as it spasmed in a frenzyof xenophobia—a ton of liver writhing at the bottom of a dark well. I clamped down control. The Gool mind folded in on itself, gibbering.Not pausing to rest, I followed up, probed along my channel of contact,tracing patterns, scanning the flaccid Gool mind.... I saw a world of yellow seas lapping at endless shores of mud. Therewas a fuming pit, where liquid sulphur bubbled up from some innersource, filling an immense natural basin. The Gool clustered at itsrim, feeding, each monstrous shape heaving against its neighbors for amore favorable position. I probed farther, saw the great cables of living nervous tissue thatlinked each eating organ with the brain-mass far underground. I tracedthe passages through which tendrils ran out to immense caverns wheresmaller creatures labored over strange devices. These, my host's memorytold me, were the young of the Gool. Here they built the fleets thatwould transport the spawn to the new worlds the Prime Overlord haddiscovered, worlds where food was free for the taking. Not sulphuralone, but potassium, calcium, iron and all the metals—richesbeyond belief in endless profusion. No longer would the Gool tribecluster—those who remained of a once-great race—at a single feedingtrough. They would spread out across a galaxy—and beyond. But not if I could help it. The Gool had evolved a plan—but they'd had a stroke of bad luck. In the past, they had managed to control a man here and there, amongthe fleets, far from home, but only at a superficial level. Enough,perhaps, to wreck a ship, but not the complete control needed to send aman back to Earth under Gool compulsion, to carry out complex sabotage. Then they had found me, alone, a sole survivor, free from the clutterof the other mind-fields. It had been their misfortune to pick apsychodynamicist. Instead of gaining a patient slave, they had openedthe fortress door to an unseen spy. Now that I was there, I would seewhat I could steal. A timeless time passed. I wandered among patterns of white light andwhite sound, plumbed the deepest recesses of hidden Gool thoughts,fared along strange ways examining the shapes and colors of theconcepts of an alien mind. I paused at last, scanning a multi-ordinal structure of pattern withinpattern; the diagrammed circuits of a strange machine. I followed through its logic-sequence; and, like a bomb-burst, itsmeaning exploded in my mind. From the vile nest deep under the dark surface of the Gool world inits lonely trans-Plutonian orbit, I had plucked the ultimate secret oftheir kind. Matter across space. <doc-sep>You've got to listen to me, Kayle, I shouted. I know you think I'ma Gool robot. But what I have is too big to let you blow it up withouta fight. Matter transmission! You know what that can mean to us. Theconcept is too complex to try to describe in words. You'll have to takemy word for it. I can build it, though, using standard components, plusan infinite-area antenna and a moebius-wound coil—and a few otherthings.... I harangued Kayle for a while, and then sweated out his answer. I wasgetting close now. If he couldn't see the beauty of my proposal, myscreens would start to register the radiation of warheads any time now. Kayle came back—and his answer boiled down to no. I tried to reason with him. I reminded him how I had readied myselffor the trip with sessions on the encephaloscope, setting up thecross-networks of conditioned defensive responses, the shunt circuitsto the decoy pseudo-personality, leaving my volitional ego free. Italked about subliminal hypnotics and the resilience quotient of theego-complex. I might have saved my breath. I don't understand that psychodynamics jargon, Granthan, he snapped.It smacks of mysticism. But I understand what the Gool have done toyou well enough. I'm sorry. I leaned back and chewed the inside of my lip and thought unkindthoughts about Colonel Ausar Kayle. Then I settled down to solve theproblem at hand. I keyed the chart file, flashed pages from the standard index on thereference screen, checking radar coverages, beacon ranges, monitorstations, controller fields. It looked as though a radar-negative boatthe size of mine might possibly get through the defensive net with adaring pilot, and as a condemned spy, I could afford to be daring. And I had a few ideas. III The shrilling of the proximity alarm blasted through the silence. For awild moment I thought Kayle had beaten me to the punch; then I realizedit was the routine DEW line patrol contact. Z four-oh-two, I am reading your IFF. Decelerate at 1.8 geepreparatory to picking up approach orbit.... The screen went on droning out instructions. I fed them into theautopilot, at the same time running over my approach plan. The scoutwas moving in closer. I licked dry lips. It was time to try. I closed my eyes, reached out—as the Gool mind had reached out tome—and felt the touch of a Signals Officer's mind, forty thousandmiles distant, aboard the patrol vessel. There was a brief flurry ofstruggle; then I dictated my instructions. The Signals Officer punchedkeys, spoke into his microphone: As you were, Z four-oh-two. Continue on present course. At Oh-nineteenseconds, pick up planetary for re-entry and let-down. I blanked out the man's recollection of what had happened, caught hisbelated puzzlement as I broke contact. But I was clear of the DEW linenow, rapidly approaching atmosphere. Z four-oh-two, the speaker crackled. This is planetary control. I ampicking you up on channel forty-three, for re-entry and let-down. There was a long pause. Then: Z four-oh-two, countermand DEW Line clearance! Repeat, clearancecountermanded! Emergency course change to standard hyperbolic codeninety-eight. Do not attempt re-entry. Repeat: do not attempt re-entry! It hadn't taken Kayle long to see that I'd gotten past the outer lineof defense. A few more minutes' grace would have helped. I'd play itdumb, and hope for a little luck. Planetary, Z four-oh-two here. Say, I'm afraid I missed part of that,fellows. I'm a little banged up—I guess I switched frequencies on you.What was that after 'pick up channel forty-three'...? Four-oh-two, sheer off there! You're not cleared for re-entry! Hey, you birds are mixed up, I protested. I'm cleared all the way. Ichecked in with DEW— It was time to disappear. I blanked off all transmission, hit thecontrols, following my evasive pattern. And again I reached out— A radar man at a site in the Pacific, fifteen thousand miles away, rosefrom his chair, crossed the darkened room and threw a switch. The radarscreens blanked off.... For an hour I rode the long orbit down, fending off attack afterattack. Then I was clear, skimming the surface of the ocean a few milessoutheast of Key West. The boat hit hard. I felt the floor rise up,over, buffeting me against the restraining harness. I hauled at the release lever, felt a long moment of giddydisorientation as the escape capsule separated from the sinkinglifeboat deep under the surface. Then my escape capsule was bobbing onthe water. I would have to risk calling Kayle now—but by voluntarily giving myposition away, I should convince him I was still on our side—and I wasbadly in need of a pick-up. I flipped the sending key. This is Z four-oh-two, I said. I have an urgent report for ColonelKayle of Aerospace Intelligence. Kayle's face appeared. Don't fight it, Granthan, he croaked. Youpenetrated the planetary defenses—God knows how. I— Later, I snapped. How about calling off your dogs now? And sendsomebody out here to pick me up, before I add sea-sickness to my othercomplaints. We have you pinpointed, Kayle cut in. It's no use fighting it,Granthan. <doc-sep>I felt cold sweat pop out on my forehead. You've got to listen,Kayle, I shouted. I suppose you've got missiles on the way already.Call them back! I have information that can win the war— I'm sorry, Granthan, Kayle said. It's too late—even if I couldtake the chance you were right. A different face appeared on the screen. Mr. Granthan, I am General Titus. On behalf of your country, andin the name of the President—who has been apprised of this tragicsituation—it is my privilege to inform you that you will be awardedthe Congressional Medal of Honor—posthumously—for your heroic effort.Although you failed, and have in fact been forced, against your will,to carry out the schemes of the inhuman enemy, this in no way detractsfrom your gallant attempt. Mr. Granthan, I salute you. The general's arm went up in a rigid gesture. Stow that, you pompous idiot! I barked. I'm no spy! Kayle was back, blanking out the startled face of the general. Goodbye, Granthan. Try to understand.... I flipped the switch, sat gripping the couch, my stomach rising witheach heave of the floating escape capsule. I had perhaps five minutes.The missiles would be from Canaveral. I closed my eyes, forced myself to relax, reached out.... I sensed the distant shore, the hot buzz of human minds at work in thecities. I followed the coastline, found the Missile Base, flickedthrough the cluster of minds. — missile on course; do right, baby. That's it, right in the slot. I fingered my way through the man's mind and found the control centers.He turned stiffly from the plotting board, tottered to a panel to slamhis hand against the destruct button. Men fell on him, dragged him back. — fool, why did you blow it? I dropped the contact, found another, who leaped to the panel,detonated the remainder of the flight of six missiles. Then I withdrew.I would have a few minutes' stay of execution now. I was ten miles from shore. The capsule had its own power plant. Istarted it up, switched on the external viewer. I saw dark sea, theglint of star-light on the choppy surface, in the distance a glow onthe horizon that would be Key West. I plugged the course into thepilot, then leaned back and felt outward with my mind for the nextattacker. IV It was dark in the trainyard. I moved along the tracks in a stumblingwalk. Just a few more minutes, I was telling myself. A few moreminutes and you can lie down ... rest.... The shadowed bulk of a box car loomed up, its open door a blackersquare. I leaned against the sill, breathing hard, then reached insidefor a grip with my good hand. Gravel scrunched nearby. The beam of a flashlight lanced out, slippedalong the weathered car, caught me. There was a startled exclamation.I ducked back, closed my eyes, felt out for his mind. There was aconfused murmur of thought, a random intrusion of impressions from thecity all around. It was hard, too hard. I had to sleep— I heard the snick of a revolver being cocked, and dropped flat as agout of flame stabbed toward me, the imperative Bam! echoing betweenthe cars. I caught the clear thought: God-awful looking, shaved head, arm stuck out; him all right— I reached out to his mind and struck at random. The light fell, wentout, and I heard the unconscious body slam to the ground like a poledsteer. It was easy—if I could only stay awake. I gritted my teeth, pulled myself into the car, crawled to a darkcorner behind a crate and slumped down. I tried to evoke a personalityfraction to set as a guard, a part of my mind to stay awake and warnme of danger. It was too much trouble. I relaxed and let it all slidedown into darkness. <doc-sep>The car swayed, click-clack, click-clack. I opened my eyes, saw yellowsunlight in a bar across the litter on the floor. The power trusscreaked, pulling at my arm. My broken leg was throbbing its indignationat the treatment it had received—walking brace and all—and the burnedarm was yelling aloud for more of that nice dope that had been keepingit from realizing how bad it was. All things considered, I felt like abadly embalmed mummy—except that I was hungry. I had been a fool notto fill my pockets when I left the escape capsule in the shallows offKey Largo, but things had been happening too fast. I had barely made it to the fishing boat, whose owner I had coercedinto rendezvousing with me before shells started dropping around us. Ifthe gunners on the cruiser ten miles away had had any luck, they wouldhave finished me—and the hapless fisherman—right then. We rode out acouple of near misses, before I put the cruiser's gunnery crew off theair. At a fishing camp on the beach, I found a car—with driver. He droppedme at the railyard, and drove off under the impression he was in townfor groceries. He'd never believe he'd seen me. Now I'd had my sleep. I had to start getting ready for the next act ofthe farce. I pressed the release on the power truss, gingerly unclamped it, thenrigged a sling from a strip of shirt tail. I tied the arm to my side asinconspicuously as possible. I didn't disturb the bandages. I needed new clothes—or at least different ones—and something tocover my shaved skull. I couldn't stay hidden forever. The yard cop hadrecognized me at a glance. I lay back, waiting for the train to slow for a town. I wasn't undulyworried—at the moment. The watchman probably hadn't convinced anyonehe'd actually seen me. Maybe he hadn't been too sure himself. The click-clack slowed and the train shuddered to a stop. I crept tothe door, peered through the crack. There were sunny fields, a few lowbuildings in the distance, the corner of a platform. I closed my eyesand let my awareness stretch out. — lousy job. What's the use? Little witch in the lunch room ... up inthe hills, squirrel hunting, bottle of whiskey.... I settled into control gently, trying not to alarm the man. I sawthrough his eyes the dusty box car, the rust on the tracks, thelistless weeds growing among cinders, and the weathered boards ofthe platform. I turned him, and saw the dingy glass of the telegraphwindow, a sagging screen door with a chipped enameled cola sign. I walked the man to the door, and through it. Behind a linoleum-toppedcounter, a coarse-skinned teen-age girl with heavy breasts and wetpatches under her arms looked up without interest as the door banged. My host went on to the counter, gestured toward the waxed-paper-wrappedsandwiches under a glass cover. I'll take 'em all. And candy bars, andcigarettes. And give me a big glass of water. Better git out there and look after yer train, the girl saidcarelessly. When'd you git so all-fired hungry all of a sudden? Put it in a bag. Quick. Look who's getting bossy— My host rounded the counter, picked up a used paper bag, began stuffingfood in it. The girl stared at him, then pushed him back. You git backaround that counter! She filled the bag, took a pencil from behind her ear. That'll be one eighty-five. Cash. My host took two dog-eared bills from his shirt pocket, dropped themon the counter and waited while the girl filled a glass. He picked itup and started out. Hey! Where you goin' with my glass? The trainman crossed the platform, headed for the boxcar. He slid theloose door back a few inches against the slack latch, pushed the baginside, placed the glass of water beside it, then pulled off his grimyrailroader's cap and pushed it through the opening. He turned. The girlwatched from the platform. A rattle passed down the line and the trainstarted up with a lurch. The man walked back toward the girl. I heardhim say: Friend o' mine in there—just passin' through. I was discovering that it wasn't necessary to hold tight control overevery move of a subject. Once given the impulse to act, he wouldrationalize his behavior, fill in the details—and never know that theoriginal idea hadn't been his own. I drank the water first, ate a sandwich, then lit a cigarette and layback. So far so good. The crates in the car were marked U. S. NavalAerospace Station, Bayou Le Cochon. With any luck I'd reach NewOrleans in another twelve hours. The first step of my plan included araid on the Delta National Labs; but that was tomorrow. That couldwait. <doc-sep>It was a little before dawn when I crawled out of the car at a sidingin the swampy country a few miles out of New Orleans. I wasn't feelinggood, but I had a stake in staying on my feet. I still had a few milesin me. I had my supplies—a few candy bars and some cigarettes—stuffedin the pockets of the tattered issue coverall. Otherwise, I wasunencumbered. Unless you wanted to count the walking brace on my rightleg and the sling binding my arm. I picked my way across mushy ground to a pot-holed black-top road,started limping toward a few car lights visible half a mile away. Itwas already hot. The swamp air was like warmed-over subway fumes.Through the drugs, I could feel my pulse throbbing in my variouswounds. I reached out and touched the driver's mind; he was thinkingabout shrimps, a fish-hook wound on his left thumb and a girl withblack hair. Want a lift? he called. I thanked him and got in. He gave me a glance and I pinched off hisbudding twinge of curiosity. It was almost an effort now not to followhis thoughts. It was as though my mind, having learned the trick ofcommunications with others, instinctively reached out toward them. An hour later he dropped me on a street corner in a shabby marketingdistrict of the city and drove off. I hoped he made out all right withthe dark-haired girl. I spotted a used-clothing store and headed for it. Twenty minutes later I was back on the sidewalk, dressed in apinkish-gray suit that had been cut a long time ago by a Latintailor—maybe to settle a grudge. The shirt that went with it wasan unsuccessful violet. The black string tie lent a dubious air ofdistinction. I'd swapped the railroader's cap for a tarnished beret.The man who had supplied the outfit was still asleep. I figuredI'd done him a favor by taking it. I couldn't hope to pass for afisherman—I wasn't the type. Maybe I'd get by as a coffee-housederelict. I walked past fly-covered fish stalls, racks of faded garments, grimyvegetables in bins, enough paint-flaked wrought iron to cage a herd ofbrontosauri, and fetched up at a cab stand. I picked a fat driver witha wart. How much to the Delta National Laboratories? He rolled an eye toward me, shifted his toothpick. What ya wanna go out there for? Nothing out there. I'm a tourist, I said. They told me before I left home not to missit. He grunted, reached back and opened the door. I got in. He flipped hisflag down, started up with a clash of gears and pulled out withoutlooking. How far is it? I asked him. It ain't far. Mile, mile and a quarter. Pretty big place, I guess. He didn't answer. We went through a warehousing district, swung left along thewaterfront, bumped over railroad tracks, and pulled up at a nine-footcyclone fence with a locked gate. A buck ten, my driver said. I looked out at the fence, a barren field, a distant group of lowbuildings. What's this? This is the place you ast for. That'll be a buck ten, mister. I touched his mind, planted a couple of false impressions and withdrew.He blinked, then started up, drove around the field, pulled up at anopen gate with a blue-uniformed guard. He looked back at me. You want I should drive in, sir? I'll get out here. He jumped out, opened my door, helped me out with a hand under my goodelbow. I'll get your change, sir, he said, reaching for his hip. Keep it. Thank YOU. He hesitated. Maybe I oughta stick around. You know. I'll be all right. I hope so, he said. A man like you—you and me— he winked. Afterall, we ain't both wearing berets fer nothing. True, I said. Consider your tip doubled. Now drive away into thesunrise and forget you ever saw me. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting of the story?

The setting of this story changes as the plot develops. When we first meet Peter Granthan, he is onboard a lifeboat, which is fleeing the now destroyed starship "Belshazzar". He travels within range of planet Earth, where, onboard the lifeboat, he dives into his mind. He enters the setting of his subconscious, which is stark and expansive. Granthan travels through the Gool's mind to its home world. It is described as being filled with yellow seas, reaching out to "endless shores of mud". There are great pits, rising with steam, in which the gools feed. Each cable underground connects to a massive brain, which controls the species. After Granthan's trip to the Alien planet, he lands on Earth, in the Pacific ocean, just outside of Key West. He then moves onto a train yard, where he boards a train. The train stops in a rural area, where, using a host, Granthan goes into a local shop to buy food. He travels to New Orleans, where he arrives the next day. The area is swampy. He forces a driver to take him to a shappy, run down corner of the city, where he goes into a second hand clothes shop. Granthan then makes his way to the Delta National Laboratories, surrounded by a large field. He moves around the field in his taxi, before arriving at open gates to the Labs.

Who are the Gool, and what do they want? [SEP] <s> END AS A HERO By KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by SCHELLING [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Granthan's mission was the most vital of the war. It would mean instant victory—but for whom? I In the dream I was swimming in a river of white fire and the dream wenton and on. And then I was awake—and the fire was still there, fiercelyburning at me. I tried to move to get away from the flames, and then the real painhit me. I tried to go back to sleep and the relative comfort of theriver of fire, but it was no go. For better or worse, I was alive andconscious. I opened my eyes and took a look around. I was on the floor next toan unpadded acceleration couch—the kind the Terrestrial Space Arminstalls in seldom-used lifeboats. There were three more couches, butno one in them. I tried to sit up. It wasn't easy but, by applying alot more will-power than should be required of a sick man, I made it.I took a look at my left arm. Baked. The hand was only medium rare,but the forearm was black, with deep red showing at the bottom of thecracks where the crisped upper layers had burst.... There was a first-aid cabinet across the compartment from me. Itried my right leg, felt broken bone-ends grate with a sensationthat transcended pain. I heaved with the other leg, scrabbled withthe charred arm. The crawl to the cabinet dwarfed Hillary's trekup Everest, but I reached it after a couple of years, and found themicroswitch on the floor that activated the thing, and then I wasfading out again.... <doc-sep>I came out of it clear-headed but weak. My right leg was numb, butreasonably comfortable, clamped tight in a walking brace. I put upa hand and felt a shaved skull, with sutures. It must have been afracture. The left arm—well, it was still there, wrapped to theshoulder and held out stiffly by a power truss that would keep the scartissue from pulling up and crippling me. The steady pressure as thetruss contracted wasn't anything to do a sense-tape on for replaying atleisure moments, but at least the cabinet hadn't amputated. I wasn'tcomplaining. As far as I knew, I was the first recorded survivor of contact with theGool—if I survived. I was still a long way from home, and I hadn't yet checked on thecondition of the lifeboat. I glanced toward the entry port. It wasdogged shut. I could see black marks where my burned hand had been atwork. I fumbled my way into a couch and tried to think. In my condition—witha broken leg and third-degree burns, plus a fractured skull—Ishouldn't have been able to fall out of bed, much less make the tripfrom Belshazzar's CCC to the boat; and how had I managed to dog thatport shut? In an emergency a man was capable of great exertions. Butrunning on a broken femur, handling heavy levers with charred fingersand thinking with a cracked head were overdoing it. Still, I washere—and it was time to get a call through to TSA headquarters. I flipped the switch and gave the emergency call-letters Col. AusarKayle of Aerospace Intelligence had assigned to me a few weeks before.It was almost five minutes before the acknowledge came through fromthe Ganymede relay station, another ten minutes before Kayle's faceswam into view. Even through the blur of the screen I could see thehaggard look. Granthan! he burst out. Where are the others? What happened outthere? I turned him down to a mutter. Hold on, I said. I'll tell you. Recorders going? I didn't wait foran answer—not with a fifteen-minute transmission lag. I plowed on: Belshazzar was sabotaged. So was Gilgamesh —I think. I got out. Ilost a little skin, but the aid cabinet has the case in hand. Tell theMed people the drinks are on me. I finished talking and flopped back, waiting for Kayle's reply. On thescreen, his flickering image gazed back impatiently, looking as hostileas a swing-shift ward nurse. It would be half an hour before I wouldget his reaction to my report. I dozed off—and awoke with a start.Kayle was talking. —your report. I won't mince words. They're wondering at your role inthe disaster. How does it happen that you alone survived? How the hell do I know? I yelled—or croaked. But Kayle's voice wasdroning on: ... you Psychodynamics people have been telling me the Gool mayhave some kind of long-range telehypnotic ability that might make itpossible for them to subvert a loyal man without his knowledge. You'vetold me yourself that you blacked out during the attack—and came to onthe lifeboat, with no recollection of how you got there. This is war, Granthan. War against a vicious enemy who strike withoutwarning and without mercy. You were sent out to investigate thepossibility of—what's that term you use?—hyper-cortical invasion. Youknow better than most the risk I'd be running if you were allowed topass the patrol line. I'm sorry, Granthan. I can't let you land on Earth. I can't acceptthe risk. What do I do now? I stormed. Go into orbit and eat pills and hopeyou think of something? I need a doctor! Presently Kayle replied. Yes, he said. You'll have to enter aparking orbit. Perhaps there will be developments soon which will makeit possible to ... ah ... restudy the situation. He didn't meet myeye. I knew what he was thinking. He'd spare me the mental anguish ofknowing what was coming. I couldn't really blame him; he was doingwhat he thought was the right thing. And I'd have to go along andpretend—right up until the warheads struck—that I didn't know I'dbeen condemned to death. II I tried to gather my wits and think my way through the situation. Iwas alone and injured, aboard a lifeboat that would be the focus of aconverging flight of missiles as soon as I approached within batteryrange of Earth. I had gotten clear of the Gool, but I wouldn't survivemy next meeting with my own kind. They couldn't take the chance that Iwas acting under Gool orders. I wasn't, of course. I was still the same Peter Granthan,psychodynamicist, who had started out with Dayan's fleet six weeksearlier. The thoughts I was having weren't brilliant, but they weremine, all mine.... But how could I be sure of that? Maybe there was something in Kayle's suspicion. If the Gool were asskillful as we thought, they would have left no overt indications oftheir tampering—not at a conscious level. But this was where psychodynamics training came in. I had been reactinglike any scared casualty, aching to get home and lick his wounds. But Iwasn't just any casualty. I had been trained in the subtleties of themind—and I had been prepared for just such an attack. Now was the time to make use of that training. It had given me oneresource. I could unlock the memories of my subconscious—and see againwhat had happened. I lay back, cleared my mind of extraneous thoughts, and concentrated onthe trigger word that would key an auto-hypnotic sequence.... Sense impressions faded. I was alone in the nebulous emptiness of afirst-level trance. I keyed a second word, slipped below the mistysurface into a dreamworld of vague phantasmagoric figures milling intheir limbo of sub-conceptualization. I penetrated deeper, brokethrough into the vividly hallucinatory third level, where images ofmirror-bright immediacy clamored for attention. And deeper.... <doc-sep>The immense orderly confusion of the basic memory level lay beforeme. Abstracted from it, aloof and observant, the monitoringpersonality-fraction scanned the pattern, searching the polydimensionalcontinuum for evidence of an alien intrusion. And found it. As the eye instantaneously detects a flicker of motion amid an infinityof static detail, so my inner eye perceived the subtle traces of theprobing Gool mind, like a whispered touch deftly rearranging my buriedmotivations. I focused selectively, tuned to the recorded gestalt. It is a contact, Effulgent One! Softly, now! Nurture the spark well. It but trembles at thethreshold.... It is elusive, Master! It wriggles like a gorm-worm in the eatingtrough! A part of my mind watched as the memory unreeled. I listened to thevoices—yet not voices, merely the shape of concepts, indescribablyintricate. I saw how the decoy pseudo-personality which I hadconcretized for the purpose in a hundred training sessions had foughtagainst the intruding stimuli—then yielded under the relentless thrustof the alien probe. I watched as the Gool operator took over the motorcenters, caused me to crawl through the choking smoke of the devastatedcontrol compartment toward the escape hatch. Fire leaped up, blockingthe way. I went on, felt ghostly flames whipping at me—and then thehatch was open and I pulled myself through, forcing the broken leg.My blackened hand fumbled at the locking wheel. Then the blast asthe lifeboat leaped clear of the disintegrating dreadnought—and theworld-ending impact as I fell. At a level far below the conscious, the embattled pseudo-personalitylashed out again—fighting the invader. Almost it eluded me then, Effulgent Lord. Link with this lowly one! Impossible! Do you forget all my teachings? Cling, though you expendthe last filament of your life-force! Free from all distraction, at a level where comprehension and retentionare instantaneous and total, my monitoring basic personality fractionfollowed the skillful Gool mind as it engraved its commands deep inmy subconscious. Then the touch withdrew, erasing the scars of itspassage, to leave me unaware of its tampering—at a conscious level. Watching the Gool mind, I learned. The insinuating probe—a concept regarding which psychodynamicists hadtheorized—was no more than a pattern in emptiness.... But a pattern which I could duplicate, now that I had seen what hadbeen done to me. Hesitantly, I felt for the immaterial fabric of the continuum, warpingand manipulating it, copying the Gool probe. Like planes of paper-thincrystal, the polyfinite aspects of reality shifted into focus, aligningthemselves. Abruptly, a channel lay open. As easily as I would stretch out my handto pluck a moth from a night-flower, I reached across the unimaginablevoid—and sensed a pit blacker than the bottom floor of hell, and aglistening dark shape. There was a soundless shriek. Effulgence! It reached out—touchedme! <doc-sep>Using the technique I had grasped from the Gool itself, I struck,stifling the outcry, invaded the fetid blackness and grappled theobscene gelatinous immensity of the Gool spy as it spasmed in a frenzyof xenophobia—a ton of liver writhing at the bottom of a dark well. I clamped down control. The Gool mind folded in on itself, gibbering.Not pausing to rest, I followed up, probed along my channel of contact,tracing patterns, scanning the flaccid Gool mind.... I saw a world of yellow seas lapping at endless shores of mud. Therewas a fuming pit, where liquid sulphur bubbled up from some innersource, filling an immense natural basin. The Gool clustered at itsrim, feeding, each monstrous shape heaving against its neighbors for amore favorable position. I probed farther, saw the great cables of living nervous tissue thatlinked each eating organ with the brain-mass far underground. I tracedthe passages through which tendrils ran out to immense caverns wheresmaller creatures labored over strange devices. These, my host's memorytold me, were the young of the Gool. Here they built the fleets thatwould transport the spawn to the new worlds the Prime Overlord haddiscovered, worlds where food was free for the taking. Not sulphuralone, but potassium, calcium, iron and all the metals—richesbeyond belief in endless profusion. No longer would the Gool tribecluster—those who remained of a once-great race—at a single feedingtrough. They would spread out across a galaxy—and beyond. But not if I could help it. The Gool had evolved a plan—but they'd had a stroke of bad luck. In the past, they had managed to control a man here and there, amongthe fleets, far from home, but only at a superficial level. Enough,perhaps, to wreck a ship, but not the complete control needed to send aman back to Earth under Gool compulsion, to carry out complex sabotage. Then they had found me, alone, a sole survivor, free from the clutterof the other mind-fields. It had been their misfortune to pick apsychodynamicist. Instead of gaining a patient slave, they had openedthe fortress door to an unseen spy. Now that I was there, I would seewhat I could steal. A timeless time passed. I wandered among patterns of white light andwhite sound, plumbed the deepest recesses of hidden Gool thoughts,fared along strange ways examining the shapes and colors of theconcepts of an alien mind. I paused at last, scanning a multi-ordinal structure of pattern withinpattern; the diagrammed circuits of a strange machine. I followed through its logic-sequence; and, like a bomb-burst, itsmeaning exploded in my mind. From the vile nest deep under the dark surface of the Gool world inits lonely trans-Plutonian orbit, I had plucked the ultimate secret oftheir kind. Matter across space. <doc-sep>You've got to listen to me, Kayle, I shouted. I know you think I'ma Gool robot. But what I have is too big to let you blow it up withouta fight. Matter transmission! You know what that can mean to us. Theconcept is too complex to try to describe in words. You'll have to takemy word for it. I can build it, though, using standard components, plusan infinite-area antenna and a moebius-wound coil—and a few otherthings.... I harangued Kayle for a while, and then sweated out his answer. I wasgetting close now. If he couldn't see the beauty of my proposal, myscreens would start to register the radiation of warheads any time now. Kayle came back—and his answer boiled down to no. I tried to reason with him. I reminded him how I had readied myselffor the trip with sessions on the encephaloscope, setting up thecross-networks of conditioned defensive responses, the shunt circuitsto the decoy pseudo-personality, leaving my volitional ego free. Italked about subliminal hypnotics and the resilience quotient of theego-complex. I might have saved my breath. I don't understand that psychodynamics jargon, Granthan, he snapped.It smacks of mysticism. But I understand what the Gool have done toyou well enough. I'm sorry. I leaned back and chewed the inside of my lip and thought unkindthoughts about Colonel Ausar Kayle. Then I settled down to solve theproblem at hand. I keyed the chart file, flashed pages from the standard index on thereference screen, checking radar coverages, beacon ranges, monitorstations, controller fields. It looked as though a radar-negative boatthe size of mine might possibly get through the defensive net with adaring pilot, and as a condemned spy, I could afford to be daring. And I had a few ideas. III The shrilling of the proximity alarm blasted through the silence. For awild moment I thought Kayle had beaten me to the punch; then I realizedit was the routine DEW line patrol contact. Z four-oh-two, I am reading your IFF. Decelerate at 1.8 geepreparatory to picking up approach orbit.... The screen went on droning out instructions. I fed them into theautopilot, at the same time running over my approach plan. The scoutwas moving in closer. I licked dry lips. It was time to try. I closed my eyes, reached out—as the Gool mind had reached out tome—and felt the touch of a Signals Officer's mind, forty thousandmiles distant, aboard the patrol vessel. There was a brief flurry ofstruggle; then I dictated my instructions. The Signals Officer punchedkeys, spoke into his microphone: As you were, Z four-oh-two. Continue on present course. At Oh-nineteenseconds, pick up planetary for re-entry and let-down. I blanked out the man's recollection of what had happened, caught hisbelated puzzlement as I broke contact. But I was clear of the DEW linenow, rapidly approaching atmosphere. Z four-oh-two, the speaker crackled. This is planetary control. I ampicking you up on channel forty-three, for re-entry and let-down. There was a long pause. Then: Z four-oh-two, countermand DEW Line clearance! Repeat, clearancecountermanded! Emergency course change to standard hyperbolic codeninety-eight. Do not attempt re-entry. Repeat: do not attempt re-entry! It hadn't taken Kayle long to see that I'd gotten past the outer lineof defense. A few more minutes' grace would have helped. I'd play itdumb, and hope for a little luck. Planetary, Z four-oh-two here. Say, I'm afraid I missed part of that,fellows. I'm a little banged up—I guess I switched frequencies on you.What was that after 'pick up channel forty-three'...? Four-oh-two, sheer off there! You're not cleared for re-entry! Hey, you birds are mixed up, I protested. I'm cleared all the way. Ichecked in with DEW— It was time to disappear. I blanked off all transmission, hit thecontrols, following my evasive pattern. And again I reached out— A radar man at a site in the Pacific, fifteen thousand miles away, rosefrom his chair, crossed the darkened room and threw a switch. The radarscreens blanked off.... For an hour I rode the long orbit down, fending off attack afterattack. Then I was clear, skimming the surface of the ocean a few milessoutheast of Key West. The boat hit hard. I felt the floor rise up,over, buffeting me against the restraining harness. I hauled at the release lever, felt a long moment of giddydisorientation as the escape capsule separated from the sinkinglifeboat deep under the surface. Then my escape capsule was bobbing onthe water. I would have to risk calling Kayle now—but by voluntarily giving myposition away, I should convince him I was still on our side—and I wasbadly in need of a pick-up. I flipped the sending key. This is Z four-oh-two, I said. I have an urgent report for ColonelKayle of Aerospace Intelligence. Kayle's face appeared. Don't fight it, Granthan, he croaked. Youpenetrated the planetary defenses—God knows how. I— Later, I snapped. How about calling off your dogs now? And sendsomebody out here to pick me up, before I add sea-sickness to my othercomplaints. We have you pinpointed, Kayle cut in. It's no use fighting it,Granthan. <doc-sep>I felt cold sweat pop out on my forehead. You've got to listen,Kayle, I shouted. I suppose you've got missiles on the way already.Call them back! I have information that can win the war— I'm sorry, Granthan, Kayle said. It's too late—even if I couldtake the chance you were right. A different face appeared on the screen. Mr. Granthan, I am General Titus. On behalf of your country, andin the name of the President—who has been apprised of this tragicsituation—it is my privilege to inform you that you will be awardedthe Congressional Medal of Honor—posthumously—for your heroic effort.Although you failed, and have in fact been forced, against your will,to carry out the schemes of the inhuman enemy, this in no way detractsfrom your gallant attempt. Mr. Granthan, I salute you. The general's arm went up in a rigid gesture. Stow that, you pompous idiot! I barked. I'm no spy! Kayle was back, blanking out the startled face of the general. Goodbye, Granthan. Try to understand.... I flipped the switch, sat gripping the couch, my stomach rising witheach heave of the floating escape capsule. I had perhaps five minutes.The missiles would be from Canaveral. I closed my eyes, forced myself to relax, reached out.... I sensed the distant shore, the hot buzz of human minds at work in thecities. I followed the coastline, found the Missile Base, flickedthrough the cluster of minds. — missile on course; do right, baby. That's it, right in the slot. I fingered my way through the man's mind and found the control centers.He turned stiffly from the plotting board, tottered to a panel to slamhis hand against the destruct button. Men fell on him, dragged him back. — fool, why did you blow it? I dropped the contact, found another, who leaped to the panel,detonated the remainder of the flight of six missiles. Then I withdrew.I would have a few minutes' stay of execution now. I was ten miles from shore. The capsule had its own power plant. Istarted it up, switched on the external viewer. I saw dark sea, theglint of star-light on the choppy surface, in the distance a glow onthe horizon that would be Key West. I plugged the course into thepilot, then leaned back and felt outward with my mind for the nextattacker. IV It was dark in the trainyard. I moved along the tracks in a stumblingwalk. Just a few more minutes, I was telling myself. A few moreminutes and you can lie down ... rest.... The shadowed bulk of a box car loomed up, its open door a blackersquare. I leaned against the sill, breathing hard, then reached insidefor a grip with my good hand. Gravel scrunched nearby. The beam of a flashlight lanced out, slippedalong the weathered car, caught me. There was a startled exclamation.I ducked back, closed my eyes, felt out for his mind. There was aconfused murmur of thought, a random intrusion of impressions from thecity all around. It was hard, too hard. I had to sleep— I heard the snick of a revolver being cocked, and dropped flat as agout of flame stabbed toward me, the imperative Bam! echoing betweenthe cars. I caught the clear thought: God-awful looking, shaved head, arm stuck out; him all right— I reached out to his mind and struck at random. The light fell, wentout, and I heard the unconscious body slam to the ground like a poledsteer. It was easy—if I could only stay awake. I gritted my teeth, pulled myself into the car, crawled to a darkcorner behind a crate and slumped down. I tried to evoke a personalityfraction to set as a guard, a part of my mind to stay awake and warnme of danger. It was too much trouble. I relaxed and let it all slidedown into darkness. <doc-sep>The car swayed, click-clack, click-clack. I opened my eyes, saw yellowsunlight in a bar across the litter on the floor. The power trusscreaked, pulling at my arm. My broken leg was throbbing its indignationat the treatment it had received—walking brace and all—and the burnedarm was yelling aloud for more of that nice dope that had been keepingit from realizing how bad it was. All things considered, I felt like abadly embalmed mummy—except that I was hungry. I had been a fool notto fill my pockets when I left the escape capsule in the shallows offKey Largo, but things had been happening too fast. I had barely made it to the fishing boat, whose owner I had coercedinto rendezvousing with me before shells started dropping around us. Ifthe gunners on the cruiser ten miles away had had any luck, they wouldhave finished me—and the hapless fisherman—right then. We rode out acouple of near misses, before I put the cruiser's gunnery crew off theair. At a fishing camp on the beach, I found a car—with driver. He droppedme at the railyard, and drove off under the impression he was in townfor groceries. He'd never believe he'd seen me. Now I'd had my sleep. I had to start getting ready for the next act ofthe farce. I pressed the release on the power truss, gingerly unclamped it, thenrigged a sling from a strip of shirt tail. I tied the arm to my side asinconspicuously as possible. I didn't disturb the bandages. I needed new clothes—or at least different ones—and something tocover my shaved skull. I couldn't stay hidden forever. The yard cop hadrecognized me at a glance. I lay back, waiting for the train to slow for a town. I wasn't undulyworried—at the moment. The watchman probably hadn't convinced anyonehe'd actually seen me. Maybe he hadn't been too sure himself. The click-clack slowed and the train shuddered to a stop. I crept tothe door, peered through the crack. There were sunny fields, a few lowbuildings in the distance, the corner of a platform. I closed my eyesand let my awareness stretch out. — lousy job. What's the use? Little witch in the lunch room ... up inthe hills, squirrel hunting, bottle of whiskey.... I settled into control gently, trying not to alarm the man. I sawthrough his eyes the dusty box car, the rust on the tracks, thelistless weeds growing among cinders, and the weathered boards ofthe platform. I turned him, and saw the dingy glass of the telegraphwindow, a sagging screen door with a chipped enameled cola sign. I walked the man to the door, and through it. Behind a linoleum-toppedcounter, a coarse-skinned teen-age girl with heavy breasts and wetpatches under her arms looked up without interest as the door banged. My host went on to the counter, gestured toward the waxed-paper-wrappedsandwiches under a glass cover. I'll take 'em all. And candy bars, andcigarettes. And give me a big glass of water. Better git out there and look after yer train, the girl saidcarelessly. When'd you git so all-fired hungry all of a sudden? Put it in a bag. Quick. Look who's getting bossy— My host rounded the counter, picked up a used paper bag, began stuffingfood in it. The girl stared at him, then pushed him back. You git backaround that counter! She filled the bag, took a pencil from behind her ear. That'll be one eighty-five. Cash. My host took two dog-eared bills from his shirt pocket, dropped themon the counter and waited while the girl filled a glass. He picked itup and started out. Hey! Where you goin' with my glass? The trainman crossed the platform, headed for the boxcar. He slid theloose door back a few inches against the slack latch, pushed the baginside, placed the glass of water beside it, then pulled off his grimyrailroader's cap and pushed it through the opening. He turned. The girlwatched from the platform. A rattle passed down the line and the trainstarted up with a lurch. The man walked back toward the girl. I heardhim say: Friend o' mine in there—just passin' through. I was discovering that it wasn't necessary to hold tight control overevery move of a subject. Once given the impulse to act, he wouldrationalize his behavior, fill in the details—and never know that theoriginal idea hadn't been his own. I drank the water first, ate a sandwich, then lit a cigarette and layback. So far so good. The crates in the car were marked U. S. NavalAerospace Station, Bayou Le Cochon. With any luck I'd reach NewOrleans in another twelve hours. The first step of my plan included araid on the Delta National Labs; but that was tomorrow. That couldwait. <doc-sep>It was a little before dawn when I crawled out of the car at a sidingin the swampy country a few miles out of New Orleans. I wasn't feelinggood, but I had a stake in staying on my feet. I still had a few milesin me. I had my supplies—a few candy bars and some cigarettes—stuffedin the pockets of the tattered issue coverall. Otherwise, I wasunencumbered. Unless you wanted to count the walking brace on my rightleg and the sling binding my arm. I picked my way across mushy ground to a pot-holed black-top road,started limping toward a few car lights visible half a mile away. Itwas already hot. The swamp air was like warmed-over subway fumes.Through the drugs, I could feel my pulse throbbing in my variouswounds. I reached out and touched the driver's mind; he was thinkingabout shrimps, a fish-hook wound on his left thumb and a girl withblack hair. Want a lift? he called. I thanked him and got in. He gave me a glance and I pinched off hisbudding twinge of curiosity. It was almost an effort now not to followhis thoughts. It was as though my mind, having learned the trick ofcommunications with others, instinctively reached out toward them. An hour later he dropped me on a street corner in a shabby marketingdistrict of the city and drove off. I hoped he made out all right withthe dark-haired girl. I spotted a used-clothing store and headed for it. Twenty minutes later I was back on the sidewalk, dressed in apinkish-gray suit that had been cut a long time ago by a Latintailor—maybe to settle a grudge. The shirt that went with it wasan unsuccessful violet. The black string tie lent a dubious air ofdistinction. I'd swapped the railroader's cap for a tarnished beret.The man who had supplied the outfit was still asleep. I figuredI'd done him a favor by taking it. I couldn't hope to pass for afisherman—I wasn't the type. Maybe I'd get by as a coffee-housederelict. I walked past fly-covered fish stalls, racks of faded garments, grimyvegetables in bins, enough paint-flaked wrought iron to cage a herd ofbrontosauri, and fetched up at a cab stand. I picked a fat driver witha wart. How much to the Delta National Laboratories? He rolled an eye toward me, shifted his toothpick. What ya wanna go out there for? Nothing out there. I'm a tourist, I said. They told me before I left home not to missit. He grunted, reached back and opened the door. I got in. He flipped hisflag down, started up with a clash of gears and pulled out withoutlooking. How far is it? I asked him. It ain't far. Mile, mile and a quarter. Pretty big place, I guess. He didn't answer. We went through a warehousing district, swung left along thewaterfront, bumped over railroad tracks, and pulled up at a nine-footcyclone fence with a locked gate. A buck ten, my driver said. I looked out at the fence, a barren field, a distant group of lowbuildings. What's this? This is the place you ast for. That'll be a buck ten, mister. I touched his mind, planted a couple of false impressions and withdrew.He blinked, then started up, drove around the field, pulled up at anopen gate with a blue-uniformed guard. He looked back at me. You want I should drive in, sir? I'll get out here. He jumped out, opened my door, helped me out with a hand under my goodelbow. I'll get your change, sir, he said, reaching for his hip. Keep it. Thank YOU. He hesitated. Maybe I oughta stick around. You know. I'll be all right. I hope so, he said. A man like you—you and me— he winked. Afterall, we ain't both wearing berets fer nothing. True, I said. Consider your tip doubled. Now drive away into thesunrise and forget you ever saw me. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who are the Gool, and what do they want?

The Gool are an evil Alien race, at war with planet Earth. They are a hive mind. Each being is an extension of a greater conscience. This conscience is hidden deep in their home world, a brain that connects to both the planet and its people. They are described as "organs” to it. They can telepathically communicate with their leader through soundless thought. They have the ability to infiltrate the minds of their enemies, taking control over them and using them as hosts. This allows the species to sabotage missions, and create spies behind enemy lines. Their numbers have dwindled and what was once a great race, is now a mere colony. But they have plans to expand to newly discovered worlds, where they would replenish their numbers, and be mighty once again. They feed on minerals and metals. They could usually only take over certain minds, but never before like Granthan's. His mind was clear, out of the way of all the others, which made it easy for them to get their claws into him.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE SOUL EATERS By WILLIAM CONOVER Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose ships were the scourge of the Void. But his luck had run its course, and now he was marooned on a rogue planet—fighting to save himself from a menace weapons could not kill. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] And so, my dear , Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase, I'mafraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets—oris it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I'veaccepted. I did love you.... Good-by. Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's lastletter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, theynever failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender asthe palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with aperpetual wonder—limpid as a child's. The barbaric rhythms of the Congahua , were a background of annoyancein Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercuriandancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise lefthim cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughtsin silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, notto speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boomupon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only onesolitude—the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests. Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss ofMarla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could notfill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been hisfault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous JovianChamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have beenready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisersthat almost surrounded the space pirate. A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Everydream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful useof hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared asif by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man'ssoul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm realityunder the ineffable illumination of the Chamber. It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, afortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than asheaf of credits—it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., andmost of his heart in Marla. Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of theinsidious Verbena , fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frostyglass of Martian Bacca-glas , and as he did so, his brilliant hazeleyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of ayoung Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred inthose eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Dangerbrought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties couldinstantly denote. His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowedslightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of thisMartian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latterhad edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriadsemi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, ina final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap andtilted back invitingly. Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at thehandsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came thetinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on hisfeet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to oneside as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of DennisBrooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girlcried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis wasnot there. <doc-sep>Leaping to one side, impervious to the fall of the dancer, he avoidedthe murderous rush of the Martian youth, then he wheeled swiftly andplanted a sledge-hammer blow in that most vulnerable spot of allMartians, the spot just below their narrow, wasp-like waist, and as theMartian half-doubled over, he lefted him with a short jab to the chinthat staggered and all but dropped him. The Martian's violet eyes were black with fury now. He staggered backand sucked in air, his face contorted with excruciating pain. But hewas not through. His powerful right shot like a blast straight forDennis' chest, striking like a piston just below the heart. Dennis tookit, flat-footed, without flinching; then he let his right ride overwith all the force at his command. It caught the Martian on the jaw andspun him like a top, the pale, imperious face went crimson as he slowlysagged to his knees and rolled to the impeccable mosaics of the floor. Dennis, breathing heavily, stood over him until the internationalpolice arrived, and then he had the surprise of his life. Upon search,the police found a tiny, but fatal silvery tube holstered under hisleft arm-pit—an atomic-disintegrator, forbidden throughout theinterplanetary League. Only major criminals and space pirates stillwithout the law were known to possess them. Looks like your brawl has turned out to be a piece of fool's luck,Brooke! The Police Lieutenant favored Dennis with a wry smile. IfI'm not mistaken this chap's a member of Bren Koerber's pirate crew.Who else could afford to risk his neck at the International, and havein his possession a disintegrator? Pity we have no complete recordson that devil's crew! Anyway, we'll radio the I.S.P., perhaps theyhave details on this dandy! He eyed admiringly the priceless Martianembroideries on the unconscious Martian's tunic, the costly border ofred, ocelandian fur, and the magnificent black acerine on his finger. Dennis Brooke shrugged his shoulders, shoulders that would have put toshame the Athenian statues of another age. A faint, bitter smile curvedhis generous mouth. I'm grounded, Gillian, it'd take the capture ofKoerber himself to set me right with the I.S.P. again—you don't knowBertram! To him an infraction of rules is a major crime. Damn Venus!He reached for his glass of Verbena but the table had turned overduring the struggle, and the glass was a shattered mass of gleaming Bacca-glas shards. He laughed shortly as he became conscious of thevenomous stare of the Mercurian Dancer, of the excited voices of theguests and the emphatic disapproval of the Venusian proprietor whowas shocked at having a brawl in his ultra-expensive, ultra-exclusivePalace. Better come to Headquarters with me, Dennis, the lieutenant saidgently. We'll say you captured him, and if he's Koerber's, thecredit's yours. A trip to Terra's what you need, Venus for you is ahoodoo! <doc-sep>The stern, white haired I.S.P. Commander behind the immense Aluminildesk, frowned slightly as Dennis Brooke entered. He eyed the six footfour frame of the Captain before him with a mixture of feelings, asif uncertain how to begin. Finally, he sighed as if, having come to adecision, he were forcing himself to speak: Sit down, Dennis. I've sent for you, despite your grounding, fortwo reasons. The first one you already know—your capture of one ofKoerber's henchmen—has given us a line as to his present orbit ofpiracy, and the means of a check on his activities. But that's notreally why I've brought you here. He frowned again as if what he hadto say were difficult indeed. Marla Starland, your fiancee, accepted an assignment we offered her—adelicate piece of work here on Terra that only a very beautiful, andvery clever young lady could perform. And, he paused, grimacing,somewhere between Venus and Terra, the interplanetary spacer bringingher and several other passengers, began to send distress signals.Finally, we couldn't contact the ship any more. It is three daysoverdue. All passengers, a cargo of radium from Venus worth untoldmillions, the spacer itself—seem to have vanished. Dennis Brooke's space-tanned features had gone pale. His large hazeleyes, fringed with auburn lashes, too long for a man, were bright slitsthat smouldered. He stood silent, his hands clenched at his sides,while something cold and sharp seemed to dig at his heart with cruelprecision. Marla! He breathed at last. The thought of Marla in the powerof Koerber sent a wave of anguish that seared through him like anatom-blast. Commander, Dennis said, and his rich baritone voice had depths ofemotion so great that they startled Commander Bertram himself—andthat grizzled veteran of the I.S.P., had at one time or another knownevery change of torture that could possibly be wrung on a human soul.Commander, give me one ... one chance at that spawn of unthinkablebegetting! Let me try, and I promise you ... in his torture, Denniswas unconsciously banging a knotted fist on the chaste, satiny surfaceof the priceless desk, I promise you that I will either bring youKoerber, or forfeit my life! Commander Bertram nodded his head. I brought you here for thatpurpose, son. We have reached a point in our war with Koerber, wherethe last stakes must be played ... and the last stake is death! He reached over and flipped up the activator on a small telecast seton his desk; instantly the viso-screen lighted up. You'll now seea visual record of all we know about the passenger spacer that leftVenus with passengers and cargo, as far as we could contact the vesselin space. This, Dennis, the Commander emphasized his words, is yourchance to redeem yourself! He fell silent, while the viso-screen beganto show a crowded space port on Venus, and a gigantic passenger spacerup-tilted in its cradle. <doc-sep>They watched the parabola it made in its trajectory as it flashed intospace and then fell into orbit there beyond the planetary attraction ofVenus. On the three-dimensional viso-screen it was uncannily real. A flight that had taken many hours to accomplish, was shortened onthe viso-screen to a matter of minutes. They saw the great, proudinterplanetary transport speeding majestically through the starry void,and suddenly, they saw her swerve in a great arc; again she swervedas if avoiding something deadly in space, and point upwards gainingaltitude. It was zig-zagging now, desperately maneuvering in an erraticcourse, and as if by magic, a tiny spot appeared on the transport'sside. Tiny on the viso-screen, the fatal spots must have been huge inactuality. To the Commander of the I.S.P., and to Captain Brooke, itwas an old story. Atom-blasts were pitting the spacer's hull withdeadly Genton shells. The great transport trembled under the impact ofthe barrage, and suddenly, the screen went blank. Commander Bertram turned slowly to face the young I.S.P. captain, whosefeatures were a mask devoid of all expression now, save for the pallorand the burning fire in his eyes. And that's the sixth one in a month. Sometimes the survivors reachTerra in emergency spacers, or are picked up in space by othertransports ... and sometimes son ... well, as you know, sometimesthey're never seen again. When do I leave, Commander! Dennis Brooke's voice was like a javelinof ice. Right now, if you wish. We have a new cruiser armored in beryloid withdouble hull—a new design against Genton shells, but it's the speedof the thing that you'll want to know about. It just about surpassesanything ever invented. Get the figures and data from the coordinationroom, son; it's serviced and fueled and the crew's aboard. Heextended his hand. You're the best spacer we have—aside from yourrecklessness—and on your success depends far more than the capture ofan outlaw. Bertram smiled thinly. Happy landing! II Their nerves were ragged. Days and days of fruitless search for aphantom ship that seemed to have vanished from space, and an equallyelusive pirate whose whereabouts were hidden in the depths offathomless space. To all but Captain Brooke, this was a new adventure, their firstassignment to duty in a search that went beyond the realm of theinner planets, where men spent sleepless nights in eternal vigilanceagainst stray asteroids and outlaw crews of ruthless vandal ships. Eventheir cruiser was a new experience, the long, tapering fighter lackedthe luxurious offices and appointments of the regular I.S.P. Patrolspacers. It placed a maximum on speed, and all available space washoarded for fuel. The lightning fast tiger of the space-lanes, was athing of beauty, but of grim, sleek beauty instinct with power, not thecomfortable luxury that they knew. Day after day they went through their drills, donning space suits,manning battle stations; aiming deadly atom-cannon at empty space, andeternally scanning the vast empty reaches by means of the telecast. And suddenly, out of the void, as they had all but given up the searchas a wild goose chase, a speck was limned in the lighted surface of theviso-screen in the control room. Instantly the I.S.P. cruiser came tolife. In a burst of magnificent speed, the cruiser literally devouredthe space leagues, until the spacer became a flashing streak. On theviso-screen, the speck grew larger, took on contours, growing andbecoming slowly the drifting shell of what had been a transport. Presently they were within reaching distance, and Captain Brookecommanded through the teleradio from the control room: Prepare to board! Every member of the crew wanted to be among the boarding party, forall but George Randall, the junior member of the crew had served hisapprenticeship among the inner planets, Mars, Venus and Terra. He feltnauseated at the very thought of going out there in that vast abyss ofspace. His young, beardless face, with the candid blue eyes went palewhen the order was given. But presently, Captain Brooke named those whowere to go beside himself: You, Tom and Scotty, take one emergency plane, and Dallas! Yes, Captain! Dallas Bernan, the immense third lieutenant boomed inhis basso-profundo voice. You and I'll take a second emergency! There was a pause in the voiceof the Captain from the control room, then: Test space suits. Testoxygen helmets! Atom-blasts only, ready in five minutes! George Randall breathed a sigh of relief. He watched them bridge thespace to the drifting wreck, then saw them enter what had once been aproud interplanetary liner, now soon to be but drifting dust, and heturned away with a look of shame. Inside the liner, Captain Dennis Brooke had finished making a detailedsurvey. No doubt about it, he spoke through the radio in his helmet. Cargomissing. No survivors. No indication that the repulsion fields wereout of order. And finally, those Genton shells could only have beenfired by Koerber! He tried to maintain a calm exterior, but inwardlyhe seethed in a cold fury more deadly than any he had ever experienced.Somehow he had expected to find at least one compartment unharmed,where life might have endured, but now, all hope was gone. Only a greatresolve to deal with Koerber once and for all remained to him. Dennis tried not to think of Marla, too great an ache was involved inthinking of her and all he had lost. When he finally spoke, his voicewas harsh, laconic: Prepare to return! Scotty Byrnes, the cruiser's nurse, who could take his motors through amajor battle, or hell and high water and back again, for that matter,shifted the Venusian weed that made a perpetual bulge on his cheek andgazed curiously at Captain Brooke. They all knew the story in variousversions, and with special additions. But they were spacemen, implicitin their loyalty, and with Dennis Brooke they could and did feel safe. Tom Jeffery, the tall, angular and red-faced Navigator, whose slow,easygoing movements belied the feral persistence of a tiger, and theswiftness of a striking cobra in a fight, led the small procession ofmen toward the emergency planes. Behind him came Dallas Bernan, thirdlieutenant, looming like a young asteroid in his space suit, followedby Scotty, and finally Captain Brooke himself. All left in silence, asif the tragedy that had occurred aboard the wrecked liner, had touchedthem intimately. <doc-sep>Aboard the I.S.P. Cruiser, a surprise awaited them. It was young GeorgeRandall, whose excited face met them as soon as they had entered theairlocks and removed the space suits. Captain Brooke ... Captain, recordings are showing on the new 'JetAnalyzers' must be the trail of some spacer. Can't be far! He wasfairly dancing in his excitement, as if the marvelous work of thenew invention that detected the disturbance of atomic jets at greatdistance were his own achievement. Dennis Brooke smiled. His own heart was hammering, and inwardly heprayed that it were Koerber. It had to be! No interplanetary passengerspacer could possibly be out here at the intersection of angles Kp39 degrees, 12 minutes, Fp 67 degrees of Ceres elliptic plane. Nonebut a pirate crew with swift battle cruisers could dare! This was thedangerous asteroid belt, where even planetoids drifted in eccentricuncharted orbits. Dennis, Tom Jeffery and Scotty Byrnes raced to the control room,followed by the ponderous Dallas to whom hurry in any form wasanathema. There could be no doubt now! The Jet Analyzer recordedpowerful disturbance, atomic—could be nothing else. Instantly Captain Brooke was at the inter-communication speaker: Crew, battle stations! Engine room, full speed! Scotty Byrnes was already dashing to the engine room, where his belovedmotors purred with an ascending hum. Aboard the I.S.P. Cruiser eachmember of the crew raced to his assigned task without delay. Actionimpended, and after days and nights of inertia, it was a blessedrelief. Smiles appeared on haggard faces, and the banter of mensuddenly galvanized by a powerful incentive was bandied back and forth.All but George Randall. Now that action was imminent. Something grippedhis throat until he could hardly stand the tight collar of his I.S.P.uniform. A growing nausea gripped his bowels, and although he strove tokeep calm, his hands trembled beyond control. In the compact, super-armored control room, Captain Brooke watchedthe telecast's viso-screen, with hungry eyes that were golden withanticipation. It seemed to him as if an eternity passed before atlast, a black speck danced on the illuminated screen, until it finallyreached the center of the viso-screen and remained there. It grew byleaps and bounds as the terrific speed of the cruiser minimized thedistance long before the quarry was aware of pursuit. But at last, when the enemy cruiser showed on the viso-screen,unmistakably for what it was—a pirate craft, it showed by its suddenmaneuver that it had detected the I.S.P. cruiser. For it had describeda parabola in space and headed for the dangerous asteroid belt. As ifnavigated by a masterly hand that knew each and every orbit of theasteroids, it plunged directly into the asteroid drift, hoping to losethe I.S.P. cruiser with such a maneuver. Ordinarily, it would havesucceeded, no I.S.P. patrol ship would have dared to venture into sucha trap without specific orders. But to Dennis Brooke, directing thechase from the control room, even certain death was welcome, if only hecould take Koerber with him. Weaving through the deadly belt for several hours, Dennis saw hisquarry slow down. Instantly he seized the chance and ordered a salvofrom starboard. Koerber's powerful spacer reeled, dived and came upspewing Genton-shells. The battle was on at last. From the banked atom-cannon of the I.S.P. Cruiser, a deadly curtainof atomic fire blazed at the pirate craft. A ragged rent back towardmidship showed on Koerber's Cruiser which trembled as if it had beenmortally wounded. Then Dennis maneuvered his cruiser into a powerdive as a rain of Genton-shells swept the space lane above him, but ashe came up, a lone shell struck. At such close range, super-armor wasripped, second armor penetrated and the magnificent vessel shook underthe detonating impact. It was then that Dennis Brooke saw the immense dark shadow loomingimmediately behind Koerber's ship. He saw the pirate cruiser zoomdesperately in an effort to break the gravity trap of the looming mass,but too late. It struggled like a fly caught in a spider-web to noavail. It was then that Koerber played his last card. Sensing he wasdoomed, he tried to draw the I.S.P. Cruiser down with him. A powerfulmagnetic beam lashed out to spear the I.S.P. Cruiser. <doc-sep>With a wrenching turn that almost threw them out of control, Dennismaneuvered to avoid the beam. Again Koerber's beam lashed out, as hesank lower into the looming mass, and again Dennis anticipating themaneuver avoided it. George Randall! He shouted desperately into the speaker. Cut alljets in the rocket room! Hurry, man! He banked again and then zoomedout of the increasing gravity trap. Randall! I've got to use the magnetic repulsion plates.... Cut all thejets! But there was no response. Randall's screen remained blank. ThenKoerber's lashing magnetic beam touched and the I.S.P. ship was caught,forced to follow the pirate ship's plunge like the weight at the end ofa whiplash. Koerber's gunners sent one parting shot, an atom-blast thatshook the trapped cruiser like a leaf. Beneath them, growing larger by the second, a small world rushed up tomeet them. The readings in the Planetograph seemed to have gone crazy.It showed diameter 1200 miles; composition mineral and radio-active.Gravity seven-eighths of Terra. It couldn't be! Unless perhaps thisunknown planetoid was the legendary core of the world that at one timewas supposed to have existed between Jupiter and Mars. Only that couldpossibly explain the incredible gravity. And then began another type of battle. Hearing the Captain's orders toRandall, and noting that no result had been obtained, Scotty Byrneshimself cut the jets. The Magnetic Repulsion Plates went into action,too late to save them from being drawn, but at least they could preventa crash. Far in the distance they could see Koerber's ship precedingthem in a free fall, then the Planetoid was rushing up to engulf them. III The atmosphere was somewhat tenuous, but it was breathable, provideda man didn't exert himself. To the silent crew of the I.S.P. Cruiser,the strange world to which Koerber's magnetic Beam had drawn them,was anything but reassuring. Towering crags jutted raggedly againstthe sky, and the iridescent soil of the narrow valley that walled inthe cruiser, had a poisonous, deadly look. As far as their eyes couldreach, the desolate, denuded vista stretched to the horizon. Pretty much of a mess! Dennis Brooke's face was impassive as heturned to Scotty Byrnes. What's your opinion? Think we can patch herup, or are we stuck here indefinitely? Scotty eyed the damage. The atom-blast had penetrated the hull intothe forward fuel chambers and the armor had blossomed out like flowerpetals. The crash-landing had not helped either. Well, there's a few beryloid plates in the storage locker, Captain,but, he scratched his head ruminatively and shifted his precious cud. But what? Speak up man! It was Tom Jeffery, his nerves on edge, hisordinarily gentle voice like a lash. But, you may as well know it, Scotty replied quietly. That partingshot of Koerber's severed our main rocket feed. I had to use theemergency tank to make it down here! For a long moment the four men looked at each other in silence. DennisBrooke's face was still impassive but for the flaming hazel eyes. Tomtugged at the torn sleeve of his I.S.P. uniform, while Scotty gazedmournfully at the damaged ship. Dallas Bernan looked at the long,ragged line of cliffs. I think we got Koerber, though, he said at last. While Tom was doinga job of navigation, I had one last glimpse of him coming down fastand out of control somewhere behind those crags over there! To hell with Koerber! Tom Jeffery exploded. You mean we're stuck inthis hellish rock-pile? Easy, Tom! Captain Brooke's tones were like ice. On his pale,impassive face, his eyes were like flaming topaz. Where's Randall? Probably hiding his head under a bunk! Dallas laughed with scorn. Hiscontemptuous remark voiced the feelings of the entire crew. A man whofailed to be at his battle-station in time of emergency, had no placein the I.S.P. Considering the gravity of this planetoid, Dennis Brooke saidthoughtfully, it's going to take some blast to get us off! Maybe we can locate a deposit of anerioum or uranium or something forour atom-busters to chew on! Scotty said hopefully. He was an eternaloptimist. Better break out those repair plates, Dennis said to Scotty. Tom,you get the welders ready. I've got a few entries to make in the logbook, and then we'll decide on a party to explore the terrain and tryto find out what happened to Koerber's ship. I must know, he said in alow voice, but with such passion that the others were startled. A figure appeared in the slanting doorway of the ship in time to hearthe last words. It was George Randall, adjusting a bandaged foreheadbumped during the crash landing. Captain ... I ... I wanted ... he paused unable to continue. You wanted what? Captain Brooke's voice was terse. Perhaps youwanted to explain why you weren't at your battle station? Sir, I wanted to know if ... if I might help Scotty with the weldingjob.... That wasn't at all what he'd intended to say. But somehow thewords had stuck in his throat and his face flushed deep scarlet. Hiscandid blue eyes were suspiciously brilliant, and the white bandagewith its crimson stains made an appealing, boyish figure. It softenedthe anger in Brooke's heart. Thinking it over calmly, Dennis realizedthis was the youngster's first trip into the outer orbits, and bettermen than he had cracked in those vast reaches of space. But there hadbeen an instant when he'd found Randall cowering in the rocket-room, inthe grip of paralyzing hysteria, when he could cheerfully have wrunghis neck! Certainly, Randall, he replied in a much more kindly tone. We'llneed all hands now. Thank you, sir! Randall seemed to hesitate for a moment, opened hismouth to speak further, but feeling the other's calculating gaze uponhim, he whirled and re-entered the ship. But for him we wouldn't be here! Dallas exclaimed. Aagh! He shookhis head in disgust until the several folds of flesh under his chinshook like gelatin. Cowards are hell! He spat. Easy, Dallas, Randall's a kid, give 'im a chance. Dennis observed. You Captain ... you're defending 'im? Why you had a greater stake inthis than we, and he's spoiled it for you! Yep, Dennis nodded. But I'm still keeping my senses clear. No feudson my ship. Get it! The last two words cut like a scimitar. Dallas nodded and lowered his eyes. Scotty shifted his cud and spata thin stream of juice over the iridescent ground. One by one theyre-entered the cruiser. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Dennis Brooke was drinking and watching a dancer along with rereading the last letter of Marla, his fiancee, who accepted a new assignment and left him. At the same time he was regretting being grounded and on bad terms with I.S.P. for a mistake. Suddenly, he felt danger and when the Mercurial dancer approached him, a Martian attempted an attack. After a short fight, Dennis overcame the Martian who turned out to possess a prohibited weapon and supposedly was a space pirate. After capturing the pirate, Dennis was called by I.S.P. commander and told that Marla and her whole spaceship traveling to Terra disappeared, supposedly captured by Koerber, the head of pirates. Dennis begged to be sent for the pirate leader and the commander gave him this chance. They watched a recording of Marla's spaceship zig-zagging and being attacked, which ended with a blank screen. Dennis immediately set out to space on a cruiser. After a long search without success, something appeared on the visa-screen and the crew prepared to board. Nevertheless, no survivors were found and the Captain, Dennis, was out of hope. Everyone left in silence the spot of the tragedy of the attacked spacer. Back on the ship, one of the crew, George Randall, gladly informed that an object was detected. The crew rushed for the object which indeed turned out to be a pirate craft trying to escape the persecutor. Koerber's ship was soon doomed and he caught Dennis' ship with a beam to follow. The ship crashed and the crew found itself in a place without any chance to escape from. The captain ordered to explore the place and see what happened to Koerber for sure, while others will be welding, and the crew reentered the ship.

What is the attitude of Dennis towards Marla? [SEP] <s> THE SOUL EATERS By WILLIAM CONOVER Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose ships were the scourge of the Void. But his luck had run its course, and now he was marooned on a rogue planet—fighting to save himself from a menace weapons could not kill. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] And so, my dear , Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase, I'mafraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets—oris it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I'veaccepted. I did love you.... Good-by. Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's lastletter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, theynever failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender asthe palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with aperpetual wonder—limpid as a child's. The barbaric rhythms of the Congahua , were a background of annoyancein Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercuriandancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise lefthim cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughtsin silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, notto speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boomupon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only onesolitude—the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests. Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss ofMarla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could notfill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been hisfault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous JovianChamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have beenready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisersthat almost surrounded the space pirate. A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Everydream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful useof hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared asif by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man'ssoul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm realityunder the ineffable illumination of the Chamber. It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, afortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than asheaf of credits—it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., andmost of his heart in Marla. Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of theinsidious Verbena , fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frostyglass of Martian Bacca-glas , and as he did so, his brilliant hazeleyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of ayoung Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred inthose eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Dangerbrought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties couldinstantly denote. His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowedslightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of thisMartian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latterhad edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriadsemi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, ina final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap andtilted back invitingly. Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at thehandsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came thetinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on hisfeet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to oneside as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of DennisBrooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girlcried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis wasnot there. <doc-sep>Leaping to one side, impervious to the fall of the dancer, he avoidedthe murderous rush of the Martian youth, then he wheeled swiftly andplanted a sledge-hammer blow in that most vulnerable spot of allMartians, the spot just below their narrow, wasp-like waist, and as theMartian half-doubled over, he lefted him with a short jab to the chinthat staggered and all but dropped him. The Martian's violet eyes were black with fury now. He staggered backand sucked in air, his face contorted with excruciating pain. But hewas not through. His powerful right shot like a blast straight forDennis' chest, striking like a piston just below the heart. Dennis tookit, flat-footed, without flinching; then he let his right ride overwith all the force at his command. It caught the Martian on the jaw andspun him like a top, the pale, imperious face went crimson as he slowlysagged to his knees and rolled to the impeccable mosaics of the floor. Dennis, breathing heavily, stood over him until the internationalpolice arrived, and then he had the surprise of his life. Upon search,the police found a tiny, but fatal silvery tube holstered under hisleft arm-pit—an atomic-disintegrator, forbidden throughout theinterplanetary League. Only major criminals and space pirates stillwithout the law were known to possess them. Looks like your brawl has turned out to be a piece of fool's luck,Brooke! The Police Lieutenant favored Dennis with a wry smile. IfI'm not mistaken this chap's a member of Bren Koerber's pirate crew.Who else could afford to risk his neck at the International, and havein his possession a disintegrator? Pity we have no complete recordson that devil's crew! Anyway, we'll radio the I.S.P., perhaps theyhave details on this dandy! He eyed admiringly the priceless Martianembroideries on the unconscious Martian's tunic, the costly border ofred, ocelandian fur, and the magnificent black acerine on his finger. Dennis Brooke shrugged his shoulders, shoulders that would have put toshame the Athenian statues of another age. A faint, bitter smile curvedhis generous mouth. I'm grounded, Gillian, it'd take the capture ofKoerber himself to set me right with the I.S.P. again—you don't knowBertram! To him an infraction of rules is a major crime. Damn Venus!He reached for his glass of Verbena but the table had turned overduring the struggle, and the glass was a shattered mass of gleaming Bacca-glas shards. He laughed shortly as he became conscious of thevenomous stare of the Mercurian Dancer, of the excited voices of theguests and the emphatic disapproval of the Venusian proprietor whowas shocked at having a brawl in his ultra-expensive, ultra-exclusivePalace. Better come to Headquarters with me, Dennis, the lieutenant saidgently. We'll say you captured him, and if he's Koerber's, thecredit's yours. A trip to Terra's what you need, Venus for you is ahoodoo! <doc-sep>The stern, white haired I.S.P. Commander behind the immense Aluminildesk, frowned slightly as Dennis Brooke entered. He eyed the six footfour frame of the Captain before him with a mixture of feelings, asif uncertain how to begin. Finally, he sighed as if, having come to adecision, he were forcing himself to speak: Sit down, Dennis. I've sent for you, despite your grounding, fortwo reasons. The first one you already know—your capture of one ofKoerber's henchmen—has given us a line as to his present orbit ofpiracy, and the means of a check on his activities. But that's notreally why I've brought you here. He frowned again as if what he hadto say were difficult indeed. Marla Starland, your fiancee, accepted an assignment we offered her—adelicate piece of work here on Terra that only a very beautiful, andvery clever young lady could perform. And, he paused, grimacing,somewhere between Venus and Terra, the interplanetary spacer bringingher and several other passengers, began to send distress signals.Finally, we couldn't contact the ship any more. It is three daysoverdue. All passengers, a cargo of radium from Venus worth untoldmillions, the spacer itself—seem to have vanished. Dennis Brooke's space-tanned features had gone pale. His large hazeleyes, fringed with auburn lashes, too long for a man, were bright slitsthat smouldered. He stood silent, his hands clenched at his sides,while something cold and sharp seemed to dig at his heart with cruelprecision. Marla! He breathed at last. The thought of Marla in the powerof Koerber sent a wave of anguish that seared through him like anatom-blast. Commander, Dennis said, and his rich baritone voice had depths ofemotion so great that they startled Commander Bertram himself—andthat grizzled veteran of the I.S.P., had at one time or another knownevery change of torture that could possibly be wrung on a human soul.Commander, give me one ... one chance at that spawn of unthinkablebegetting! Let me try, and I promise you ... in his torture, Denniswas unconsciously banging a knotted fist on the chaste, satiny surfaceof the priceless desk, I promise you that I will either bring youKoerber, or forfeit my life! Commander Bertram nodded his head. I brought you here for thatpurpose, son. We have reached a point in our war with Koerber, wherethe last stakes must be played ... and the last stake is death! He reached over and flipped up the activator on a small telecast seton his desk; instantly the viso-screen lighted up. You'll now seea visual record of all we know about the passenger spacer that leftVenus with passengers and cargo, as far as we could contact the vesselin space. This, Dennis, the Commander emphasized his words, is yourchance to redeem yourself! He fell silent, while the viso-screen beganto show a crowded space port on Venus, and a gigantic passenger spacerup-tilted in its cradle. <doc-sep>They watched the parabola it made in its trajectory as it flashed intospace and then fell into orbit there beyond the planetary attraction ofVenus. On the three-dimensional viso-screen it was uncannily real. A flight that had taken many hours to accomplish, was shortened onthe viso-screen to a matter of minutes. They saw the great, proudinterplanetary transport speeding majestically through the starry void,and suddenly, they saw her swerve in a great arc; again she swervedas if avoiding something deadly in space, and point upwards gainingaltitude. It was zig-zagging now, desperately maneuvering in an erraticcourse, and as if by magic, a tiny spot appeared on the transport'sside. Tiny on the viso-screen, the fatal spots must have been huge inactuality. To the Commander of the I.S.P., and to Captain Brooke, itwas an old story. Atom-blasts were pitting the spacer's hull withdeadly Genton shells. The great transport trembled under the impact ofthe barrage, and suddenly, the screen went blank. Commander Bertram turned slowly to face the young I.S.P. captain, whosefeatures were a mask devoid of all expression now, save for the pallorand the burning fire in his eyes. And that's the sixth one in a month. Sometimes the survivors reachTerra in emergency spacers, or are picked up in space by othertransports ... and sometimes son ... well, as you know, sometimesthey're never seen again. When do I leave, Commander! Dennis Brooke's voice was like a javelinof ice. Right now, if you wish. We have a new cruiser armored in beryloid withdouble hull—a new design against Genton shells, but it's the speedof the thing that you'll want to know about. It just about surpassesanything ever invented. Get the figures and data from the coordinationroom, son; it's serviced and fueled and the crew's aboard. Heextended his hand. You're the best spacer we have—aside from yourrecklessness—and on your success depends far more than the capture ofan outlaw. Bertram smiled thinly. Happy landing! II Their nerves were ragged. Days and days of fruitless search for aphantom ship that seemed to have vanished from space, and an equallyelusive pirate whose whereabouts were hidden in the depths offathomless space. To all but Captain Brooke, this was a new adventure, their firstassignment to duty in a search that went beyond the realm of theinner planets, where men spent sleepless nights in eternal vigilanceagainst stray asteroids and outlaw crews of ruthless vandal ships. Eventheir cruiser was a new experience, the long, tapering fighter lackedthe luxurious offices and appointments of the regular I.S.P. Patrolspacers. It placed a maximum on speed, and all available space washoarded for fuel. The lightning fast tiger of the space-lanes, was athing of beauty, but of grim, sleek beauty instinct with power, not thecomfortable luxury that they knew. Day after day they went through their drills, donning space suits,manning battle stations; aiming deadly atom-cannon at empty space, andeternally scanning the vast empty reaches by means of the telecast. And suddenly, out of the void, as they had all but given up the searchas a wild goose chase, a speck was limned in the lighted surface of theviso-screen in the control room. Instantly the I.S.P. cruiser came tolife. In a burst of magnificent speed, the cruiser literally devouredthe space leagues, until the spacer became a flashing streak. On theviso-screen, the speck grew larger, took on contours, growing andbecoming slowly the drifting shell of what had been a transport. Presently they were within reaching distance, and Captain Brookecommanded through the teleradio from the control room: Prepare to board! Every member of the crew wanted to be among the boarding party, forall but George Randall, the junior member of the crew had served hisapprenticeship among the inner planets, Mars, Venus and Terra. He feltnauseated at the very thought of going out there in that vast abyss ofspace. His young, beardless face, with the candid blue eyes went palewhen the order was given. But presently, Captain Brooke named those whowere to go beside himself: You, Tom and Scotty, take one emergency plane, and Dallas! Yes, Captain! Dallas Bernan, the immense third lieutenant boomed inhis basso-profundo voice. You and I'll take a second emergency! There was a pause in the voiceof the Captain from the control room, then: Test space suits. Testoxygen helmets! Atom-blasts only, ready in five minutes! George Randall breathed a sigh of relief. He watched them bridge thespace to the drifting wreck, then saw them enter what had once been aproud interplanetary liner, now soon to be but drifting dust, and heturned away with a look of shame. Inside the liner, Captain Dennis Brooke had finished making a detailedsurvey. No doubt about it, he spoke through the radio in his helmet. Cargomissing. No survivors. No indication that the repulsion fields wereout of order. And finally, those Genton shells could only have beenfired by Koerber! He tried to maintain a calm exterior, but inwardlyhe seethed in a cold fury more deadly than any he had ever experienced.Somehow he had expected to find at least one compartment unharmed,where life might have endured, but now, all hope was gone. Only a greatresolve to deal with Koerber once and for all remained to him. Dennis tried not to think of Marla, too great an ache was involved inthinking of her and all he had lost. When he finally spoke, his voicewas harsh, laconic: Prepare to return! Scotty Byrnes, the cruiser's nurse, who could take his motors through amajor battle, or hell and high water and back again, for that matter,shifted the Venusian weed that made a perpetual bulge on his cheek andgazed curiously at Captain Brooke. They all knew the story in variousversions, and with special additions. But they were spacemen, implicitin their loyalty, and with Dennis Brooke they could and did feel safe. Tom Jeffery, the tall, angular and red-faced Navigator, whose slow,easygoing movements belied the feral persistence of a tiger, and theswiftness of a striking cobra in a fight, led the small procession ofmen toward the emergency planes. Behind him came Dallas Bernan, thirdlieutenant, looming like a young asteroid in his space suit, followedby Scotty, and finally Captain Brooke himself. All left in silence, asif the tragedy that had occurred aboard the wrecked liner, had touchedthem intimately. <doc-sep>Aboard the I.S.P. Cruiser, a surprise awaited them. It was young GeorgeRandall, whose excited face met them as soon as they had entered theairlocks and removed the space suits. Captain Brooke ... Captain, recordings are showing on the new 'JetAnalyzers' must be the trail of some spacer. Can't be far! He wasfairly dancing in his excitement, as if the marvelous work of thenew invention that detected the disturbance of atomic jets at greatdistance were his own achievement. Dennis Brooke smiled. His own heart was hammering, and inwardly heprayed that it were Koerber. It had to be! No interplanetary passengerspacer could possibly be out here at the intersection of angles Kp39 degrees, 12 minutes, Fp 67 degrees of Ceres elliptic plane. Nonebut a pirate crew with swift battle cruisers could dare! This was thedangerous asteroid belt, where even planetoids drifted in eccentricuncharted orbits. Dennis, Tom Jeffery and Scotty Byrnes raced to the control room,followed by the ponderous Dallas to whom hurry in any form wasanathema. There could be no doubt now! The Jet Analyzer recordedpowerful disturbance, atomic—could be nothing else. Instantly Captain Brooke was at the inter-communication speaker: Crew, battle stations! Engine room, full speed! Scotty Byrnes was already dashing to the engine room, where his belovedmotors purred with an ascending hum. Aboard the I.S.P. Cruiser eachmember of the crew raced to his assigned task without delay. Actionimpended, and after days and nights of inertia, it was a blessedrelief. Smiles appeared on haggard faces, and the banter of mensuddenly galvanized by a powerful incentive was bandied back and forth.All but George Randall. Now that action was imminent. Something grippedhis throat until he could hardly stand the tight collar of his I.S.P.uniform. A growing nausea gripped his bowels, and although he strove tokeep calm, his hands trembled beyond control. In the compact, super-armored control room, Captain Brooke watchedthe telecast's viso-screen, with hungry eyes that were golden withanticipation. It seemed to him as if an eternity passed before atlast, a black speck danced on the illuminated screen, until it finallyreached the center of the viso-screen and remained there. It grew byleaps and bounds as the terrific speed of the cruiser minimized thedistance long before the quarry was aware of pursuit. But at last, when the enemy cruiser showed on the viso-screen,unmistakably for what it was—a pirate craft, it showed by its suddenmaneuver that it had detected the I.S.P. cruiser. For it had describeda parabola in space and headed for the dangerous asteroid belt. As ifnavigated by a masterly hand that knew each and every orbit of theasteroids, it plunged directly into the asteroid drift, hoping to losethe I.S.P. cruiser with such a maneuver. Ordinarily, it would havesucceeded, no I.S.P. patrol ship would have dared to venture into sucha trap without specific orders. But to Dennis Brooke, directing thechase from the control room, even certain death was welcome, if only hecould take Koerber with him. Weaving through the deadly belt for several hours, Dennis saw hisquarry slow down. Instantly he seized the chance and ordered a salvofrom starboard. Koerber's powerful spacer reeled, dived and came upspewing Genton-shells. The battle was on at last. From the banked atom-cannon of the I.S.P. Cruiser, a deadly curtainof atomic fire blazed at the pirate craft. A ragged rent back towardmidship showed on Koerber's Cruiser which trembled as if it had beenmortally wounded. Then Dennis maneuvered his cruiser into a powerdive as a rain of Genton-shells swept the space lane above him, but ashe came up, a lone shell struck. At such close range, super-armor wasripped, second armor penetrated and the magnificent vessel shook underthe detonating impact. It was then that Dennis Brooke saw the immense dark shadow loomingimmediately behind Koerber's ship. He saw the pirate cruiser zoomdesperately in an effort to break the gravity trap of the looming mass,but too late. It struggled like a fly caught in a spider-web to noavail. It was then that Koerber played his last card. Sensing he wasdoomed, he tried to draw the I.S.P. Cruiser down with him. A powerfulmagnetic beam lashed out to spear the I.S.P. Cruiser. <doc-sep>With a wrenching turn that almost threw them out of control, Dennismaneuvered to avoid the beam. Again Koerber's beam lashed out, as hesank lower into the looming mass, and again Dennis anticipating themaneuver avoided it. George Randall! He shouted desperately into the speaker. Cut alljets in the rocket room! Hurry, man! He banked again and then zoomedout of the increasing gravity trap. Randall! I've got to use the magnetic repulsion plates.... Cut all thejets! But there was no response. Randall's screen remained blank. ThenKoerber's lashing magnetic beam touched and the I.S.P. ship was caught,forced to follow the pirate ship's plunge like the weight at the end ofa whiplash. Koerber's gunners sent one parting shot, an atom-blast thatshook the trapped cruiser like a leaf. Beneath them, growing larger by the second, a small world rushed up tomeet them. The readings in the Planetograph seemed to have gone crazy.It showed diameter 1200 miles; composition mineral and radio-active.Gravity seven-eighths of Terra. It couldn't be! Unless perhaps thisunknown planetoid was the legendary core of the world that at one timewas supposed to have existed between Jupiter and Mars. Only that couldpossibly explain the incredible gravity. And then began another type of battle. Hearing the Captain's orders toRandall, and noting that no result had been obtained, Scotty Byrneshimself cut the jets. The Magnetic Repulsion Plates went into action,too late to save them from being drawn, but at least they could preventa crash. Far in the distance they could see Koerber's ship precedingthem in a free fall, then the Planetoid was rushing up to engulf them. III The atmosphere was somewhat tenuous, but it was breathable, provideda man didn't exert himself. To the silent crew of the I.S.P. Cruiser,the strange world to which Koerber's magnetic Beam had drawn them,was anything but reassuring. Towering crags jutted raggedly againstthe sky, and the iridescent soil of the narrow valley that walled inthe cruiser, had a poisonous, deadly look. As far as their eyes couldreach, the desolate, denuded vista stretched to the horizon. Pretty much of a mess! Dennis Brooke's face was impassive as heturned to Scotty Byrnes. What's your opinion? Think we can patch herup, or are we stuck here indefinitely? Scotty eyed the damage. The atom-blast had penetrated the hull intothe forward fuel chambers and the armor had blossomed out like flowerpetals. The crash-landing had not helped either. Well, there's a few beryloid plates in the storage locker, Captain,but, he scratched his head ruminatively and shifted his precious cud. But what? Speak up man! It was Tom Jeffery, his nerves on edge, hisordinarily gentle voice like a lash. But, you may as well know it, Scotty replied quietly. That partingshot of Koerber's severed our main rocket feed. I had to use theemergency tank to make it down here! For a long moment the four men looked at each other in silence. DennisBrooke's face was still impassive but for the flaming hazel eyes. Tomtugged at the torn sleeve of his I.S.P. uniform, while Scotty gazedmournfully at the damaged ship. Dallas Bernan looked at the long,ragged line of cliffs. I think we got Koerber, though, he said at last. While Tom was doinga job of navigation, I had one last glimpse of him coming down fastand out of control somewhere behind those crags over there! To hell with Koerber! Tom Jeffery exploded. You mean we're stuck inthis hellish rock-pile? Easy, Tom! Captain Brooke's tones were like ice. On his pale,impassive face, his eyes were like flaming topaz. Where's Randall? Probably hiding his head under a bunk! Dallas laughed with scorn. Hiscontemptuous remark voiced the feelings of the entire crew. A man whofailed to be at his battle-station in time of emergency, had no placein the I.S.P. Considering the gravity of this planetoid, Dennis Brooke saidthoughtfully, it's going to take some blast to get us off! Maybe we can locate a deposit of anerioum or uranium or something forour atom-busters to chew on! Scotty said hopefully. He was an eternaloptimist. Better break out those repair plates, Dennis said to Scotty. Tom,you get the welders ready. I've got a few entries to make in the logbook, and then we'll decide on a party to explore the terrain and tryto find out what happened to Koerber's ship. I must know, he said in alow voice, but with such passion that the others were startled. A figure appeared in the slanting doorway of the ship in time to hearthe last words. It was George Randall, adjusting a bandaged foreheadbumped during the crash landing. Captain ... I ... I wanted ... he paused unable to continue. You wanted what? Captain Brooke's voice was terse. Perhaps youwanted to explain why you weren't at your battle station? Sir, I wanted to know if ... if I might help Scotty with the weldingjob.... That wasn't at all what he'd intended to say. But somehow thewords had stuck in his throat and his face flushed deep scarlet. Hiscandid blue eyes were suspiciously brilliant, and the white bandagewith its crimson stains made an appealing, boyish figure. It softenedthe anger in Brooke's heart. Thinking it over calmly, Dennis realizedthis was the youngster's first trip into the outer orbits, and bettermen than he had cracked in those vast reaches of space. But there hadbeen an instant when he'd found Randall cowering in the rocket-room, inthe grip of paralyzing hysteria, when he could cheerfully have wrunghis neck! Certainly, Randall, he replied in a much more kindly tone. We'llneed all hands now. Thank you, sir! Randall seemed to hesitate for a moment, opened hismouth to speak further, but feeling the other's calculating gaze uponhim, he whirled and re-entered the ship. But for him we wouldn't be here! Dallas exclaimed. Aagh! He shookhis head in disgust until the several folds of flesh under his chinshook like gelatin. Cowards are hell! He spat. Easy, Dallas, Randall's a kid, give 'im a chance. Dennis observed. You Captain ... you're defending 'im? Why you had a greater stake inthis than we, and he's spoiled it for you! Yep, Dennis nodded. But I'm still keeping my senses clear. No feudson my ship. Get it! The last two words cut like a scimitar. Dallas nodded and lowered his eyes. Scotty shifted his cud and spata thin stream of juice over the iridescent ground. One by one theyre-entered the cruiser. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the attitude of Dennis towards Marla?

Marla used to be a fiancee of Dennis, but she broke up with him and left for an assignment. Her poignant last letter pained Dennis, but he kept rereading it, delving into drinks, dancers and images of Marla. This condition even caused him to fail his commander and be grounded. The break up left a huge void in Dennis and he had no desire to see other women. The news of her disappearance made Dennis pale and silent, he felt extreme pain, which was soon accompanied by anger towards Koerber. Dennis desired to rush that very second to search for Marla and bring Koerber, risking his own life. All the time without success Dennis was slowly losing hope, and when he didn't find any survivors, he was silent and devastated with the loss of hope to find Marla.

What is the importance of the Martian man attacking Dennis? [SEP] <s> THE SOUL EATERS By WILLIAM CONOVER Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose ships were the scourge of the Void. But his luck had run its course, and now he was marooned on a rogue planet—fighting to save himself from a menace weapons could not kill. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] And so, my dear , Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase, I'mafraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets—oris it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I'veaccepted. I did love you.... Good-by. Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's lastletter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, theynever failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender asthe palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with aperpetual wonder—limpid as a child's. The barbaric rhythms of the Congahua , were a background of annoyancein Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercuriandancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise lefthim cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughtsin silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, notto speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boomupon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only onesolitude—the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests. Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss ofMarla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could notfill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been hisfault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous JovianChamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have beenready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisersthat almost surrounded the space pirate. A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Everydream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful useof hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared asif by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man'ssoul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm realityunder the ineffable illumination of the Chamber. It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, afortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than asheaf of credits—it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., andmost of his heart in Marla. Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of theinsidious Verbena , fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frostyglass of Martian Bacca-glas , and as he did so, his brilliant hazeleyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of ayoung Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred inthose eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Dangerbrought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties couldinstantly denote. His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowedslightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of thisMartian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latterhad edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriadsemi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, ina final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap andtilted back invitingly. Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at thehandsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came thetinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on hisfeet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to oneside as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of DennisBrooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girlcried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis wasnot there. <doc-sep>Leaping to one side, impervious to the fall of the dancer, he avoidedthe murderous rush of the Martian youth, then he wheeled swiftly andplanted a sledge-hammer blow in that most vulnerable spot of allMartians, the spot just below their narrow, wasp-like waist, and as theMartian half-doubled over, he lefted him with a short jab to the chinthat staggered and all but dropped him. The Martian's violet eyes were black with fury now. He staggered backand sucked in air, his face contorted with excruciating pain. But hewas not through. His powerful right shot like a blast straight forDennis' chest, striking like a piston just below the heart. Dennis tookit, flat-footed, without flinching; then he let his right ride overwith all the force at his command. It caught the Martian on the jaw andspun him like a top, the pale, imperious face went crimson as he slowlysagged to his knees and rolled to the impeccable mosaics of the floor. Dennis, breathing heavily, stood over him until the internationalpolice arrived, and then he had the surprise of his life. Upon search,the police found a tiny, but fatal silvery tube holstered under hisleft arm-pit—an atomic-disintegrator, forbidden throughout theinterplanetary League. Only major criminals and space pirates stillwithout the law were known to possess them. Looks like your brawl has turned out to be a piece of fool's luck,Brooke! The Police Lieutenant favored Dennis with a wry smile. IfI'm not mistaken this chap's a member of Bren Koerber's pirate crew.Who else could afford to risk his neck at the International, and havein his possession a disintegrator? Pity we have no complete recordson that devil's crew! Anyway, we'll radio the I.S.P., perhaps theyhave details on this dandy! He eyed admiringly the priceless Martianembroideries on the unconscious Martian's tunic, the costly border ofred, ocelandian fur, and the magnificent black acerine on his finger. Dennis Brooke shrugged his shoulders, shoulders that would have put toshame the Athenian statues of another age. A faint, bitter smile curvedhis generous mouth. I'm grounded, Gillian, it'd take the capture ofKoerber himself to set me right with the I.S.P. again—you don't knowBertram! To him an infraction of rules is a major crime. Damn Venus!He reached for his glass of Verbena but the table had turned overduring the struggle, and the glass was a shattered mass of gleaming Bacca-glas shards. He laughed shortly as he became conscious of thevenomous stare of the Mercurian Dancer, of the excited voices of theguests and the emphatic disapproval of the Venusian proprietor whowas shocked at having a brawl in his ultra-expensive, ultra-exclusivePalace. Better come to Headquarters with me, Dennis, the lieutenant saidgently. We'll say you captured him, and if he's Koerber's, thecredit's yours. A trip to Terra's what you need, Venus for you is ahoodoo! <doc-sep>The stern, white haired I.S.P. Commander behind the immense Aluminildesk, frowned slightly as Dennis Brooke entered. He eyed the six footfour frame of the Captain before him with a mixture of feelings, asif uncertain how to begin. Finally, he sighed as if, having come to adecision, he were forcing himself to speak: Sit down, Dennis. I've sent for you, despite your grounding, fortwo reasons. The first one you already know—your capture of one ofKoerber's henchmen—has given us a line as to his present orbit ofpiracy, and the means of a check on his activities. But that's notreally why I've brought you here. He frowned again as if what he hadto say were difficult indeed. Marla Starland, your fiancee, accepted an assignment we offered her—adelicate piece of work here on Terra that only a very beautiful, andvery clever young lady could perform. And, he paused, grimacing,somewhere between Venus and Terra, the interplanetary spacer bringingher and several other passengers, began to send distress signals.Finally, we couldn't contact the ship any more. It is three daysoverdue. All passengers, a cargo of radium from Venus worth untoldmillions, the spacer itself—seem to have vanished. Dennis Brooke's space-tanned features had gone pale. His large hazeleyes, fringed with auburn lashes, too long for a man, were bright slitsthat smouldered. He stood silent, his hands clenched at his sides,while something cold and sharp seemed to dig at his heart with cruelprecision. Marla! He breathed at last. The thought of Marla in the powerof Koerber sent a wave of anguish that seared through him like anatom-blast. Commander, Dennis said, and his rich baritone voice had depths ofemotion so great that they startled Commander Bertram himself—andthat grizzled veteran of the I.S.P., had at one time or another knownevery change of torture that could possibly be wrung on a human soul.Commander, give me one ... one chance at that spawn of unthinkablebegetting! Let me try, and I promise you ... in his torture, Denniswas unconsciously banging a knotted fist on the chaste, satiny surfaceof the priceless desk, I promise you that I will either bring youKoerber, or forfeit my life! Commander Bertram nodded his head. I brought you here for thatpurpose, son. We have reached a point in our war with Koerber, wherethe last stakes must be played ... and the last stake is death! He reached over and flipped up the activator on a small telecast seton his desk; instantly the viso-screen lighted up. You'll now seea visual record of all we know about the passenger spacer that leftVenus with passengers and cargo, as far as we could contact the vesselin space. This, Dennis, the Commander emphasized his words, is yourchance to redeem yourself! He fell silent, while the viso-screen beganto show a crowded space port on Venus, and a gigantic passenger spacerup-tilted in its cradle. <doc-sep>They watched the parabola it made in its trajectory as it flashed intospace and then fell into orbit there beyond the planetary attraction ofVenus. On the three-dimensional viso-screen it was uncannily real. A flight that had taken many hours to accomplish, was shortened onthe viso-screen to a matter of minutes. They saw the great, proudinterplanetary transport speeding majestically through the starry void,and suddenly, they saw her swerve in a great arc; again she swervedas if avoiding something deadly in space, and point upwards gainingaltitude. It was zig-zagging now, desperately maneuvering in an erraticcourse, and as if by magic, a tiny spot appeared on the transport'sside. Tiny on the viso-screen, the fatal spots must have been huge inactuality. To the Commander of the I.S.P., and to Captain Brooke, itwas an old story. Atom-blasts were pitting the spacer's hull withdeadly Genton shells. The great transport trembled under the impact ofthe barrage, and suddenly, the screen went blank. Commander Bertram turned slowly to face the young I.S.P. captain, whosefeatures were a mask devoid of all expression now, save for the pallorand the burning fire in his eyes. And that's the sixth one in a month. Sometimes the survivors reachTerra in emergency spacers, or are picked up in space by othertransports ... and sometimes son ... well, as you know, sometimesthey're never seen again. When do I leave, Commander! Dennis Brooke's voice was like a javelinof ice. Right now, if you wish. We have a new cruiser armored in beryloid withdouble hull—a new design against Genton shells, but it's the speedof the thing that you'll want to know about. It just about surpassesanything ever invented. Get the figures and data from the coordinationroom, son; it's serviced and fueled and the crew's aboard. Heextended his hand. You're the best spacer we have—aside from yourrecklessness—and on your success depends far more than the capture ofan outlaw. Bertram smiled thinly. Happy landing! II Their nerves were ragged. Days and days of fruitless search for aphantom ship that seemed to have vanished from space, and an equallyelusive pirate whose whereabouts were hidden in the depths offathomless space. To all but Captain Brooke, this was a new adventure, their firstassignment to duty in a search that went beyond the realm of theinner planets, where men spent sleepless nights in eternal vigilanceagainst stray asteroids and outlaw crews of ruthless vandal ships. Eventheir cruiser was a new experience, the long, tapering fighter lackedthe luxurious offices and appointments of the regular I.S.P. Patrolspacers. It placed a maximum on speed, and all available space washoarded for fuel. The lightning fast tiger of the space-lanes, was athing of beauty, but of grim, sleek beauty instinct with power, not thecomfortable luxury that they knew. Day after day they went through their drills, donning space suits,manning battle stations; aiming deadly atom-cannon at empty space, andeternally scanning the vast empty reaches by means of the telecast. And suddenly, out of the void, as they had all but given up the searchas a wild goose chase, a speck was limned in the lighted surface of theviso-screen in the control room. Instantly the I.S.P. cruiser came tolife. In a burst of magnificent speed, the cruiser literally devouredthe space leagues, until the spacer became a flashing streak. On theviso-screen, the speck grew larger, took on contours, growing andbecoming slowly the drifting shell of what had been a transport. Presently they were within reaching distance, and Captain Brookecommanded through the teleradio from the control room: Prepare to board! Every member of the crew wanted to be among the boarding party, forall but George Randall, the junior member of the crew had served hisapprenticeship among the inner planets, Mars, Venus and Terra. He feltnauseated at the very thought of going out there in that vast abyss ofspace. His young, beardless face, with the candid blue eyes went palewhen the order was given. But presently, Captain Brooke named those whowere to go beside himself: You, Tom and Scotty, take one emergency plane, and Dallas! Yes, Captain! Dallas Bernan, the immense third lieutenant boomed inhis basso-profundo voice. You and I'll take a second emergency! There was a pause in the voiceof the Captain from the control room, then: Test space suits. Testoxygen helmets! Atom-blasts only, ready in five minutes! George Randall breathed a sigh of relief. He watched them bridge thespace to the drifting wreck, then saw them enter what had once been aproud interplanetary liner, now soon to be but drifting dust, and heturned away with a look of shame. Inside the liner, Captain Dennis Brooke had finished making a detailedsurvey. No doubt about it, he spoke through the radio in his helmet. Cargomissing. No survivors. No indication that the repulsion fields wereout of order. And finally, those Genton shells could only have beenfired by Koerber! He tried to maintain a calm exterior, but inwardlyhe seethed in a cold fury more deadly than any he had ever experienced.Somehow he had expected to find at least one compartment unharmed,where life might have endured, but now, all hope was gone. Only a greatresolve to deal with Koerber once and for all remained to him. Dennis tried not to think of Marla, too great an ache was involved inthinking of her and all he had lost. When he finally spoke, his voicewas harsh, laconic: Prepare to return! Scotty Byrnes, the cruiser's nurse, who could take his motors through amajor battle, or hell and high water and back again, for that matter,shifted the Venusian weed that made a perpetual bulge on his cheek andgazed curiously at Captain Brooke. They all knew the story in variousversions, and with special additions. But they were spacemen, implicitin their loyalty, and with Dennis Brooke they could and did feel safe. Tom Jeffery, the tall, angular and red-faced Navigator, whose slow,easygoing movements belied the feral persistence of a tiger, and theswiftness of a striking cobra in a fight, led the small procession ofmen toward the emergency planes. Behind him came Dallas Bernan, thirdlieutenant, looming like a young asteroid in his space suit, followedby Scotty, and finally Captain Brooke himself. All left in silence, asif the tragedy that had occurred aboard the wrecked liner, had touchedthem intimately. <doc-sep>Aboard the I.S.P. Cruiser, a surprise awaited them. It was young GeorgeRandall, whose excited face met them as soon as they had entered theairlocks and removed the space suits. Captain Brooke ... Captain, recordings are showing on the new 'JetAnalyzers' must be the trail of some spacer. Can't be far! He wasfairly dancing in his excitement, as if the marvelous work of thenew invention that detected the disturbance of atomic jets at greatdistance were his own achievement. Dennis Brooke smiled. His own heart was hammering, and inwardly heprayed that it were Koerber. It had to be! No interplanetary passengerspacer could possibly be out here at the intersection of angles Kp39 degrees, 12 minutes, Fp 67 degrees of Ceres elliptic plane. Nonebut a pirate crew with swift battle cruisers could dare! This was thedangerous asteroid belt, where even planetoids drifted in eccentricuncharted orbits. Dennis, Tom Jeffery and Scotty Byrnes raced to the control room,followed by the ponderous Dallas to whom hurry in any form wasanathema. There could be no doubt now! The Jet Analyzer recordedpowerful disturbance, atomic—could be nothing else. Instantly Captain Brooke was at the inter-communication speaker: Crew, battle stations! Engine room, full speed! Scotty Byrnes was already dashing to the engine room, where his belovedmotors purred with an ascending hum. Aboard the I.S.P. Cruiser eachmember of the crew raced to his assigned task without delay. Actionimpended, and after days and nights of inertia, it was a blessedrelief. Smiles appeared on haggard faces, and the banter of mensuddenly galvanized by a powerful incentive was bandied back and forth.All but George Randall. Now that action was imminent. Something grippedhis throat until he could hardly stand the tight collar of his I.S.P.uniform. A growing nausea gripped his bowels, and although he strove tokeep calm, his hands trembled beyond control. In the compact, super-armored control room, Captain Brooke watchedthe telecast's viso-screen, with hungry eyes that were golden withanticipation. It seemed to him as if an eternity passed before atlast, a black speck danced on the illuminated screen, until it finallyreached the center of the viso-screen and remained there. It grew byleaps and bounds as the terrific speed of the cruiser minimized thedistance long before the quarry was aware of pursuit. But at last, when the enemy cruiser showed on the viso-screen,unmistakably for what it was—a pirate craft, it showed by its suddenmaneuver that it had detected the I.S.P. cruiser. For it had describeda parabola in space and headed for the dangerous asteroid belt. As ifnavigated by a masterly hand that knew each and every orbit of theasteroids, it plunged directly into the asteroid drift, hoping to losethe I.S.P. cruiser with such a maneuver. Ordinarily, it would havesucceeded, no I.S.P. patrol ship would have dared to venture into sucha trap without specific orders. But to Dennis Brooke, directing thechase from the control room, even certain death was welcome, if only hecould take Koerber with him. Weaving through the deadly belt for several hours, Dennis saw hisquarry slow down. Instantly he seized the chance and ordered a salvofrom starboard. Koerber's powerful spacer reeled, dived and came upspewing Genton-shells. The battle was on at last. From the banked atom-cannon of the I.S.P. Cruiser, a deadly curtainof atomic fire blazed at the pirate craft. A ragged rent back towardmidship showed on Koerber's Cruiser which trembled as if it had beenmortally wounded. Then Dennis maneuvered his cruiser into a powerdive as a rain of Genton-shells swept the space lane above him, but ashe came up, a lone shell struck. At such close range, super-armor wasripped, second armor penetrated and the magnificent vessel shook underthe detonating impact. It was then that Dennis Brooke saw the immense dark shadow loomingimmediately behind Koerber's ship. He saw the pirate cruiser zoomdesperately in an effort to break the gravity trap of the looming mass,but too late. It struggled like a fly caught in a spider-web to noavail. It was then that Koerber played his last card. Sensing he wasdoomed, he tried to draw the I.S.P. Cruiser down with him. A powerfulmagnetic beam lashed out to spear the I.S.P. Cruiser. <doc-sep>With a wrenching turn that almost threw them out of control, Dennismaneuvered to avoid the beam. Again Koerber's beam lashed out, as hesank lower into the looming mass, and again Dennis anticipating themaneuver avoided it. George Randall! He shouted desperately into the speaker. Cut alljets in the rocket room! Hurry, man! He banked again and then zoomedout of the increasing gravity trap. Randall! I've got to use the magnetic repulsion plates.... Cut all thejets! But there was no response. Randall's screen remained blank. ThenKoerber's lashing magnetic beam touched and the I.S.P. ship was caught,forced to follow the pirate ship's plunge like the weight at the end ofa whiplash. Koerber's gunners sent one parting shot, an atom-blast thatshook the trapped cruiser like a leaf. Beneath them, growing larger by the second, a small world rushed up tomeet them. The readings in the Planetograph seemed to have gone crazy.It showed diameter 1200 miles; composition mineral and radio-active.Gravity seven-eighths of Terra. It couldn't be! Unless perhaps thisunknown planetoid was the legendary core of the world that at one timewas supposed to have existed between Jupiter and Mars. Only that couldpossibly explain the incredible gravity. And then began another type of battle. Hearing the Captain's orders toRandall, and noting that no result had been obtained, Scotty Byrneshimself cut the jets. The Magnetic Repulsion Plates went into action,too late to save them from being drawn, but at least they could preventa crash. Far in the distance they could see Koerber's ship precedingthem in a free fall, then the Planetoid was rushing up to engulf them. III The atmosphere was somewhat tenuous, but it was breathable, provideda man didn't exert himself. To the silent crew of the I.S.P. Cruiser,the strange world to which Koerber's magnetic Beam had drawn them,was anything but reassuring. Towering crags jutted raggedly againstthe sky, and the iridescent soil of the narrow valley that walled inthe cruiser, had a poisonous, deadly look. As far as their eyes couldreach, the desolate, denuded vista stretched to the horizon. Pretty much of a mess! Dennis Brooke's face was impassive as heturned to Scotty Byrnes. What's your opinion? Think we can patch herup, or are we stuck here indefinitely? Scotty eyed the damage. The atom-blast had penetrated the hull intothe forward fuel chambers and the armor had blossomed out like flowerpetals. The crash-landing had not helped either. Well, there's a few beryloid plates in the storage locker, Captain,but, he scratched his head ruminatively and shifted his precious cud. But what? Speak up man! It was Tom Jeffery, his nerves on edge, hisordinarily gentle voice like a lash. But, you may as well know it, Scotty replied quietly. That partingshot of Koerber's severed our main rocket feed. I had to use theemergency tank to make it down here! For a long moment the four men looked at each other in silence. DennisBrooke's face was still impassive but for the flaming hazel eyes. Tomtugged at the torn sleeve of his I.S.P. uniform, while Scotty gazedmournfully at the damaged ship. Dallas Bernan looked at the long,ragged line of cliffs. I think we got Koerber, though, he said at last. While Tom was doinga job of navigation, I had one last glimpse of him coming down fastand out of control somewhere behind those crags over there! To hell with Koerber! Tom Jeffery exploded. You mean we're stuck inthis hellish rock-pile? Easy, Tom! Captain Brooke's tones were like ice. On his pale,impassive face, his eyes were like flaming topaz. Where's Randall? Probably hiding his head under a bunk! Dallas laughed with scorn. Hiscontemptuous remark voiced the feelings of the entire crew. A man whofailed to be at his battle-station in time of emergency, had no placein the I.S.P. Considering the gravity of this planetoid, Dennis Brooke saidthoughtfully, it's going to take some blast to get us off! Maybe we can locate a deposit of anerioum or uranium or something forour atom-busters to chew on! Scotty said hopefully. He was an eternaloptimist. Better break out those repair plates, Dennis said to Scotty. Tom,you get the welders ready. I've got a few entries to make in the logbook, and then we'll decide on a party to explore the terrain and tryto find out what happened to Koerber's ship. I must know, he said in alow voice, but with such passion that the others were startled. A figure appeared in the slanting doorway of the ship in time to hearthe last words. It was George Randall, adjusting a bandaged foreheadbumped during the crash landing. Captain ... I ... I wanted ... he paused unable to continue. You wanted what? Captain Brooke's voice was terse. Perhaps youwanted to explain why you weren't at your battle station? Sir, I wanted to know if ... if I might help Scotty with the weldingjob.... That wasn't at all what he'd intended to say. But somehow thewords had stuck in his throat and his face flushed deep scarlet. Hiscandid blue eyes were suspiciously brilliant, and the white bandagewith its crimson stains made an appealing, boyish figure. It softenedthe anger in Brooke's heart. Thinking it over calmly, Dennis realizedthis was the youngster's first trip into the outer orbits, and bettermen than he had cracked in those vast reaches of space. But there hadbeen an instant when he'd found Randall cowering in the rocket-room, inthe grip of paralyzing hysteria, when he could cheerfully have wrunghis neck! Certainly, Randall, he replied in a much more kindly tone. We'llneed all hands now. Thank you, sir! Randall seemed to hesitate for a moment, opened hismouth to speak further, but feeling the other's calculating gaze uponhim, he whirled and re-entered the ship. But for him we wouldn't be here! Dallas exclaimed. Aagh! He shookhis head in disgust until the several folds of flesh under his chinshook like gelatin. Cowards are hell! He spat. Easy, Dallas, Randall's a kid, give 'im a chance. Dennis observed. You Captain ... you're defending 'im? Why you had a greater stake inthis than we, and he's spoiled it for you! Yep, Dennis nodded. But I'm still keeping my senses clear. No feudson my ship. Get it! The last two words cut like a scimitar. Dallas nodded and lowered his eyes. Scotty shifted his cud and spata thin stream of juice over the iridescent ground. One by one theyre-entered the cruiser. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the importance of the Martian man attacking Dennis?

Dennis was forced to fight back and exit his state of stagnation, caused by being grounded at work and left by fiancee. When he overcame the enemy, the least turned out to be a space pirate, bearing a prohibited weapon. That way Dennis stopped and imprisoned a criminal, who turned out to possess useful information about Koerber's present activities. This helpful action, together with Dennis' personal interest in success of the mission and his skills of a spacer, made the commander give Dennis a chance to redeem himself. For that reason Dennis was sent to search for Koerber and he set out for the adventure.

What does Dennis do for living and how is he treated at work? [SEP] <s> THE SOUL EATERS By WILLIAM CONOVER Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose ships were the scourge of the Void. But his luck had run its course, and now he was marooned on a rogue planet—fighting to save himself from a menace weapons could not kill. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] And so, my dear , Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase, I'mafraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets—oris it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I'veaccepted. I did love you.... Good-by. Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's lastletter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, theynever failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender asthe palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with aperpetual wonder—limpid as a child's. The barbaric rhythms of the Congahua , were a background of annoyancein Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercuriandancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise lefthim cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughtsin silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, notto speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boomupon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only onesolitude—the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests. Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss ofMarla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could notfill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been hisfault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous JovianChamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have beenready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisersthat almost surrounded the space pirate. A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Everydream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful useof hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared asif by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man'ssoul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm realityunder the ineffable illumination of the Chamber. It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, afortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than asheaf of credits—it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., andmost of his heart in Marla. Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of theinsidious Verbena , fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frostyglass of Martian Bacca-glas , and as he did so, his brilliant hazeleyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of ayoung Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred inthose eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Dangerbrought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties couldinstantly denote. His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowedslightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of thisMartian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latterhad edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriadsemi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, ina final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap andtilted back invitingly. Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at thehandsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came thetinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on hisfeet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to oneside as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of DennisBrooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girlcried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis wasnot there. <doc-sep>Leaping to one side, impervious to the fall of the dancer, he avoidedthe murderous rush of the Martian youth, then he wheeled swiftly andplanted a sledge-hammer blow in that most vulnerable spot of allMartians, the spot just below their narrow, wasp-like waist, and as theMartian half-doubled over, he lefted him with a short jab to the chinthat staggered and all but dropped him. The Martian's violet eyes were black with fury now. He staggered backand sucked in air, his face contorted with excruciating pain. But hewas not through. His powerful right shot like a blast straight forDennis' chest, striking like a piston just below the heart. Dennis tookit, flat-footed, without flinching; then he let his right ride overwith all the force at his command. It caught the Martian on the jaw andspun him like a top, the pale, imperious face went crimson as he slowlysagged to his knees and rolled to the impeccable mosaics of the floor. Dennis, breathing heavily, stood over him until the internationalpolice arrived, and then he had the surprise of his life. Upon search,the police found a tiny, but fatal silvery tube holstered under hisleft arm-pit—an atomic-disintegrator, forbidden throughout theinterplanetary League. Only major criminals and space pirates stillwithout the law were known to possess them. Looks like your brawl has turned out to be a piece of fool's luck,Brooke! The Police Lieutenant favored Dennis with a wry smile. IfI'm not mistaken this chap's a member of Bren Koerber's pirate crew.Who else could afford to risk his neck at the International, and havein his possession a disintegrator? Pity we have no complete recordson that devil's crew! Anyway, we'll radio the I.S.P., perhaps theyhave details on this dandy! He eyed admiringly the priceless Martianembroideries on the unconscious Martian's tunic, the costly border ofred, ocelandian fur, and the magnificent black acerine on his finger. Dennis Brooke shrugged his shoulders, shoulders that would have put toshame the Athenian statues of another age. A faint, bitter smile curvedhis generous mouth. I'm grounded, Gillian, it'd take the capture ofKoerber himself to set me right with the I.S.P. again—you don't knowBertram! To him an infraction of rules is a major crime. Damn Venus!He reached for his glass of Verbena but the table had turned overduring the struggle, and the glass was a shattered mass of gleaming Bacca-glas shards. He laughed shortly as he became conscious of thevenomous stare of the Mercurian Dancer, of the excited voices of theguests and the emphatic disapproval of the Venusian proprietor whowas shocked at having a brawl in his ultra-expensive, ultra-exclusivePalace. Better come to Headquarters with me, Dennis, the lieutenant saidgently. We'll say you captured him, and if he's Koerber's, thecredit's yours. A trip to Terra's what you need, Venus for you is ahoodoo! <doc-sep>The stern, white haired I.S.P. Commander behind the immense Aluminildesk, frowned slightly as Dennis Brooke entered. He eyed the six footfour frame of the Captain before him with a mixture of feelings, asif uncertain how to begin. Finally, he sighed as if, having come to adecision, he were forcing himself to speak: Sit down, Dennis. I've sent for you, despite your grounding, fortwo reasons. The first one you already know—your capture of one ofKoerber's henchmen—has given us a line as to his present orbit ofpiracy, and the means of a check on his activities. But that's notreally why I've brought you here. He frowned again as if what he hadto say were difficult indeed. Marla Starland, your fiancee, accepted an assignment we offered her—adelicate piece of work here on Terra that only a very beautiful, andvery clever young lady could perform. And, he paused, grimacing,somewhere between Venus and Terra, the interplanetary spacer bringingher and several other passengers, began to send distress signals.Finally, we couldn't contact the ship any more. It is three daysoverdue. All passengers, a cargo of radium from Venus worth untoldmillions, the spacer itself—seem to have vanished. Dennis Brooke's space-tanned features had gone pale. His large hazeleyes, fringed with auburn lashes, too long for a man, were bright slitsthat smouldered. He stood silent, his hands clenched at his sides,while something cold and sharp seemed to dig at his heart with cruelprecision. Marla! He breathed at last. The thought of Marla in the powerof Koerber sent a wave of anguish that seared through him like anatom-blast. Commander, Dennis said, and his rich baritone voice had depths ofemotion so great that they startled Commander Bertram himself—andthat grizzled veteran of the I.S.P., had at one time or another knownevery change of torture that could possibly be wrung on a human soul.Commander, give me one ... one chance at that spawn of unthinkablebegetting! Let me try, and I promise you ... in his torture, Denniswas unconsciously banging a knotted fist on the chaste, satiny surfaceof the priceless desk, I promise you that I will either bring youKoerber, or forfeit my life! Commander Bertram nodded his head. I brought you here for thatpurpose, son. We have reached a point in our war with Koerber, wherethe last stakes must be played ... and the last stake is death! He reached over and flipped up the activator on a small telecast seton his desk; instantly the viso-screen lighted up. You'll now seea visual record of all we know about the passenger spacer that leftVenus with passengers and cargo, as far as we could contact the vesselin space. This, Dennis, the Commander emphasized his words, is yourchance to redeem yourself! He fell silent, while the viso-screen beganto show a crowded space port on Venus, and a gigantic passenger spacerup-tilted in its cradle. <doc-sep>They watched the parabola it made in its trajectory as it flashed intospace and then fell into orbit there beyond the planetary attraction ofVenus. On the three-dimensional viso-screen it was uncannily real. A flight that had taken many hours to accomplish, was shortened onthe viso-screen to a matter of minutes. They saw the great, proudinterplanetary transport speeding majestically through the starry void,and suddenly, they saw her swerve in a great arc; again she swervedas if avoiding something deadly in space, and point upwards gainingaltitude. It was zig-zagging now, desperately maneuvering in an erraticcourse, and as if by magic, a tiny spot appeared on the transport'sside. Tiny on the viso-screen, the fatal spots must have been huge inactuality. To the Commander of the I.S.P., and to Captain Brooke, itwas an old story. Atom-blasts were pitting the spacer's hull withdeadly Genton shells. The great transport trembled under the impact ofthe barrage, and suddenly, the screen went blank. Commander Bertram turned slowly to face the young I.S.P. captain, whosefeatures were a mask devoid of all expression now, save for the pallorand the burning fire in his eyes. And that's the sixth one in a month. Sometimes the survivors reachTerra in emergency spacers, or are picked up in space by othertransports ... and sometimes son ... well, as you know, sometimesthey're never seen again. When do I leave, Commander! Dennis Brooke's voice was like a javelinof ice. Right now, if you wish. We have a new cruiser armored in beryloid withdouble hull—a new design against Genton shells, but it's the speedof the thing that you'll want to know about. It just about surpassesanything ever invented. Get the figures and data from the coordinationroom, son; it's serviced and fueled and the crew's aboard. Heextended his hand. You're the best spacer we have—aside from yourrecklessness—and on your success depends far more than the capture ofan outlaw. Bertram smiled thinly. Happy landing! II Their nerves were ragged. Days and days of fruitless search for aphantom ship that seemed to have vanished from space, and an equallyelusive pirate whose whereabouts were hidden in the depths offathomless space. To all but Captain Brooke, this was a new adventure, their firstassignment to duty in a search that went beyond the realm of theinner planets, where men spent sleepless nights in eternal vigilanceagainst stray asteroids and outlaw crews of ruthless vandal ships. Eventheir cruiser was a new experience, the long, tapering fighter lackedthe luxurious offices and appointments of the regular I.S.P. Patrolspacers. It placed a maximum on speed, and all available space washoarded for fuel. The lightning fast tiger of the space-lanes, was athing of beauty, but of grim, sleek beauty instinct with power, not thecomfortable luxury that they knew. Day after day they went through their drills, donning space suits,manning battle stations; aiming deadly atom-cannon at empty space, andeternally scanning the vast empty reaches by means of the telecast. And suddenly, out of the void, as they had all but given up the searchas a wild goose chase, a speck was limned in the lighted surface of theviso-screen in the control room. Instantly the I.S.P. cruiser came tolife. In a burst of magnificent speed, the cruiser literally devouredthe space leagues, until the spacer became a flashing streak. On theviso-screen, the speck grew larger, took on contours, growing andbecoming slowly the drifting shell of what had been a transport. Presently they were within reaching distance, and Captain Brookecommanded through the teleradio from the control room: Prepare to board! Every member of the crew wanted to be among the boarding party, forall but George Randall, the junior member of the crew had served hisapprenticeship among the inner planets, Mars, Venus and Terra. He feltnauseated at the very thought of going out there in that vast abyss ofspace. His young, beardless face, with the candid blue eyes went palewhen the order was given. But presently, Captain Brooke named those whowere to go beside himself: You, Tom and Scotty, take one emergency plane, and Dallas! Yes, Captain! Dallas Bernan, the immense third lieutenant boomed inhis basso-profundo voice. You and I'll take a second emergency! There was a pause in the voiceof the Captain from the control room, then: Test space suits. Testoxygen helmets! Atom-blasts only, ready in five minutes! George Randall breathed a sigh of relief. He watched them bridge thespace to the drifting wreck, then saw them enter what had once been aproud interplanetary liner, now soon to be but drifting dust, and heturned away with a look of shame. Inside the liner, Captain Dennis Brooke had finished making a detailedsurvey. No doubt about it, he spoke through the radio in his helmet. Cargomissing. No survivors. No indication that the repulsion fields wereout of order. And finally, those Genton shells could only have beenfired by Koerber! He tried to maintain a calm exterior, but inwardlyhe seethed in a cold fury more deadly than any he had ever experienced.Somehow he had expected to find at least one compartment unharmed,where life might have endured, but now, all hope was gone. Only a greatresolve to deal with Koerber once and for all remained to him. Dennis tried not to think of Marla, too great an ache was involved inthinking of her and all he had lost. When he finally spoke, his voicewas harsh, laconic: Prepare to return! Scotty Byrnes, the cruiser's nurse, who could take his motors through amajor battle, or hell and high water and back again, for that matter,shifted the Venusian weed that made a perpetual bulge on his cheek andgazed curiously at Captain Brooke. They all knew the story in variousversions, and with special additions. But they were spacemen, implicitin their loyalty, and with Dennis Brooke they could and did feel safe. Tom Jeffery, the tall, angular and red-faced Navigator, whose slow,easygoing movements belied the feral persistence of a tiger, and theswiftness of a striking cobra in a fight, led the small procession ofmen toward the emergency planes. Behind him came Dallas Bernan, thirdlieutenant, looming like a young asteroid in his space suit, followedby Scotty, and finally Captain Brooke himself. All left in silence, asif the tragedy that had occurred aboard the wrecked liner, had touchedthem intimately. <doc-sep>Aboard the I.S.P. Cruiser, a surprise awaited them. It was young GeorgeRandall, whose excited face met them as soon as they had entered theairlocks and removed the space suits. Captain Brooke ... Captain, recordings are showing on the new 'JetAnalyzers' must be the trail of some spacer. Can't be far! He wasfairly dancing in his excitement, as if the marvelous work of thenew invention that detected the disturbance of atomic jets at greatdistance were his own achievement. Dennis Brooke smiled. His own heart was hammering, and inwardly heprayed that it were Koerber. It had to be! No interplanetary passengerspacer could possibly be out here at the intersection of angles Kp39 degrees, 12 minutes, Fp 67 degrees of Ceres elliptic plane. Nonebut a pirate crew with swift battle cruisers could dare! This was thedangerous asteroid belt, where even planetoids drifted in eccentricuncharted orbits. Dennis, Tom Jeffery and Scotty Byrnes raced to the control room,followed by the ponderous Dallas to whom hurry in any form wasanathema. There could be no doubt now! The Jet Analyzer recordedpowerful disturbance, atomic—could be nothing else. Instantly Captain Brooke was at the inter-communication speaker: Crew, battle stations! Engine room, full speed! Scotty Byrnes was already dashing to the engine room, where his belovedmotors purred with an ascending hum. Aboard the I.S.P. Cruiser eachmember of the crew raced to his assigned task without delay. Actionimpended, and after days and nights of inertia, it was a blessedrelief. Smiles appeared on haggard faces, and the banter of mensuddenly galvanized by a powerful incentive was bandied back and forth.All but George Randall. Now that action was imminent. Something grippedhis throat until he could hardly stand the tight collar of his I.S.P.uniform. A growing nausea gripped his bowels, and although he strove tokeep calm, his hands trembled beyond control. In the compact, super-armored control room, Captain Brooke watchedthe telecast's viso-screen, with hungry eyes that were golden withanticipation. It seemed to him as if an eternity passed before atlast, a black speck danced on the illuminated screen, until it finallyreached the center of the viso-screen and remained there. It grew byleaps and bounds as the terrific speed of the cruiser minimized thedistance long before the quarry was aware of pursuit. But at last, when the enemy cruiser showed on the viso-screen,unmistakably for what it was—a pirate craft, it showed by its suddenmaneuver that it had detected the I.S.P. cruiser. For it had describeda parabola in space and headed for the dangerous asteroid belt. As ifnavigated by a masterly hand that knew each and every orbit of theasteroids, it plunged directly into the asteroid drift, hoping to losethe I.S.P. cruiser with such a maneuver. Ordinarily, it would havesucceeded, no I.S.P. patrol ship would have dared to venture into sucha trap without specific orders. But to Dennis Brooke, directing thechase from the control room, even certain death was welcome, if only hecould take Koerber with him. Weaving through the deadly belt for several hours, Dennis saw hisquarry slow down. Instantly he seized the chance and ordered a salvofrom starboard. Koerber's powerful spacer reeled, dived and came upspewing Genton-shells. The battle was on at last. From the banked atom-cannon of the I.S.P. Cruiser, a deadly curtainof atomic fire blazed at the pirate craft. A ragged rent back towardmidship showed on Koerber's Cruiser which trembled as if it had beenmortally wounded. Then Dennis maneuvered his cruiser into a powerdive as a rain of Genton-shells swept the space lane above him, but ashe came up, a lone shell struck. At such close range, super-armor wasripped, second armor penetrated and the magnificent vessel shook underthe detonating impact. It was then that Dennis Brooke saw the immense dark shadow loomingimmediately behind Koerber's ship. He saw the pirate cruiser zoomdesperately in an effort to break the gravity trap of the looming mass,but too late. It struggled like a fly caught in a spider-web to noavail. It was then that Koerber played his last card. Sensing he wasdoomed, he tried to draw the I.S.P. Cruiser down with him. A powerfulmagnetic beam lashed out to spear the I.S.P. Cruiser. <doc-sep>With a wrenching turn that almost threw them out of control, Dennismaneuvered to avoid the beam. Again Koerber's beam lashed out, as hesank lower into the looming mass, and again Dennis anticipating themaneuver avoided it. George Randall! He shouted desperately into the speaker. Cut alljets in the rocket room! Hurry, man! He banked again and then zoomedout of the increasing gravity trap. Randall! I've got to use the magnetic repulsion plates.... Cut all thejets! But there was no response. Randall's screen remained blank. ThenKoerber's lashing magnetic beam touched and the I.S.P. ship was caught,forced to follow the pirate ship's plunge like the weight at the end ofa whiplash. Koerber's gunners sent one parting shot, an atom-blast thatshook the trapped cruiser like a leaf. Beneath them, growing larger by the second, a small world rushed up tomeet them. The readings in the Planetograph seemed to have gone crazy.It showed diameter 1200 miles; composition mineral and radio-active.Gravity seven-eighths of Terra. It couldn't be! Unless perhaps thisunknown planetoid was the legendary core of the world that at one timewas supposed to have existed between Jupiter and Mars. Only that couldpossibly explain the incredible gravity. And then began another type of battle. Hearing the Captain's orders toRandall, and noting that no result had been obtained, Scotty Byrneshimself cut the jets. The Magnetic Repulsion Plates went into action,too late to save them from being drawn, but at least they could preventa crash. Far in the distance they could see Koerber's ship precedingthem in a free fall, then the Planetoid was rushing up to engulf them. III The atmosphere was somewhat tenuous, but it was breathable, provideda man didn't exert himself. To the silent crew of the I.S.P. Cruiser,the strange world to which Koerber's magnetic Beam had drawn them,was anything but reassuring. Towering crags jutted raggedly againstthe sky, and the iridescent soil of the narrow valley that walled inthe cruiser, had a poisonous, deadly look. As far as their eyes couldreach, the desolate, denuded vista stretched to the horizon. Pretty much of a mess! Dennis Brooke's face was impassive as heturned to Scotty Byrnes. What's your opinion? Think we can patch herup, or are we stuck here indefinitely? Scotty eyed the damage. The atom-blast had penetrated the hull intothe forward fuel chambers and the armor had blossomed out like flowerpetals. The crash-landing had not helped either. Well, there's a few beryloid plates in the storage locker, Captain,but, he scratched his head ruminatively and shifted his precious cud. But what? Speak up man! It was Tom Jeffery, his nerves on edge, hisordinarily gentle voice like a lash. But, you may as well know it, Scotty replied quietly. That partingshot of Koerber's severed our main rocket feed. I had to use theemergency tank to make it down here! For a long moment the four men looked at each other in silence. DennisBrooke's face was still impassive but for the flaming hazel eyes. Tomtugged at the torn sleeve of his I.S.P. uniform, while Scotty gazedmournfully at the damaged ship. Dallas Bernan looked at the long,ragged line of cliffs. I think we got Koerber, though, he said at last. While Tom was doinga job of navigation, I had one last glimpse of him coming down fastand out of control somewhere behind those crags over there! To hell with Koerber! Tom Jeffery exploded. You mean we're stuck inthis hellish rock-pile? Easy, Tom! Captain Brooke's tones were like ice. On his pale,impassive face, his eyes were like flaming topaz. Where's Randall? Probably hiding his head under a bunk! Dallas laughed with scorn. Hiscontemptuous remark voiced the feelings of the entire crew. A man whofailed to be at his battle-station in time of emergency, had no placein the I.S.P. Considering the gravity of this planetoid, Dennis Brooke saidthoughtfully, it's going to take some blast to get us off! Maybe we can locate a deposit of anerioum or uranium or something forour atom-busters to chew on! Scotty said hopefully. He was an eternaloptimist. Better break out those repair plates, Dennis said to Scotty. Tom,you get the welders ready. I've got a few entries to make in the logbook, and then we'll decide on a party to explore the terrain and tryto find out what happened to Koerber's ship. I must know, he said in alow voice, but with such passion that the others were startled. A figure appeared in the slanting doorway of the ship in time to hearthe last words. It was George Randall, adjusting a bandaged foreheadbumped during the crash landing. Captain ... I ... I wanted ... he paused unable to continue. You wanted what? Captain Brooke's voice was terse. Perhaps youwanted to explain why you weren't at your battle station? Sir, I wanted to know if ... if I might help Scotty with the weldingjob.... That wasn't at all what he'd intended to say. But somehow thewords had stuck in his throat and his face flushed deep scarlet. Hiscandid blue eyes were suspiciously brilliant, and the white bandagewith its crimson stains made an appealing, boyish figure. It softenedthe anger in Brooke's heart. Thinking it over calmly, Dennis realizedthis was the youngster's first trip into the outer orbits, and bettermen than he had cracked in those vast reaches of space. But there hadbeen an instant when he'd found Randall cowering in the rocket-room, inthe grip of paralyzing hysteria, when he could cheerfully have wrunghis neck! Certainly, Randall, he replied in a much more kindly tone. We'llneed all hands now. Thank you, sir! Randall seemed to hesitate for a moment, opened hismouth to speak further, but feeling the other's calculating gaze uponhim, he whirled and re-entered the ship. But for him we wouldn't be here! Dallas exclaimed. Aagh! He shookhis head in disgust until the several folds of flesh under his chinshook like gelatin. Cowards are hell! He spat. Easy, Dallas, Randall's a kid, give 'im a chance. Dennis observed. You Captain ... you're defending 'im? Why you had a greater stake inthis than we, and he's spoiled it for you! Yep, Dennis nodded. But I'm still keeping my senses clear. No feudson my ship. Get it! The last two words cut like a scimitar. Dallas nodded and lowered his eyes. Scotty shifted his cud and spata thin stream of juice over the iridescent ground. One by one theyre-entered the cruiser. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What does Dennis do for living and how is he treated at work?

Dennis works as an I.S.P. captain. His commander Bertram calls him son and is compassionate for the los of Marla. The commander values him and estimates as the best spacer. The Police Lieutenant is also friendly towards Dennis and willing to help him redeem, by saying that Dennis captured the pirate. Dennis' crew on the mission after Koerber heard the stories about the Captain and all were curious but silent, as if they were touched by his tragedy. The crew was loyal and trusted the captain. Dennis was sympathetic and full of humanity towards the young George Randall who failed the crew as it was his first mission. This action was a surprise for other members but none protested.

Where does the story take place? [SEP] <s> THE SOUL EATERS By WILLIAM CONOVER Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose ships were the scourge of the Void. But his luck had run its course, and now he was marooned on a rogue planet—fighting to save himself from a menace weapons could not kill. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] And so, my dear , Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase, I'mafraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets—oris it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I'veaccepted. I did love you.... Good-by. Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's lastletter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, theynever failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender asthe palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with aperpetual wonder—limpid as a child's. The barbaric rhythms of the Congahua , were a background of annoyancein Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercuriandancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise lefthim cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughtsin silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, notto speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boomupon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only onesolitude—the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests. Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss ofMarla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could notfill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been hisfault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous JovianChamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have beenready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisersthat almost surrounded the space pirate. A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Everydream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful useof hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared asif by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man'ssoul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm realityunder the ineffable illumination of the Chamber. It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, afortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than asheaf of credits—it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., andmost of his heart in Marla. Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of theinsidious Verbena , fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frostyglass of Martian Bacca-glas , and as he did so, his brilliant hazeleyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of ayoung Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred inthose eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Dangerbrought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties couldinstantly denote. His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowedslightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of thisMartian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latterhad edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriadsemi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, ina final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap andtilted back invitingly. Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at thehandsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came thetinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on hisfeet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to oneside as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of DennisBrooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girlcried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis wasnot there. <doc-sep>Leaping to one side, impervious to the fall of the dancer, he avoidedthe murderous rush of the Martian youth, then he wheeled swiftly andplanted a sledge-hammer blow in that most vulnerable spot of allMartians, the spot just below their narrow, wasp-like waist, and as theMartian half-doubled over, he lefted him with a short jab to the chinthat staggered and all but dropped him. The Martian's violet eyes were black with fury now. He staggered backand sucked in air, his face contorted with excruciating pain. But hewas not through. His powerful right shot like a blast straight forDennis' chest, striking like a piston just below the heart. Dennis tookit, flat-footed, without flinching; then he let his right ride overwith all the force at his command. It caught the Martian on the jaw andspun him like a top, the pale, imperious face went crimson as he slowlysagged to his knees and rolled to the impeccable mosaics of the floor. Dennis, breathing heavily, stood over him until the internationalpolice arrived, and then he had the surprise of his life. Upon search,the police found a tiny, but fatal silvery tube holstered under hisleft arm-pit—an atomic-disintegrator, forbidden throughout theinterplanetary League. Only major criminals and space pirates stillwithout the law were known to possess them. Looks like your brawl has turned out to be a piece of fool's luck,Brooke! The Police Lieutenant favored Dennis with a wry smile. IfI'm not mistaken this chap's a member of Bren Koerber's pirate crew.Who else could afford to risk his neck at the International, and havein his possession a disintegrator? Pity we have no complete recordson that devil's crew! Anyway, we'll radio the I.S.P., perhaps theyhave details on this dandy! He eyed admiringly the priceless Martianembroideries on the unconscious Martian's tunic, the costly border ofred, ocelandian fur, and the magnificent black acerine on his finger. Dennis Brooke shrugged his shoulders, shoulders that would have put toshame the Athenian statues of another age. A faint, bitter smile curvedhis generous mouth. I'm grounded, Gillian, it'd take the capture ofKoerber himself to set me right with the I.S.P. again—you don't knowBertram! To him an infraction of rules is a major crime. Damn Venus!He reached for his glass of Verbena but the table had turned overduring the struggle, and the glass was a shattered mass of gleaming Bacca-glas shards. He laughed shortly as he became conscious of thevenomous stare of the Mercurian Dancer, of the excited voices of theguests and the emphatic disapproval of the Venusian proprietor whowas shocked at having a brawl in his ultra-expensive, ultra-exclusivePalace. Better come to Headquarters with me, Dennis, the lieutenant saidgently. We'll say you captured him, and if he's Koerber's, thecredit's yours. A trip to Terra's what you need, Venus for you is ahoodoo! <doc-sep>The stern, white haired I.S.P. Commander behind the immense Aluminildesk, frowned slightly as Dennis Brooke entered. He eyed the six footfour frame of the Captain before him with a mixture of feelings, asif uncertain how to begin. Finally, he sighed as if, having come to adecision, he were forcing himself to speak: Sit down, Dennis. I've sent for you, despite your grounding, fortwo reasons. The first one you already know—your capture of one ofKoerber's henchmen—has given us a line as to his present orbit ofpiracy, and the means of a check on his activities. But that's notreally why I've brought you here. He frowned again as if what he hadto say were difficult indeed. Marla Starland, your fiancee, accepted an assignment we offered her—adelicate piece of work here on Terra that only a very beautiful, andvery clever young lady could perform. And, he paused, grimacing,somewhere between Venus and Terra, the interplanetary spacer bringingher and several other passengers, began to send distress signals.Finally, we couldn't contact the ship any more. It is three daysoverdue. All passengers, a cargo of radium from Venus worth untoldmillions, the spacer itself—seem to have vanished. Dennis Brooke's space-tanned features had gone pale. His large hazeleyes, fringed with auburn lashes, too long for a man, were bright slitsthat smouldered. He stood silent, his hands clenched at his sides,while something cold and sharp seemed to dig at his heart with cruelprecision. Marla! He breathed at last. The thought of Marla in the powerof Koerber sent a wave of anguish that seared through him like anatom-blast. Commander, Dennis said, and his rich baritone voice had depths ofemotion so great that they startled Commander Bertram himself—andthat grizzled veteran of the I.S.P., had at one time or another knownevery change of torture that could possibly be wrung on a human soul.Commander, give me one ... one chance at that spawn of unthinkablebegetting! Let me try, and I promise you ... in his torture, Denniswas unconsciously banging a knotted fist on the chaste, satiny surfaceof the priceless desk, I promise you that I will either bring youKoerber, or forfeit my life! Commander Bertram nodded his head. I brought you here for thatpurpose, son. We have reached a point in our war with Koerber, wherethe last stakes must be played ... and the last stake is death! He reached over and flipped up the activator on a small telecast seton his desk; instantly the viso-screen lighted up. You'll now seea visual record of all we know about the passenger spacer that leftVenus with passengers and cargo, as far as we could contact the vesselin space. This, Dennis, the Commander emphasized his words, is yourchance to redeem yourself! He fell silent, while the viso-screen beganto show a crowded space port on Venus, and a gigantic passenger spacerup-tilted in its cradle. <doc-sep>They watched the parabola it made in its trajectory as it flashed intospace and then fell into orbit there beyond the planetary attraction ofVenus. On the three-dimensional viso-screen it was uncannily real. A flight that had taken many hours to accomplish, was shortened onthe viso-screen to a matter of minutes. They saw the great, proudinterplanetary transport speeding majestically through the starry void,and suddenly, they saw her swerve in a great arc; again she swervedas if avoiding something deadly in space, and point upwards gainingaltitude. It was zig-zagging now, desperately maneuvering in an erraticcourse, and as if by magic, a tiny spot appeared on the transport'sside. Tiny on the viso-screen, the fatal spots must have been huge inactuality. To the Commander of the I.S.P., and to Captain Brooke, itwas an old story. Atom-blasts were pitting the spacer's hull withdeadly Genton shells. The great transport trembled under the impact ofthe barrage, and suddenly, the screen went blank. Commander Bertram turned slowly to face the young I.S.P. captain, whosefeatures were a mask devoid of all expression now, save for the pallorand the burning fire in his eyes. And that's the sixth one in a month. Sometimes the survivors reachTerra in emergency spacers, or are picked up in space by othertransports ... and sometimes son ... well, as you know, sometimesthey're never seen again. When do I leave, Commander! Dennis Brooke's voice was like a javelinof ice. Right now, if you wish. We have a new cruiser armored in beryloid withdouble hull—a new design against Genton shells, but it's the speedof the thing that you'll want to know about. It just about surpassesanything ever invented. Get the figures and data from the coordinationroom, son; it's serviced and fueled and the crew's aboard. Heextended his hand. You're the best spacer we have—aside from yourrecklessness—and on your success depends far more than the capture ofan outlaw. Bertram smiled thinly. Happy landing! II Their nerves were ragged. Days and days of fruitless search for aphantom ship that seemed to have vanished from space, and an equallyelusive pirate whose whereabouts were hidden in the depths offathomless space. To all but Captain Brooke, this was a new adventure, their firstassignment to duty in a search that went beyond the realm of theinner planets, where men spent sleepless nights in eternal vigilanceagainst stray asteroids and outlaw crews of ruthless vandal ships. Eventheir cruiser was a new experience, the long, tapering fighter lackedthe luxurious offices and appointments of the regular I.S.P. Patrolspacers. It placed a maximum on speed, and all available space washoarded for fuel. The lightning fast tiger of the space-lanes, was athing of beauty, but of grim, sleek beauty instinct with power, not thecomfortable luxury that they knew. Day after day they went through their drills, donning space suits,manning battle stations; aiming deadly atom-cannon at empty space, andeternally scanning the vast empty reaches by means of the telecast. And suddenly, out of the void, as they had all but given up the searchas a wild goose chase, a speck was limned in the lighted surface of theviso-screen in the control room. Instantly the I.S.P. cruiser came tolife. In a burst of magnificent speed, the cruiser literally devouredthe space leagues, until the spacer became a flashing streak. On theviso-screen, the speck grew larger, took on contours, growing andbecoming slowly the drifting shell of what had been a transport. Presently they were within reaching distance, and Captain Brookecommanded through the teleradio from the control room: Prepare to board! Every member of the crew wanted to be among the boarding party, forall but George Randall, the junior member of the crew had served hisapprenticeship among the inner planets, Mars, Venus and Terra. He feltnauseated at the very thought of going out there in that vast abyss ofspace. His young, beardless face, with the candid blue eyes went palewhen the order was given. But presently, Captain Brooke named those whowere to go beside himself: You, Tom and Scotty, take one emergency plane, and Dallas! Yes, Captain! Dallas Bernan, the immense third lieutenant boomed inhis basso-profundo voice. You and I'll take a second emergency! There was a pause in the voiceof the Captain from the control room, then: Test space suits. Testoxygen helmets! Atom-blasts only, ready in five minutes! George Randall breathed a sigh of relief. He watched them bridge thespace to the drifting wreck, then saw them enter what had once been aproud interplanetary liner, now soon to be but drifting dust, and heturned away with a look of shame. Inside the liner, Captain Dennis Brooke had finished making a detailedsurvey. No doubt about it, he spoke through the radio in his helmet. Cargomissing. No survivors. No indication that the repulsion fields wereout of order. And finally, those Genton shells could only have beenfired by Koerber! He tried to maintain a calm exterior, but inwardlyhe seethed in a cold fury more deadly than any he had ever experienced.Somehow he had expected to find at least one compartment unharmed,where life might have endured, but now, all hope was gone. Only a greatresolve to deal with Koerber once and for all remained to him. Dennis tried not to think of Marla, too great an ache was involved inthinking of her and all he had lost. When he finally spoke, his voicewas harsh, laconic: Prepare to return! Scotty Byrnes, the cruiser's nurse, who could take his motors through amajor battle, or hell and high water and back again, for that matter,shifted the Venusian weed that made a perpetual bulge on his cheek andgazed curiously at Captain Brooke. They all knew the story in variousversions, and with special additions. But they were spacemen, implicitin their loyalty, and with Dennis Brooke they could and did feel safe. Tom Jeffery, the tall, angular and red-faced Navigator, whose slow,easygoing movements belied the feral persistence of a tiger, and theswiftness of a striking cobra in a fight, led the small procession ofmen toward the emergency planes. Behind him came Dallas Bernan, thirdlieutenant, looming like a young asteroid in his space suit, followedby Scotty, and finally Captain Brooke himself. All left in silence, asif the tragedy that had occurred aboard the wrecked liner, had touchedthem intimately. <doc-sep>Aboard the I.S.P. Cruiser, a surprise awaited them. It was young GeorgeRandall, whose excited face met them as soon as they had entered theairlocks and removed the space suits. Captain Brooke ... Captain, recordings are showing on the new 'JetAnalyzers' must be the trail of some spacer. Can't be far! He wasfairly dancing in his excitement, as if the marvelous work of thenew invention that detected the disturbance of atomic jets at greatdistance were his own achievement. Dennis Brooke smiled. His own heart was hammering, and inwardly heprayed that it were Koerber. It had to be! No interplanetary passengerspacer could possibly be out here at the intersection of angles Kp39 degrees, 12 minutes, Fp 67 degrees of Ceres elliptic plane. Nonebut a pirate crew with swift battle cruisers could dare! This was thedangerous asteroid belt, where even planetoids drifted in eccentricuncharted orbits. Dennis, Tom Jeffery and Scotty Byrnes raced to the control room,followed by the ponderous Dallas to whom hurry in any form wasanathema. There could be no doubt now! The Jet Analyzer recordedpowerful disturbance, atomic—could be nothing else. Instantly Captain Brooke was at the inter-communication speaker: Crew, battle stations! Engine room, full speed! Scotty Byrnes was already dashing to the engine room, where his belovedmotors purred with an ascending hum. Aboard the I.S.P. Cruiser eachmember of the crew raced to his assigned task without delay. Actionimpended, and after days and nights of inertia, it was a blessedrelief. Smiles appeared on haggard faces, and the banter of mensuddenly galvanized by a powerful incentive was bandied back and forth.All but George Randall. Now that action was imminent. Something grippedhis throat until he could hardly stand the tight collar of his I.S.P.uniform. A growing nausea gripped his bowels, and although he strove tokeep calm, his hands trembled beyond control. In the compact, super-armored control room, Captain Brooke watchedthe telecast's viso-screen, with hungry eyes that were golden withanticipation. It seemed to him as if an eternity passed before atlast, a black speck danced on the illuminated screen, until it finallyreached the center of the viso-screen and remained there. It grew byleaps and bounds as the terrific speed of the cruiser minimized thedistance long before the quarry was aware of pursuit. But at last, when the enemy cruiser showed on the viso-screen,unmistakably for what it was—a pirate craft, it showed by its suddenmaneuver that it had detected the I.S.P. cruiser. For it had describeda parabola in space and headed for the dangerous asteroid belt. As ifnavigated by a masterly hand that knew each and every orbit of theasteroids, it plunged directly into the asteroid drift, hoping to losethe I.S.P. cruiser with such a maneuver. Ordinarily, it would havesucceeded, no I.S.P. patrol ship would have dared to venture into sucha trap without specific orders. But to Dennis Brooke, directing thechase from the control room, even certain death was welcome, if only hecould take Koerber with him. Weaving through the deadly belt for several hours, Dennis saw hisquarry slow down. Instantly he seized the chance and ordered a salvofrom starboard. Koerber's powerful spacer reeled, dived and came upspewing Genton-shells. The battle was on at last. From the banked atom-cannon of the I.S.P. Cruiser, a deadly curtainof atomic fire blazed at the pirate craft. A ragged rent back towardmidship showed on Koerber's Cruiser which trembled as if it had beenmortally wounded. Then Dennis maneuvered his cruiser into a powerdive as a rain of Genton-shells swept the space lane above him, but ashe came up, a lone shell struck. At such close range, super-armor wasripped, second armor penetrated and the magnificent vessel shook underthe detonating impact. It was then that Dennis Brooke saw the immense dark shadow loomingimmediately behind Koerber's ship. He saw the pirate cruiser zoomdesperately in an effort to break the gravity trap of the looming mass,but too late. It struggled like a fly caught in a spider-web to noavail. It was then that Koerber played his last card. Sensing he wasdoomed, he tried to draw the I.S.P. Cruiser down with him. A powerfulmagnetic beam lashed out to spear the I.S.P. Cruiser. <doc-sep>With a wrenching turn that almost threw them out of control, Dennismaneuvered to avoid the beam. Again Koerber's beam lashed out, as hesank lower into the looming mass, and again Dennis anticipating themaneuver avoided it. George Randall! He shouted desperately into the speaker. Cut alljets in the rocket room! Hurry, man! He banked again and then zoomedout of the increasing gravity trap. Randall! I've got to use the magnetic repulsion plates.... Cut all thejets! But there was no response. Randall's screen remained blank. ThenKoerber's lashing magnetic beam touched and the I.S.P. ship was caught,forced to follow the pirate ship's plunge like the weight at the end ofa whiplash. Koerber's gunners sent one parting shot, an atom-blast thatshook the trapped cruiser like a leaf. Beneath them, growing larger by the second, a small world rushed up tomeet them. The readings in the Planetograph seemed to have gone crazy.It showed diameter 1200 miles; composition mineral and radio-active.Gravity seven-eighths of Terra. It couldn't be! Unless perhaps thisunknown planetoid was the legendary core of the world that at one timewas supposed to have existed between Jupiter and Mars. Only that couldpossibly explain the incredible gravity. And then began another type of battle. Hearing the Captain's orders toRandall, and noting that no result had been obtained, Scotty Byrneshimself cut the jets. The Magnetic Repulsion Plates went into action,too late to save them from being drawn, but at least they could preventa crash. Far in the distance they could see Koerber's ship precedingthem in a free fall, then the Planetoid was rushing up to engulf them. III The atmosphere was somewhat tenuous, but it was breathable, provideda man didn't exert himself. To the silent crew of the I.S.P. Cruiser,the strange world to which Koerber's magnetic Beam had drawn them,was anything but reassuring. Towering crags jutted raggedly againstthe sky, and the iridescent soil of the narrow valley that walled inthe cruiser, had a poisonous, deadly look. As far as their eyes couldreach, the desolate, denuded vista stretched to the horizon. Pretty much of a mess! Dennis Brooke's face was impassive as heturned to Scotty Byrnes. What's your opinion? Think we can patch herup, or are we stuck here indefinitely? Scotty eyed the damage. The atom-blast had penetrated the hull intothe forward fuel chambers and the armor had blossomed out like flowerpetals. The crash-landing had not helped either. Well, there's a few beryloid plates in the storage locker, Captain,but, he scratched his head ruminatively and shifted his precious cud. But what? Speak up man! It was Tom Jeffery, his nerves on edge, hisordinarily gentle voice like a lash. But, you may as well know it, Scotty replied quietly. That partingshot of Koerber's severed our main rocket feed. I had to use theemergency tank to make it down here! For a long moment the four men looked at each other in silence. DennisBrooke's face was still impassive but for the flaming hazel eyes. Tomtugged at the torn sleeve of his I.S.P. uniform, while Scotty gazedmournfully at the damaged ship. Dallas Bernan looked at the long,ragged line of cliffs. I think we got Koerber, though, he said at last. While Tom was doinga job of navigation, I had one last glimpse of him coming down fastand out of control somewhere behind those crags over there! To hell with Koerber! Tom Jeffery exploded. You mean we're stuck inthis hellish rock-pile? Easy, Tom! Captain Brooke's tones were like ice. On his pale,impassive face, his eyes were like flaming topaz. Where's Randall? Probably hiding his head under a bunk! Dallas laughed with scorn. Hiscontemptuous remark voiced the feelings of the entire crew. A man whofailed to be at his battle-station in time of emergency, had no placein the I.S.P. Considering the gravity of this planetoid, Dennis Brooke saidthoughtfully, it's going to take some blast to get us off! Maybe we can locate a deposit of anerioum or uranium or something forour atom-busters to chew on! Scotty said hopefully. He was an eternaloptimist. Better break out those repair plates, Dennis said to Scotty. Tom,you get the welders ready. I've got a few entries to make in the logbook, and then we'll decide on a party to explore the terrain and tryto find out what happened to Koerber's ship. I must know, he said in alow voice, but with such passion that the others were startled. A figure appeared in the slanting doorway of the ship in time to hearthe last words. It was George Randall, adjusting a bandaged foreheadbumped during the crash landing. Captain ... I ... I wanted ... he paused unable to continue. You wanted what? Captain Brooke's voice was terse. Perhaps youwanted to explain why you weren't at your battle station? Sir, I wanted to know if ... if I might help Scotty with the weldingjob.... That wasn't at all what he'd intended to say. But somehow thewords had stuck in his throat and his face flushed deep scarlet. Hiscandid blue eyes were suspiciously brilliant, and the white bandagewith its crimson stains made an appealing, boyish figure. It softenedthe anger in Brooke's heart. Thinking it over calmly, Dennis realizedthis was the youngster's first trip into the outer orbits, and bettermen than he had cracked in those vast reaches of space. But there hadbeen an instant when he'd found Randall cowering in the rocket-room, inthe grip of paralyzing hysteria, when he could cheerfully have wrunghis neck! Certainly, Randall, he replied in a much more kindly tone. We'llneed all hands now. Thank you, sir! Randall seemed to hesitate for a moment, opened hismouth to speak further, but feeling the other's calculating gaze uponhim, he whirled and re-entered the ship. But for him we wouldn't be here! Dallas exclaimed. Aagh! He shookhis head in disgust until the several folds of flesh under his chinshook like gelatin. Cowards are hell! He spat. Easy, Dallas, Randall's a kid, give 'im a chance. Dennis observed. You Captain ... you're defending 'im? Why you had a greater stake inthis than we, and he's spoiled it for you! Yep, Dennis nodded. But I'm still keeping my senses clear. No feudson my ship. Get it! The last two words cut like a scimitar. Dallas nodded and lowered his eyes. Scotty shifted his cud and spata thin stream of juice over the iridescent ground. One by one theyre-entered the cruiser. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Where does the story take place?

The story starts on Venus, in a pleasure palace where Dennis is trying to distract himself from his ex-fiancee and being grounded on his job. After an attack followed by Dennis' victory, he proceeds Headquarters with the police and soon enters the I.S.P. commander's office. From there he immediately sets off to space on a ship, searching for days through the space for any signs of pirates or the disappeared spaceship. The first stop is the remnants of transport lacking any use. The second is a detected pirate spaceship, which the crew starts to follow. The setting of the chase remains in space, and after being engulfed by a Planetoid, the crew find itself in a strange world. The setting was rocky and looked deadly. Only desolate vista was seen around.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>Manet suspected hallucination, but in an existence with all the palliddispassion of a requited love he was happy to welcome dementia.Sometimes he even manufactured it. Sometimes he would run through thearteries of the factory and play that it had suddenly gone mad hatinghuman beings, and was about to close down its bulkheads on him as sureas the Engineers' Thumb and bale up the pressure-dehydrated digest,making so much stall flooring of him. He ran until he dropped with akind of climaxing release of terror. So Manet put on the pressure suit he had been given because he wouldnever need it, and marched out to meet the visiting spaceship. He wasn't quite clear how he came from walking effortlessly acrossthe Martian plain that had all the distance-perpetuating qualities ofa kid's crank movie machine to the comfortable interior of a strangecabin. Not a ship's cabin but a Northwoods cabin. The black and orange Hallowe'en log charring in the slate stonefireplace seemed real. So did the lean man with the smiling mustachepainted with the random designs of the fire, standing before thehorizontal pattern of chinked wall. Need a fresher? the host inquired. Manet's eyes wondered down to heavy water tumbler full of rich, amberwhiskey full of sparks from the hearth. He stirred himself in thecomfortingly warm leather chair. No, no, I'm fine . He let the wordhang there for examination. Pardon me, but could you tell me just whatplace this is? The host shrugged. It was the only word for it. Whatever place youchoose it to be, so long as you're with Trader Tom. 'Service,' that'smy motto. It is a way of life with me. Trader Tom? Service? Yes! That's it exactly. It's me exactly. Trader Tom Service—Servingthe Wants of the Spaceman Between the Stars. Of course, 'stars' ispoetic. Any point of light in the sky in a star. We service theplanets. Manet took the tumbler in both hands and drank. It was good whiskey,immensely powerful. The government wouldn't pay for somebody servingthe wants of spacemen, he exploded. Ah, Trader Tom said, cautionary. He moved nearer the fire and warmedhis hands and buttocks. Ah, but I am not a government service. Irepresent free enterprise. <doc-sep>Nonsense, Manet said. No group of private individuals can build aspaceship. It takes a combine of nations. But remember only that businessmen are reactionary. It's well-known.Ask anyone on the street. Businessmen are reactionary even beyond thecapitalistic system. Money is a fiction that exists mostly on paper.They play along on paper to get paper things, but to get real thingsthey can forego the papers. Comprehend, mon ami ? My businessmenhave gone back to the barter system. Between them, they have the rawmaterials, the trained men, the man-hours to make a spaceship. So theymake it. Damned reactionaries, all of my principals. I don't believe you, Manet stated flatly. His conversation had grownblunt with disuse. What possible profit could your principals turnfrom running a trading ship among scattered exploration posts on theplanets? What could you give us that a benevolent government doesn'talready supply us with? And if there was anything, how could we pay forit? My year's salary wouldn't cover the transportation costs of thisglass of whiskey. Do you find it good whiskey? Very good. Excellent? Excellent, if you prefer. I only meant—but never mind. We give you what you want. As forpaying for it—why, forget about the payment. You may apply for aTrader Tom Credit Card. And I could buy anything that I wanted with it? Manet demanded.That's absurd. I'd never be able to pay for it. That's it precisely! Trader Tom said with enthusiasm. You never pay for it. Charges are merely deducted from your estate . But I may leave no estate! Trader Tom demonstrated his peculiar shrug. All businesses operate ona certain margin of risk. That is our worry. <doc-sep>Manet finished the mellow whiskey and looked into the glass. It seemedto have been polished clean. What do you have to offer? Whatever you want? Irritably, How do I know what I want until I know what you have? You know. I know? All right, I know. You don't have it for sale. Old chap, understand if you please that I do not only sell . Iam a trader—Trader Tom. I trade with many parties. There are, forexample ... extraterrestrials. Folk legend! On the contrary, mon cher , the only reality it lacks is politicalreality. The Assembly could no longer justify their disposition ofthe cosmos if it were known they were dealing confiscation withoutrepresentation. Come, tell me what you want. Manet gave in to it. I want to be not alone, he said. Of course, Trader Tom replied, I suspected. It is not so unusual,you know. Sign here. And here. Two copies. This is yours. Thank you somuch. Manet handed back the pen and stared at the laminated card in his hand. When he looked up from the card, Manet saw the box. Trader Tom waspushing it across the floor towards him. The box had the general dimensions of a coffin, but it wasn'twood—only brightly illustrated cardboard. There was a large four-colorpicture on the lid showing men, women and children moving through abusy city street. The red and blue letters said: LIFO The Socialization Kit It is commercialized, Trader Tom admitted with no little chagrin.It is presented to appeal to a twelve-year-old child, an erotic,aggressive twelve-year-old, the typical sensie goer—but that isreality. It offends men of good taste like ourselves, yet sometimes itapproaches being art. We must accept it. What's the cost? Manet asked. Before I accept it, I have to know thecharges. You never know the cost. Only your executor knows that. It's theTrader Tom plan. Well, is it guaranteed? There are no guarantees, Trader Tom admitted. But I've never had anycomplaints yet. Suppose I'm the first? Manet suggested reasonably. You won't be, Trader Tom said. I won't pass this way again. <doc-sep>Manet didn't open the box. He let it fade quietly in the filtered butstill brilliant sunlight near a transparent wall. Manet puttered around the spawning monster, trying to brush the coppertaste of the station out of his mouth in the mornings, talking tohimself, winking at Annie Oakley, and waiting to go mad. Finally, Manet woke up one morning. He lay in the sheets of his bunk,suppressing the urge to go wash his hands, and came at last to theconclusion that, after all the delay, he was mad. So he went to open the box. The cardboard lid seemed to have become both brittle and rotten. Itcrumbled as easily as ideals. But Manet was old enough to remember theboxes Japanese toys came in when he was a boy, and was not alarmed. The contents were such a glorious pile of junk, of bottles from oldchemistry sets, of pieces from old Erector sets, of nameless things andunremembered antiques from neglected places, that it seemed too good tohave been assembled commercially. It was the collection of lifetime. On top of everything was a paperbound book, the size of the Reader'sDigest , covered in rippled gray flexiboard. The title was stamped inblack on the spine and cover: The Making of Friends . Manet opened the book and, turning one blank page, found the titlein larger print and slightly amplified: The Making of Friends andOthers . There was no author listed. A further line of informationstated: A Manual for Lifo, The Socialization Kit. At the bottom ofthe title page, the publisher was identified as: LIFO KIT CO., LTD.,SYRACUSE. The unnumbered first chapter was headed Your First Friend . Before you go further, first find the Modifier in your kit. Thisis vital . He quickly riffled through the pages. Other Friends, Authority, ACompanion .... Then The Final Model . Manet tried to flip past thissection, but the pages after the sheet labeled The Final Model werestuck together. More than stuck. There was a thick slab of plastic inthe back of the book. The edges were ridged as if there were pages tothis section, but they could only be the tracks of lame ants. Manet flipped back to page one. First find the Modifier in your kit. This is vital to your entireexperiment in socialization. The Modifier is Part #A-1 on the MasterChart. He prowled through the box looking for some kind of a chart. Therewas nothing that looked like a chart inside. He retrieved the lid andlooked at its inside. Nothing. He tipped the box and looked at itsoutside. Not a thing. There was always something missing from kits.Maybe even the Modifier itself. He read on, and probed and scattered the parts in the long box. Hestudied the manual intently and groped out with his free hand. The toe bone was connected to the foot bone.... The Red King sat smugly in his diagonal corner. The Black King stood two places away, his top half tipsy in frustration. The Red King crabbed sideways one square. The Black King pounced forward one space. The Red King advanced backwards to face the enemy. The Black King shuffled sideways. The Red King followed.... Uselessly. Tie game, Ronald said. Tie game, Manet said. Let's talk, Ronald said cheerfully. He was always cheerful. Cheerfulness was a personality trait Manet had thumbed out for him.Cheerful. Submissive. Co-operative. Manet had selected these factors inorder to make Ronald as different a person from himself as possible. The Korean-American War was the greatest of all wars, Ronald saidpontifically. Only in the air, Manet corrected him. Intelligence was one of the factors Manet had punched to suppress.Intelligence. Aggressiveness. Sense of perfection. Ronald couldn't knowany more than Manet, but he could (and did) know less. He had seen tothat when his own encephalograph matrix had programmed Ronald's feeder. There were no dogfights in Korea, Ronald said. I know. The dogfight was a combat of hundreds of planes in a tight area, thelast of which took place near the end of the First World War. Theaerial duel, sometimes inaccurately referred to as a 'dogfight' was notseen in Korea either. The pilots at supersonic speeds only had time forsingle passes at the enemy. Still, I believe, contrary to all experts,that this took greater skill, man more wedded to machine, than theleisurely combats of World War One. I know. Daniel Boone was still a crack shot at eight-five. He was said to bewarm, sincere, modest, truthful, respected and rheumatic. I know. <doc-sep>Manet knew it all. He had heard it all before. He was so damned sick of hearing about Korean air battles, DanielBoone, the literary qualities of ancient sports fiction magazines,the painting of Norman Rockwell, New York swing, ad nauseum . What anarrow band of interests! With the whole universe to explore in thoughtand concept, why did he have to be trapped with such an unoriginalhuman being? Of course, Ronald wasn't an original human being. He was a copy. Manet had been interested in the Fabulous Forties—Lt. Hoot Gibson,Sam Merwin tennis stories, Saturday Evening Post covers—when he hadfirst learned of them, and he had learned all about them. He had firmopinions on all these. He yearned for someone to challenge him—to say that Dime Sports hadbeen nothing but a cheap yellow rag and, why, Sewanee Review , therehad been a magazine for you. Manet's only consolidation was that Ronald's tastes were lower than hisown. He patriotically insisted that the American Sabre Jet was superiorto the Mig. He maintained with a straight face that Tommy Dorsey was abetter band man than Benny Goodman. Ronald was a terrific jerk. Ronald, Manet said, you are a terrific jerk. Ronald leaped up immediately and led with his right. Manet blocked it deftly and threw a right cross. Ronald blocked it deftly, and drove in a right to the navel. The two men separated and, puffing like steam locomotives passing thediesel works, closed again. Ronald leaped forward and led with his right. Manet stepped inside the swing and lifted an uppercut to the ledge ofRonald's jaw. Ronald pinwheeled to the floor. He lifted his bruised head from the deck and worked his reddened mouth.Had enough? he asked Manet. Manet dropped his fists to his sides and turned away. Yes. Ronald hopped up lightly. Another checkers, Billy Boy? No. Okay. Anything you want, William, old conquerer. Manet scrunched up inside himself in impotent fury. Ronald was maddeningly co-operative and peaceful. He would even get ina fist fight to avoid trouble between them. He would do anything Manetwanted him to do. He was so utterly damned stupid. Manet's eyes orbitted towards the checkerboard. But if he were so much more stupid than he, Manet, why was it thattheir checker games always ended in a tie? <doc-sep>The calendar said it was Spring on Earth when the radio was activatedfor a high-speed information and entertainment transmission. The buzzer-flasher activated in the solarium at the same time. Manet lay stretched out on his back, naked, in front of the transparentwall. By rolling his eyes back in his head, Manet could see over a hedge ofeyebrows for several hundred flat miles of white sand. And several hundred miles of desert could see him. For a moment he gloried in the blatant display of his flabby musclesand patchy sunburn. Then he sighed, rolled over to his feet and started trudging towardCommunication. He padded down the rib-ridged matted corridor, taking his usual smallpleasure in the kaleidoscopic effect of the spiraling reflections onthe walls of the tubeway. As he passed the File Room, he caught the sound of the poundingvibrations against the stoppered plug of the hatch. Come on, Billy Buddy, let me out of this place! Manet padded on down the hall. He had, he recalled, shoved Ronaldin there on Lincoln's Birthday, a minor ironic twist he appreciatedquietly. He had been waiting in vain for Ronald to run down ever since. In Communication, he took a seat and punched the slowed down playbackof the transmission. Hello, Overseers, the Voice said. It was the Voice of the B.B.C.It irritated Manet. He never understood how the British had got thespace transmissions assignment for the English language. He would havepreferred an American disk-jockey himself, one who appreciated New Yorkswing. We imagine that you are most interested in how long you shallbe required to stay at your present stations, said the Voice ofGod's paternal uncle. As you on Mars may know, there has been muchdiscussion as to how long it will require to complete the presentschedule— there was of course no K sound in the word—foratmosphere seeding. The original, non-binding estimate at the time of your departure was18.2 years. However, determining how long it will take our stationsproperly to remake the air of Mars is a problem comparable to findingthe age of the Earth. Estimates change as new factors are learned. Youmay recall that three years ago the official estimate was changed tothirty-one years. The recent estimate by certain reactionary sourcesof two hundred and seventy-four years is not an official governmentestimate. The news for you is good, if you are becoming nostalgic forhome, or not particularly bad if you are counting on drawing yourhandsome salary for the time spent on Mars. We have every reason tobelieve our original estimate was substantially correct. The totaltime is, within limits of error, a flat 18 years. A very flat 18 years, Manet thought as he palmed off the recorder. He sat there thinking about eighteen years. He did not switch to video for some freshly taped westerns. Finally, Manet went back to the solarium and dragged the big box out.There was a lot left inside. One of those parts, one of those bones or struts of flesh sprayers, oneof them, he now knew, was the Modifier. The Modifier was what he needed to change Ronald. Or to shut him off. If only the Master Chart hadn't been lost, so he would know what theModifier looked like! He hoped the Modifier itself wasn't lost. Hehated to think of Ronald locked in the Usher tomb of the File Roomfor 18 flat years. Long before that, he would have worn his fists awayhammering at the hatch. Then he might start pounding with his head.Perhaps before the time was up he would have worn himself down tonothing whatsoever. Manet selected the ripple-finished gray-covered manual from thehodgepodge, and thought: eighteen years. Perhaps I should have begun here, he told himself. But I really don'thave as much interest in that sort of thing as the earthier types.Simple companionship was all I wanted. And, he thought on, even aninsipid personality like Ronald's would be bearable with certaincompensations. Manet opened the book to the chapter headed: The Making of a Girl . <doc-sep>Veronica crept up behind Manet and slithered her hands up his back andover his shoulders. She leaned forward and breathed a moist warmth intohis ear, and worried the lobe with her even white teeth. Daniel Boone, she sighed huskily, only killed three Indians in hislife. I know. Manet folded his arms stoically and added: Please don't talk. She sighed her instant agreement and moved her expressive hands overhis chest and up to the hollows of his throat. I need a shave, he observed. Her hands instantly caressed his face to prove that she liked a ratherbristly, masculine countenance. Manet elbowed Veronica away in a gentlemanly fashion. She made her return. Not now, he instructed her. Whenever you say. He stood up and began pacing off the dimensions of the compartment.There was no doubt about it: he had been missing his regular exercise. Now? she asked. I'll tell you. If you were a jet pilot, Veronica said wistfully, you would beromantic. You would grab love when you could. You would never knowwhich moment would be last. You would make the most of each one. I'm not a jet pilot, Manet said. There are no jet pilots. Therehaven't been any for generations. Don't be silly, Veronica said. Who else would stop those vile NorthKoreans and Red China 'volunteers'? Veronica, he said carefully, the Korean War is over. It was finishedeven before the last of the jet pilots. Don't be silly, she snapped. If it were over, I'd know about it,wouldn't I? She would, except that somehow she had turned out even less bright,less equipped with Manet's own store of information, than Ronald.Whoever had built the Lifo kit must have had ancient ideas about whatconstituted appropriate feminine characteristics. I suppose, he said heavily, that you would like me to take you backto Earth and introduce you to Daniel Boone? Oh, yes. Veronica, your stupidity is hideous. She lowered her long blonde lashes on her pink cheeks. That is a meanthing to say to me. But I forgive you. An invisible hand began pressing down steadily on the top of his headuntil it forced a sound out of him. Aaaawrraagggh! Must you be socloyingly sweet? Do you have to keep taking that? Isn't there any fightin you at all? He stepped forward and back-handed her across the jaw. It was the first time he had ever struck a woman, he realizedregretfully. He now knew he should have been doing it long ago. Veronica sprang forward and led with a right. <doc-sep>Ronald's cries grew louder as Manet marched Veronica through thecorridor. Hear that? he inquired, smiling with clenched teeth. No, darling. Well, that was all right. He remembered he had once told her to ignorethe noise. She was still following orders. Come on, Bill, open up the hatch for old Ronald, the voice carriedthrough sepulchrally. Shut up! Manet yelled. The voice dwindled stubbornly, then cut off. A silence with a whisper of metallic ring to it. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Maybe because he secretly tookcomfort in the sound of an almost human voice echoing through thestation. Manet threw back the bolt and wheeled back the hatch. Ronald looked just the same as had when Manet had seen him last. Hishands didn't seem to have been worn away in the least. Ronald's lipsseemed a trifle chapped. But that probably came not from all theshouting but from having nothing to drink for some months. Ronald didn't say anything to Manet. But he looked offended. You, Manet said to Veronica with a shove in the small of the back,inside, inside. Ronald sidestepped the lurching girl. Do you know what I'm going to do with you? Manet demanded. I'm goingto lock you up in here, and leave you for a day, a month, a year,forever! Now what do you think about that? If you think it's the right thing, dear, Veronica said hesitantly. You know best, Willy, Ronald said uncertainly. Manet slammed the hatch in disgust. Manet walked carefully down the corridor, watching streamers ofhis reflection corkscrewing into the curved walls. He had to walkcarefully, else the artery would roll up tight and squash him. But hewalked too carefully for this to happen. As he passed the File Room, Ronald's voice said: In my opinion,William, you should let us out. I, Veronica said, honestly feel that you should let me out, Bill,dearest. Manet giggled. What? What was that? Do you suggest that I take youback after you've been behind a locked door with my best friend? He went down the corridor, giggling. He giggled and thought: This will never do. <doc-sep>Pouring and tumbling through the Lifo kit, consulting the manualdiligently, Manet concluded that there weren't enough parts left in thebox to go around. The book gave instructions for The Model Mother, The Model Father, TheModel Sibling and others. Yet there weren't parts enough in the kit. He would have to take parts from Ronald or Veronica in order to makeany one of the others. And he could not do that without the Modifier. He wished Trader Tom would return and extract some higher price fromhim for the Modifier, which was clearly missing from the kit. Or to get even more for simply repossessing the kit. But Trader Tom would not be back. He came this way only once. Manet thumbed through the manual in mechanical frustration. As he didso, the solid piece of the last section parted sheet by sheet. He glanced forward and found the headings: The Final Model . There seemed something ominous about that finality. But he had paida price for the kit, hadn't he? Who knew what price, when it came tothat? He had every right to get everything out of the kit that hecould. He read the unfolding page critically. The odd assortment ofill-matched parts left in the box took a new shape in his mind andunder his fingers.... Manet gave one final spurt from the flesh-sprayer and stood back. Victor was finished. Perfect. Manet stepped forward, lifted the model's left eyelid, tweaked his nose. Move! Victor leaped back into the Lifo kit and did a jig on one of theflesh-sprayers. As the device twisted as handily as good intentions, Manet realizedthat it was not a flesh-sprayer but the Modifier. It's finished! were Victor's first words. It's done! Manet stared at the tiny wreck. To say the least. Victor stepped out of the oblong box. There is something you shouldunderstand. I am different from the others. They all say that. I am not your friend. No? No. You have made yourself an enemy. Manet felt nothing more at this information than an esthetic pleasureat the symmetry of the situation. It completes the final course in socialization, Victor continued. Iam your adversary. I will do everything I can to defeat you. I have all your knowledge. You do not have all your knowledge. If you letyourself know some of the things, it could be used against you. It ismy function to use everything I possibly can against you. When do you start? I've finished. I've done my worst. I have destroyed the Modifier. What's so bad about that? Manet asked with some interest. You'll have Veronica and Ronald and me forever now. We'll neverchange. You'll get older, and we'll never change. You'll lose yourinterest in New York swing and jet combat and Daniel Boone, and we'llnever change. We don't change and you can't change us for others. I'vemade the worst thing happen to you that can happen to any man. I'veseen that you will always keep your friends. <doc-sep>The prospect was frightful. Victor smiled. Aren't you going to denounce me for a fiend? Yes, it is time for the denouncement. Tell me, you feel that now youare through? You have fulfilled your function? Yes. Yes. Now you will have but to lean back, as it were, so to speak, and seeme suffer? Yes. No. Can't do it, old man. Can't. I know. You're too human, toolike me. The one thing a man can't accept is a passive state, a stateof uselessness. Not if he can possibly avoid it. Something has to behappening to him. He has to be happening to something. You didn't killme because then you would have nothing left to do. You'll never killme. Of course not! Victor stormed. Fundamental safety cut-off! Rationalization. You don't want to kill me. And you can't stopchallenging me at every turn. That's your function. Stop talking and just think about your miserable life, Victor saidmeanly. Your friends won't grow and mature with you. You won't makeany new friends. You'll have me to constantly remind you of youruselessness, your constant unrelenting sterility of purpose. How's thatfor boredom, for passiveness? That's what I'm trying to tell you, Manet said irritably, his socialmanners rusty. I won't be bored. You will see to that. It's yourpurpose. You'll be a challenge, an obstacle, a source of triumph everyfoot of the way. Don't you see? With you for an enemy, I don't need afriend! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

William Manet is working in atmosphere seeder station 131-47 on Mars. He is completely alone, but doesn't fear loneliness, he welcomes it, and the idea that it might drive him mad one day. His job is to wait, looking out at the expanse of nothingness around him. He is an overseer, to prepare the atmosphere for colonization. One day, Manet thinks he sees a spaceship land near his station. He puts on his pressure suit and heads out to see what it is. As he walks towards it, he finds himself in a rustic log cabin, where a lean, tall man stands, waiting for him. The man calls himself "Trader Tom", and offers him a very interesting service. He tells Manet that he will give him a special credit card that will allow him to purchase anything he can think of. Manet's estate would cover the cost, and when Manet asks the man what would happen if he had no estate, Trader Tom simply says that this is a risk that he, and his business, take. Trader Tom asks what would Manet like, to which he replies: to not be alone. Manet signs some paperwork and is given the credit card. Manet is given a box, it is called "LIFO, the socialisation kit". The box contains various items from a person's lifetime. On top is a book entitled "The Making Of Friends and Others''. It orders the user to find the modifier, which Manet cannot locate. He goes to work anyway, on making his first friend with the tools inside the kit. His first friend he creates is named Ronald. He seems sweet at first but his incessant optimism and lack of intelligence finally becomes too much for Manet. Manet decides to lock Ronald in a room away from him. He is stuck on this planet for the next eighteen years, and will need some kind of company. He goes to work on creating his second companion, a girl. Veronica is sweet, she talks kindly to Manet, and throws herself at him, which he swerves. Manet thinks her to be even more stupid than Ronald, and ends up striking her, which he finds he enjoys. He locks her in the same room as Ronald. Manet once again goes back to the box, and goes to the last page of the handbook, entitled, "The Final Model". He creates this new being, whom he calls Victor. Victor jumps to life, and into the kit, destroying the item that Manet now realises was the modifier. Vitor explains to Manet that he is his enemy. He is just as intelligent as Manet, and is his designated adversary. Now that the modifier is destroyed, Manet will have no way to ever alter Veronica or Ronald, and will be stuck with the same silly, innocent people as he grows old. Manet will be bored for eighteen years. Manet replies to Victor, explaining, now that he has an enemy, he will never be bored.

Where is the story set? [SEP] <s> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>Manet suspected hallucination, but in an existence with all the palliddispassion of a requited love he was happy to welcome dementia.Sometimes he even manufactured it. Sometimes he would run through thearteries of the factory and play that it had suddenly gone mad hatinghuman beings, and was about to close down its bulkheads on him as sureas the Engineers' Thumb and bale up the pressure-dehydrated digest,making so much stall flooring of him. He ran until he dropped with akind of climaxing release of terror. So Manet put on the pressure suit he had been given because he wouldnever need it, and marched out to meet the visiting spaceship. He wasn't quite clear how he came from walking effortlessly acrossthe Martian plain that had all the distance-perpetuating qualities ofa kid's crank movie machine to the comfortable interior of a strangecabin. Not a ship's cabin but a Northwoods cabin. The black and orange Hallowe'en log charring in the slate stonefireplace seemed real. So did the lean man with the smiling mustachepainted with the random designs of the fire, standing before thehorizontal pattern of chinked wall. Need a fresher? the host inquired. Manet's eyes wondered down to heavy water tumbler full of rich, amberwhiskey full of sparks from the hearth. He stirred himself in thecomfortingly warm leather chair. No, no, I'm fine . He let the wordhang there for examination. Pardon me, but could you tell me just whatplace this is? The host shrugged. It was the only word for it. Whatever place youchoose it to be, so long as you're with Trader Tom. 'Service,' that'smy motto. It is a way of life with me. Trader Tom? Service? Yes! That's it exactly. It's me exactly. Trader Tom Service—Servingthe Wants of the Spaceman Between the Stars. Of course, 'stars' ispoetic. Any point of light in the sky in a star. We service theplanets. Manet took the tumbler in both hands and drank. It was good whiskey,immensely powerful. The government wouldn't pay for somebody servingthe wants of spacemen, he exploded. Ah, Trader Tom said, cautionary. He moved nearer the fire and warmedhis hands and buttocks. Ah, but I am not a government service. Irepresent free enterprise. <doc-sep>Nonsense, Manet said. No group of private individuals can build aspaceship. It takes a combine of nations. But remember only that businessmen are reactionary. It's well-known.Ask anyone on the street. Businessmen are reactionary even beyond thecapitalistic system. Money is a fiction that exists mostly on paper.They play along on paper to get paper things, but to get real thingsthey can forego the papers. Comprehend, mon ami ? My businessmenhave gone back to the barter system. Between them, they have the rawmaterials, the trained men, the man-hours to make a spaceship. So theymake it. Damned reactionaries, all of my principals. I don't believe you, Manet stated flatly. His conversation had grownblunt with disuse. What possible profit could your principals turnfrom running a trading ship among scattered exploration posts on theplanets? What could you give us that a benevolent government doesn'talready supply us with? And if there was anything, how could we pay forit? My year's salary wouldn't cover the transportation costs of thisglass of whiskey. Do you find it good whiskey? Very good. Excellent? Excellent, if you prefer. I only meant—but never mind. We give you what you want. As forpaying for it—why, forget about the payment. You may apply for aTrader Tom Credit Card. And I could buy anything that I wanted with it? Manet demanded.That's absurd. I'd never be able to pay for it. That's it precisely! Trader Tom said with enthusiasm. You never pay for it. Charges are merely deducted from your estate . But I may leave no estate! Trader Tom demonstrated his peculiar shrug. All businesses operate ona certain margin of risk. That is our worry. <doc-sep>Manet finished the mellow whiskey and looked into the glass. It seemedto have been polished clean. What do you have to offer? Whatever you want? Irritably, How do I know what I want until I know what you have? You know. I know? All right, I know. You don't have it for sale. Old chap, understand if you please that I do not only sell . Iam a trader—Trader Tom. I trade with many parties. There are, forexample ... extraterrestrials. Folk legend! On the contrary, mon cher , the only reality it lacks is politicalreality. The Assembly could no longer justify their disposition ofthe cosmos if it were known they were dealing confiscation withoutrepresentation. Come, tell me what you want. Manet gave in to it. I want to be not alone, he said. Of course, Trader Tom replied, I suspected. It is not so unusual,you know. Sign here. And here. Two copies. This is yours. Thank you somuch. Manet handed back the pen and stared at the laminated card in his hand. When he looked up from the card, Manet saw the box. Trader Tom waspushing it across the floor towards him. The box had the general dimensions of a coffin, but it wasn'twood—only brightly illustrated cardboard. There was a large four-colorpicture on the lid showing men, women and children moving through abusy city street. The red and blue letters said: LIFO The Socialization Kit It is commercialized, Trader Tom admitted with no little chagrin.It is presented to appeal to a twelve-year-old child, an erotic,aggressive twelve-year-old, the typical sensie goer—but that isreality. It offends men of good taste like ourselves, yet sometimes itapproaches being art. We must accept it. What's the cost? Manet asked. Before I accept it, I have to know thecharges. You never know the cost. Only your executor knows that. It's theTrader Tom plan. Well, is it guaranteed? There are no guarantees, Trader Tom admitted. But I've never had anycomplaints yet. Suppose I'm the first? Manet suggested reasonably. You won't be, Trader Tom said. I won't pass this way again. <doc-sep>Manet didn't open the box. He let it fade quietly in the filtered butstill brilliant sunlight near a transparent wall. Manet puttered around the spawning monster, trying to brush the coppertaste of the station out of his mouth in the mornings, talking tohimself, winking at Annie Oakley, and waiting to go mad. Finally, Manet woke up one morning. He lay in the sheets of his bunk,suppressing the urge to go wash his hands, and came at last to theconclusion that, after all the delay, he was mad. So he went to open the box. The cardboard lid seemed to have become both brittle and rotten. Itcrumbled as easily as ideals. But Manet was old enough to remember theboxes Japanese toys came in when he was a boy, and was not alarmed. The contents were such a glorious pile of junk, of bottles from oldchemistry sets, of pieces from old Erector sets, of nameless things andunremembered antiques from neglected places, that it seemed too good tohave been assembled commercially. It was the collection of lifetime. On top of everything was a paperbound book, the size of the Reader'sDigest , covered in rippled gray flexiboard. The title was stamped inblack on the spine and cover: The Making of Friends . Manet opened the book and, turning one blank page, found the titlein larger print and slightly amplified: The Making of Friends andOthers . There was no author listed. A further line of informationstated: A Manual for Lifo, The Socialization Kit. At the bottom ofthe title page, the publisher was identified as: LIFO KIT CO., LTD.,SYRACUSE. The unnumbered first chapter was headed Your First Friend . Before you go further, first find the Modifier in your kit. Thisis vital . He quickly riffled through the pages. Other Friends, Authority, ACompanion .... Then The Final Model . Manet tried to flip past thissection, but the pages after the sheet labeled The Final Model werestuck together. More than stuck. There was a thick slab of plastic inthe back of the book. The edges were ridged as if there were pages tothis section, but they could only be the tracks of lame ants. Manet flipped back to page one. First find the Modifier in your kit. This is vital to your entireexperiment in socialization. The Modifier is Part #A-1 on the MasterChart. He prowled through the box looking for some kind of a chart. Therewas nothing that looked like a chart inside. He retrieved the lid andlooked at its inside. Nothing. He tipped the box and looked at itsoutside. Not a thing. There was always something missing from kits.Maybe even the Modifier itself. He read on, and probed and scattered the parts in the long box. Hestudied the manual intently and groped out with his free hand. The toe bone was connected to the foot bone.... The Red King sat smugly in his diagonal corner. The Black King stood two places away, his top half tipsy in frustration. The Red King crabbed sideways one square. The Black King pounced forward one space. The Red King advanced backwards to face the enemy. The Black King shuffled sideways. The Red King followed.... Uselessly. Tie game, Ronald said. Tie game, Manet said. Let's talk, Ronald said cheerfully. He was always cheerful. Cheerfulness was a personality trait Manet had thumbed out for him.Cheerful. Submissive. Co-operative. Manet had selected these factors inorder to make Ronald as different a person from himself as possible. The Korean-American War was the greatest of all wars, Ronald saidpontifically. Only in the air, Manet corrected him. Intelligence was one of the factors Manet had punched to suppress.Intelligence. Aggressiveness. Sense of perfection. Ronald couldn't knowany more than Manet, but he could (and did) know less. He had seen tothat when his own encephalograph matrix had programmed Ronald's feeder. There were no dogfights in Korea, Ronald said. I know. The dogfight was a combat of hundreds of planes in a tight area, thelast of which took place near the end of the First World War. Theaerial duel, sometimes inaccurately referred to as a 'dogfight' was notseen in Korea either. The pilots at supersonic speeds only had time forsingle passes at the enemy. Still, I believe, contrary to all experts,that this took greater skill, man more wedded to machine, than theleisurely combats of World War One. I know. Daniel Boone was still a crack shot at eight-five. He was said to bewarm, sincere, modest, truthful, respected and rheumatic. I know. <doc-sep>Manet knew it all. He had heard it all before. He was so damned sick of hearing about Korean air battles, DanielBoone, the literary qualities of ancient sports fiction magazines,the painting of Norman Rockwell, New York swing, ad nauseum . What anarrow band of interests! With the whole universe to explore in thoughtand concept, why did he have to be trapped with such an unoriginalhuman being? Of course, Ronald wasn't an original human being. He was a copy. Manet had been interested in the Fabulous Forties—Lt. Hoot Gibson,Sam Merwin tennis stories, Saturday Evening Post covers—when he hadfirst learned of them, and he had learned all about them. He had firmopinions on all these. He yearned for someone to challenge him—to say that Dime Sports hadbeen nothing but a cheap yellow rag and, why, Sewanee Review , therehad been a magazine for you. Manet's only consolidation was that Ronald's tastes were lower than hisown. He patriotically insisted that the American Sabre Jet was superiorto the Mig. He maintained with a straight face that Tommy Dorsey was abetter band man than Benny Goodman. Ronald was a terrific jerk. Ronald, Manet said, you are a terrific jerk. Ronald leaped up immediately and led with his right. Manet blocked it deftly and threw a right cross. Ronald blocked it deftly, and drove in a right to the navel. The two men separated and, puffing like steam locomotives passing thediesel works, closed again. Ronald leaped forward and led with his right. Manet stepped inside the swing and lifted an uppercut to the ledge ofRonald's jaw. Ronald pinwheeled to the floor. He lifted his bruised head from the deck and worked his reddened mouth.Had enough? he asked Manet. Manet dropped his fists to his sides and turned away. Yes. Ronald hopped up lightly. Another checkers, Billy Boy? No. Okay. Anything you want, William, old conquerer. Manet scrunched up inside himself in impotent fury. Ronald was maddeningly co-operative and peaceful. He would even get ina fist fight to avoid trouble between them. He would do anything Manetwanted him to do. He was so utterly damned stupid. Manet's eyes orbitted towards the checkerboard. But if he were so much more stupid than he, Manet, why was it thattheir checker games always ended in a tie? <doc-sep>The calendar said it was Spring on Earth when the radio was activatedfor a high-speed information and entertainment transmission. The buzzer-flasher activated in the solarium at the same time. Manet lay stretched out on his back, naked, in front of the transparentwall. By rolling his eyes back in his head, Manet could see over a hedge ofeyebrows for several hundred flat miles of white sand. And several hundred miles of desert could see him. For a moment he gloried in the blatant display of his flabby musclesand patchy sunburn. Then he sighed, rolled over to his feet and started trudging towardCommunication. He padded down the rib-ridged matted corridor, taking his usual smallpleasure in the kaleidoscopic effect of the spiraling reflections onthe walls of the tubeway. As he passed the File Room, he caught the sound of the poundingvibrations against the stoppered plug of the hatch. Come on, Billy Buddy, let me out of this place! Manet padded on down the hall. He had, he recalled, shoved Ronaldin there on Lincoln's Birthday, a minor ironic twist he appreciatedquietly. He had been waiting in vain for Ronald to run down ever since. In Communication, he took a seat and punched the slowed down playbackof the transmission. Hello, Overseers, the Voice said. It was the Voice of the B.B.C.It irritated Manet. He never understood how the British had got thespace transmissions assignment for the English language. He would havepreferred an American disk-jockey himself, one who appreciated New Yorkswing. We imagine that you are most interested in how long you shallbe required to stay at your present stations, said the Voice ofGod's paternal uncle. As you on Mars may know, there has been muchdiscussion as to how long it will require to complete the presentschedule— there was of course no K sound in the word—foratmosphere seeding. The original, non-binding estimate at the time of your departure was18.2 years. However, determining how long it will take our stationsproperly to remake the air of Mars is a problem comparable to findingthe age of the Earth. Estimates change as new factors are learned. Youmay recall that three years ago the official estimate was changed tothirty-one years. The recent estimate by certain reactionary sourcesof two hundred and seventy-four years is not an official governmentestimate. The news for you is good, if you are becoming nostalgic forhome, or not particularly bad if you are counting on drawing yourhandsome salary for the time spent on Mars. We have every reason tobelieve our original estimate was substantially correct. The totaltime is, within limits of error, a flat 18 years. A very flat 18 years, Manet thought as he palmed off the recorder. He sat there thinking about eighteen years. He did not switch to video for some freshly taped westerns. Finally, Manet went back to the solarium and dragged the big box out.There was a lot left inside. One of those parts, one of those bones or struts of flesh sprayers, oneof them, he now knew, was the Modifier. The Modifier was what he needed to change Ronald. Or to shut him off. If only the Master Chart hadn't been lost, so he would know what theModifier looked like! He hoped the Modifier itself wasn't lost. Hehated to think of Ronald locked in the Usher tomb of the File Roomfor 18 flat years. Long before that, he would have worn his fists awayhammering at the hatch. Then he might start pounding with his head.Perhaps before the time was up he would have worn himself down tonothing whatsoever. Manet selected the ripple-finished gray-covered manual from thehodgepodge, and thought: eighteen years. Perhaps I should have begun here, he told himself. But I really don'thave as much interest in that sort of thing as the earthier types.Simple companionship was all I wanted. And, he thought on, even aninsipid personality like Ronald's would be bearable with certaincompensations. Manet opened the book to the chapter headed: The Making of a Girl . <doc-sep>Veronica crept up behind Manet and slithered her hands up his back andover his shoulders. She leaned forward and breathed a moist warmth intohis ear, and worried the lobe with her even white teeth. Daniel Boone, she sighed huskily, only killed three Indians in hislife. I know. Manet folded his arms stoically and added: Please don't talk. She sighed her instant agreement and moved her expressive hands overhis chest and up to the hollows of his throat. I need a shave, he observed. Her hands instantly caressed his face to prove that she liked a ratherbristly, masculine countenance. Manet elbowed Veronica away in a gentlemanly fashion. She made her return. Not now, he instructed her. Whenever you say. He stood up and began pacing off the dimensions of the compartment.There was no doubt about it: he had been missing his regular exercise. Now? she asked. I'll tell you. If you were a jet pilot, Veronica said wistfully, you would beromantic. You would grab love when you could. You would never knowwhich moment would be last. You would make the most of each one. I'm not a jet pilot, Manet said. There are no jet pilots. Therehaven't been any for generations. Don't be silly, Veronica said. Who else would stop those vile NorthKoreans and Red China 'volunteers'? Veronica, he said carefully, the Korean War is over. It was finishedeven before the last of the jet pilots. Don't be silly, she snapped. If it were over, I'd know about it,wouldn't I? She would, except that somehow she had turned out even less bright,less equipped with Manet's own store of information, than Ronald.Whoever had built the Lifo kit must have had ancient ideas about whatconstituted appropriate feminine characteristics. I suppose, he said heavily, that you would like me to take you backto Earth and introduce you to Daniel Boone? Oh, yes. Veronica, your stupidity is hideous. She lowered her long blonde lashes on her pink cheeks. That is a meanthing to say to me. But I forgive you. An invisible hand began pressing down steadily on the top of his headuntil it forced a sound out of him. Aaaawrraagggh! Must you be socloyingly sweet? Do you have to keep taking that? Isn't there any fightin you at all? He stepped forward and back-handed her across the jaw. It was the first time he had ever struck a woman, he realizedregretfully. He now knew he should have been doing it long ago. Veronica sprang forward and led with a right. <doc-sep>Ronald's cries grew louder as Manet marched Veronica through thecorridor. Hear that? he inquired, smiling with clenched teeth. No, darling. Well, that was all right. He remembered he had once told her to ignorethe noise. She was still following orders. Come on, Bill, open up the hatch for old Ronald, the voice carriedthrough sepulchrally. Shut up! Manet yelled. The voice dwindled stubbornly, then cut off. A silence with a whisper of metallic ring to it. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Maybe because he secretly tookcomfort in the sound of an almost human voice echoing through thestation. Manet threw back the bolt and wheeled back the hatch. Ronald looked just the same as had when Manet had seen him last. Hishands didn't seem to have been worn away in the least. Ronald's lipsseemed a trifle chapped. But that probably came not from all theshouting but from having nothing to drink for some months. Ronald didn't say anything to Manet. But he looked offended. You, Manet said to Veronica with a shove in the small of the back,inside, inside. Ronald sidestepped the lurching girl. Do you know what I'm going to do with you? Manet demanded. I'm goingto lock you up in here, and leave you for a day, a month, a year,forever! Now what do you think about that? If you think it's the right thing, dear, Veronica said hesitantly. You know best, Willy, Ronald said uncertainly. Manet slammed the hatch in disgust. Manet walked carefully down the corridor, watching streamers ofhis reflection corkscrewing into the curved walls. He had to walkcarefully, else the artery would roll up tight and squash him. But hewalked too carefully for this to happen. As he passed the File Room, Ronald's voice said: In my opinion,William, you should let us out. I, Veronica said, honestly feel that you should let me out, Bill,dearest. Manet giggled. What? What was that? Do you suggest that I take youback after you've been behind a locked door with my best friend? He went down the corridor, giggling. He giggled and thought: This will never do. <doc-sep>Pouring and tumbling through the Lifo kit, consulting the manualdiligently, Manet concluded that there weren't enough parts left in thebox to go around. The book gave instructions for The Model Mother, The Model Father, TheModel Sibling and others. Yet there weren't parts enough in the kit. He would have to take parts from Ronald or Veronica in order to makeany one of the others. And he could not do that without the Modifier. He wished Trader Tom would return and extract some higher price fromhim for the Modifier, which was clearly missing from the kit. Or to get even more for simply repossessing the kit. But Trader Tom would not be back. He came this way only once. Manet thumbed through the manual in mechanical frustration. As he didso, the solid piece of the last section parted sheet by sheet. He glanced forward and found the headings: The Final Model . There seemed something ominous about that finality. But he had paida price for the kit, hadn't he? Who knew what price, when it came tothat? He had every right to get everything out of the kit that hecould. He read the unfolding page critically. The odd assortment ofill-matched parts left in the box took a new shape in his mind andunder his fingers.... Manet gave one final spurt from the flesh-sprayer and stood back. Victor was finished. Perfect. Manet stepped forward, lifted the model's left eyelid, tweaked his nose. Move! Victor leaped back into the Lifo kit and did a jig on one of theflesh-sprayers. As the device twisted as handily as good intentions, Manet realizedthat it was not a flesh-sprayer but the Modifier. It's finished! were Victor's first words. It's done! Manet stared at the tiny wreck. To say the least. Victor stepped out of the oblong box. There is something you shouldunderstand. I am different from the others. They all say that. I am not your friend. No? No. You have made yourself an enemy. Manet felt nothing more at this information than an esthetic pleasureat the symmetry of the situation. It completes the final course in socialization, Victor continued. Iam your adversary. I will do everything I can to defeat you. I have all your knowledge. You do not have all your knowledge. If you letyourself know some of the things, it could be used against you. It ismy function to use everything I possibly can against you. When do you start? I've finished. I've done my worst. I have destroyed the Modifier. What's so bad about that? Manet asked with some interest. You'll have Veronica and Ronald and me forever now. We'll neverchange. You'll get older, and we'll never change. You'll lose yourinterest in New York swing and jet combat and Daniel Boone, and we'llnever change. We don't change and you can't change us for others. I'vemade the worst thing happen to you that can happen to any man. I'veseen that you will always keep your friends. <doc-sep>The prospect was frightful. Victor smiled. Aren't you going to denounce me for a fiend? Yes, it is time for the denouncement. Tell me, you feel that now youare through? You have fulfilled your function? Yes. Yes. Now you will have but to lean back, as it were, so to speak, and seeme suffer? Yes. No. Can't do it, old man. Can't. I know. You're too human, toolike me. The one thing a man can't accept is a passive state, a stateof uselessness. Not if he can possibly avoid it. Something has to behappening to him. He has to be happening to something. You didn't killme because then you would have nothing left to do. You'll never killme. Of course not! Victor stormed. Fundamental safety cut-off! Rationalization. You don't want to kill me. And you can't stopchallenging me at every turn. That's your function. Stop talking and just think about your miserable life, Victor saidmeanly. Your friends won't grow and mature with you. You won't makeany new friends. You'll have me to constantly remind you of youruselessness, your constant unrelenting sterility of purpose. How's thatfor boredom, for passiveness? That's what I'm trying to tell you, Manet said irritably, his socialmanners rusty. I won't be bored. You will see to that. It's yourpurpose. You'll be a challenge, an obstacle, a source of triumph everyfoot of the way. Don't you see? With you for an enemy, I don't need afriend! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Where is the story set?

The story takes place on Mars. Manet is the sole occupant of the Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47. There is nothing to be seen in any direction far beyond the horizon. Mars is described like a blank canvas. It is a boring, desolate place, which only adds to Manet's feelings of loneliness and boredom. Manet crosses from his station to Trader Tom's starship at the beginning of the story. The inner compartment of the ship is like that of a log cabin. There is a slate fireplace with black and orange log charring. The fireplace holds a crackling fire. Manet moves through different rooms in his station throughout the story. When Manet first gets the box, he puts it by a transparent wall in one of the rooms of the station. He moves from his bedroom, the file room, the tube way, to communication, to an area where he plays chess with Ronald, to the solarium, to another room where he eventually locks both Ronald and Veronica.

What is the relationship between Ronald and Manet? [SEP] <s> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>Manet suspected hallucination, but in an existence with all the palliddispassion of a requited love he was happy to welcome dementia.Sometimes he even manufactured it. Sometimes he would run through thearteries of the factory and play that it had suddenly gone mad hatinghuman beings, and was about to close down its bulkheads on him as sureas the Engineers' Thumb and bale up the pressure-dehydrated digest,making so much stall flooring of him. He ran until he dropped with akind of climaxing release of terror. So Manet put on the pressure suit he had been given because he wouldnever need it, and marched out to meet the visiting spaceship. He wasn't quite clear how he came from walking effortlessly acrossthe Martian plain that had all the distance-perpetuating qualities ofa kid's crank movie machine to the comfortable interior of a strangecabin. Not a ship's cabin but a Northwoods cabin. The black and orange Hallowe'en log charring in the slate stonefireplace seemed real. So did the lean man with the smiling mustachepainted with the random designs of the fire, standing before thehorizontal pattern of chinked wall. Need a fresher? the host inquired. Manet's eyes wondered down to heavy water tumbler full of rich, amberwhiskey full of sparks from the hearth. He stirred himself in thecomfortingly warm leather chair. No, no, I'm fine . He let the wordhang there for examination. Pardon me, but could you tell me just whatplace this is? The host shrugged. It was the only word for it. Whatever place youchoose it to be, so long as you're with Trader Tom. 'Service,' that'smy motto. It is a way of life with me. Trader Tom? Service? Yes! That's it exactly. It's me exactly. Trader Tom Service—Servingthe Wants of the Spaceman Between the Stars. Of course, 'stars' ispoetic. Any point of light in the sky in a star. We service theplanets. Manet took the tumbler in both hands and drank. It was good whiskey,immensely powerful. The government wouldn't pay for somebody servingthe wants of spacemen, he exploded. Ah, Trader Tom said, cautionary. He moved nearer the fire and warmedhis hands and buttocks. Ah, but I am not a government service. Irepresent free enterprise. <doc-sep>Nonsense, Manet said. No group of private individuals can build aspaceship. It takes a combine of nations. But remember only that businessmen are reactionary. It's well-known.Ask anyone on the street. Businessmen are reactionary even beyond thecapitalistic system. Money is a fiction that exists mostly on paper.They play along on paper to get paper things, but to get real thingsthey can forego the papers. Comprehend, mon ami ? My businessmenhave gone back to the barter system. Between them, they have the rawmaterials, the trained men, the man-hours to make a spaceship. So theymake it. Damned reactionaries, all of my principals. I don't believe you, Manet stated flatly. His conversation had grownblunt with disuse. What possible profit could your principals turnfrom running a trading ship among scattered exploration posts on theplanets? What could you give us that a benevolent government doesn'talready supply us with? And if there was anything, how could we pay forit? My year's salary wouldn't cover the transportation costs of thisglass of whiskey. Do you find it good whiskey? Very good. Excellent? Excellent, if you prefer. I only meant—but never mind. We give you what you want. As forpaying for it—why, forget about the payment. You may apply for aTrader Tom Credit Card. And I could buy anything that I wanted with it? Manet demanded.That's absurd. I'd never be able to pay for it. That's it precisely! Trader Tom said with enthusiasm. You never pay for it. Charges are merely deducted from your estate . But I may leave no estate! Trader Tom demonstrated his peculiar shrug. All businesses operate ona certain margin of risk. That is our worry. <doc-sep>Manet finished the mellow whiskey and looked into the glass. It seemedto have been polished clean. What do you have to offer? Whatever you want? Irritably, How do I know what I want until I know what you have? You know. I know? All right, I know. You don't have it for sale. Old chap, understand if you please that I do not only sell . Iam a trader—Trader Tom. I trade with many parties. There are, forexample ... extraterrestrials. Folk legend! On the contrary, mon cher , the only reality it lacks is politicalreality. The Assembly could no longer justify their disposition ofthe cosmos if it were known they were dealing confiscation withoutrepresentation. Come, tell me what you want. Manet gave in to it. I want to be not alone, he said. Of course, Trader Tom replied, I suspected. It is not so unusual,you know. Sign here. And here. Two copies. This is yours. Thank you somuch. Manet handed back the pen and stared at the laminated card in his hand. When he looked up from the card, Manet saw the box. Trader Tom waspushing it across the floor towards him. The box had the general dimensions of a coffin, but it wasn'twood—only brightly illustrated cardboard. There was a large four-colorpicture on the lid showing men, women and children moving through abusy city street. The red and blue letters said: LIFO The Socialization Kit It is commercialized, Trader Tom admitted with no little chagrin.It is presented to appeal to a twelve-year-old child, an erotic,aggressive twelve-year-old, the typical sensie goer—but that isreality. It offends men of good taste like ourselves, yet sometimes itapproaches being art. We must accept it. What's the cost? Manet asked. Before I accept it, I have to know thecharges. You never know the cost. Only your executor knows that. It's theTrader Tom plan. Well, is it guaranteed? There are no guarantees, Trader Tom admitted. But I've never had anycomplaints yet. Suppose I'm the first? Manet suggested reasonably. You won't be, Trader Tom said. I won't pass this way again. <doc-sep>Manet didn't open the box. He let it fade quietly in the filtered butstill brilliant sunlight near a transparent wall. Manet puttered around the spawning monster, trying to brush the coppertaste of the station out of his mouth in the mornings, talking tohimself, winking at Annie Oakley, and waiting to go mad. Finally, Manet woke up one morning. He lay in the sheets of his bunk,suppressing the urge to go wash his hands, and came at last to theconclusion that, after all the delay, he was mad. So he went to open the box. The cardboard lid seemed to have become both brittle and rotten. Itcrumbled as easily as ideals. But Manet was old enough to remember theboxes Japanese toys came in when he was a boy, and was not alarmed. The contents were such a glorious pile of junk, of bottles from oldchemistry sets, of pieces from old Erector sets, of nameless things andunremembered antiques from neglected places, that it seemed too good tohave been assembled commercially. It was the collection of lifetime. On top of everything was a paperbound book, the size of the Reader'sDigest , covered in rippled gray flexiboard. The title was stamped inblack on the spine and cover: The Making of Friends . Manet opened the book and, turning one blank page, found the titlein larger print and slightly amplified: The Making of Friends andOthers . There was no author listed. A further line of informationstated: A Manual for Lifo, The Socialization Kit. At the bottom ofthe title page, the publisher was identified as: LIFO KIT CO., LTD.,SYRACUSE. The unnumbered first chapter was headed Your First Friend . Before you go further, first find the Modifier in your kit. Thisis vital . He quickly riffled through the pages. Other Friends, Authority, ACompanion .... Then The Final Model . Manet tried to flip past thissection, but the pages after the sheet labeled The Final Model werestuck together. More than stuck. There was a thick slab of plastic inthe back of the book. The edges were ridged as if there were pages tothis section, but they could only be the tracks of lame ants. Manet flipped back to page one. First find the Modifier in your kit. This is vital to your entireexperiment in socialization. The Modifier is Part #A-1 on the MasterChart. He prowled through the box looking for some kind of a chart. Therewas nothing that looked like a chart inside. He retrieved the lid andlooked at its inside. Nothing. He tipped the box and looked at itsoutside. Not a thing. There was always something missing from kits.Maybe even the Modifier itself. He read on, and probed and scattered the parts in the long box. Hestudied the manual intently and groped out with his free hand. The toe bone was connected to the foot bone.... The Red King sat smugly in his diagonal corner. The Black King stood two places away, his top half tipsy in frustration. The Red King crabbed sideways one square. The Black King pounced forward one space. The Red King advanced backwards to face the enemy. The Black King shuffled sideways. The Red King followed.... Uselessly. Tie game, Ronald said. Tie game, Manet said. Let's talk, Ronald said cheerfully. He was always cheerful. Cheerfulness was a personality trait Manet had thumbed out for him.Cheerful. Submissive. Co-operative. Manet had selected these factors inorder to make Ronald as different a person from himself as possible. The Korean-American War was the greatest of all wars, Ronald saidpontifically. Only in the air, Manet corrected him. Intelligence was one of the factors Manet had punched to suppress.Intelligence. Aggressiveness. Sense of perfection. Ronald couldn't knowany more than Manet, but he could (and did) know less. He had seen tothat when his own encephalograph matrix had programmed Ronald's feeder. There were no dogfights in Korea, Ronald said. I know. The dogfight was a combat of hundreds of planes in a tight area, thelast of which took place near the end of the First World War. Theaerial duel, sometimes inaccurately referred to as a 'dogfight' was notseen in Korea either. The pilots at supersonic speeds only had time forsingle passes at the enemy. Still, I believe, contrary to all experts,that this took greater skill, man more wedded to machine, than theleisurely combats of World War One. I know. Daniel Boone was still a crack shot at eight-five. He was said to bewarm, sincere, modest, truthful, respected and rheumatic. I know. <doc-sep>Manet knew it all. He had heard it all before. He was so damned sick of hearing about Korean air battles, DanielBoone, the literary qualities of ancient sports fiction magazines,the painting of Norman Rockwell, New York swing, ad nauseum . What anarrow band of interests! With the whole universe to explore in thoughtand concept, why did he have to be trapped with such an unoriginalhuman being? Of course, Ronald wasn't an original human being. He was a copy. Manet had been interested in the Fabulous Forties—Lt. Hoot Gibson,Sam Merwin tennis stories, Saturday Evening Post covers—when he hadfirst learned of them, and he had learned all about them. He had firmopinions on all these. He yearned for someone to challenge him—to say that Dime Sports hadbeen nothing but a cheap yellow rag and, why, Sewanee Review , therehad been a magazine for you. Manet's only consolidation was that Ronald's tastes were lower than hisown. He patriotically insisted that the American Sabre Jet was superiorto the Mig. He maintained with a straight face that Tommy Dorsey was abetter band man than Benny Goodman. Ronald was a terrific jerk. Ronald, Manet said, you are a terrific jerk. Ronald leaped up immediately and led with his right. Manet blocked it deftly and threw a right cross. Ronald blocked it deftly, and drove in a right to the navel. The two men separated and, puffing like steam locomotives passing thediesel works, closed again. Ronald leaped forward and led with his right. Manet stepped inside the swing and lifted an uppercut to the ledge ofRonald's jaw. Ronald pinwheeled to the floor. He lifted his bruised head from the deck and worked his reddened mouth.Had enough? he asked Manet. Manet dropped his fists to his sides and turned away. Yes. Ronald hopped up lightly. Another checkers, Billy Boy? No. Okay. Anything you want, William, old conquerer. Manet scrunched up inside himself in impotent fury. Ronald was maddeningly co-operative and peaceful. He would even get ina fist fight to avoid trouble between them. He would do anything Manetwanted him to do. He was so utterly damned stupid. Manet's eyes orbitted towards the checkerboard. But if he were so much more stupid than he, Manet, why was it thattheir checker games always ended in a tie? <doc-sep>The calendar said it was Spring on Earth when the radio was activatedfor a high-speed information and entertainment transmission. The buzzer-flasher activated in the solarium at the same time. Manet lay stretched out on his back, naked, in front of the transparentwall. By rolling his eyes back in his head, Manet could see over a hedge ofeyebrows for several hundred flat miles of white sand. And several hundred miles of desert could see him. For a moment he gloried in the blatant display of his flabby musclesand patchy sunburn. Then he sighed, rolled over to his feet and started trudging towardCommunication. He padded down the rib-ridged matted corridor, taking his usual smallpleasure in the kaleidoscopic effect of the spiraling reflections onthe walls of the tubeway. As he passed the File Room, he caught the sound of the poundingvibrations against the stoppered plug of the hatch. Come on, Billy Buddy, let me out of this place! Manet padded on down the hall. He had, he recalled, shoved Ronaldin there on Lincoln's Birthday, a minor ironic twist he appreciatedquietly. He had been waiting in vain for Ronald to run down ever since. In Communication, he took a seat and punched the slowed down playbackof the transmission. Hello, Overseers, the Voice said. It was the Voice of the B.B.C.It irritated Manet. He never understood how the British had got thespace transmissions assignment for the English language. He would havepreferred an American disk-jockey himself, one who appreciated New Yorkswing. We imagine that you are most interested in how long you shallbe required to stay at your present stations, said the Voice ofGod's paternal uncle. As you on Mars may know, there has been muchdiscussion as to how long it will require to complete the presentschedule— there was of course no K sound in the word—foratmosphere seeding. The original, non-binding estimate at the time of your departure was18.2 years. However, determining how long it will take our stationsproperly to remake the air of Mars is a problem comparable to findingthe age of the Earth. Estimates change as new factors are learned. Youmay recall that three years ago the official estimate was changed tothirty-one years. The recent estimate by certain reactionary sourcesof two hundred and seventy-four years is not an official governmentestimate. The news for you is good, if you are becoming nostalgic forhome, or not particularly bad if you are counting on drawing yourhandsome salary for the time spent on Mars. We have every reason tobelieve our original estimate was substantially correct. The totaltime is, within limits of error, a flat 18 years. A very flat 18 years, Manet thought as he palmed off the recorder. He sat there thinking about eighteen years. He did not switch to video for some freshly taped westerns. Finally, Manet went back to the solarium and dragged the big box out.There was a lot left inside. One of those parts, one of those bones or struts of flesh sprayers, oneof them, he now knew, was the Modifier. The Modifier was what he needed to change Ronald. Or to shut him off. If only the Master Chart hadn't been lost, so he would know what theModifier looked like! He hoped the Modifier itself wasn't lost. Hehated to think of Ronald locked in the Usher tomb of the File Roomfor 18 flat years. Long before that, he would have worn his fists awayhammering at the hatch. Then he might start pounding with his head.Perhaps before the time was up he would have worn himself down tonothing whatsoever. Manet selected the ripple-finished gray-covered manual from thehodgepodge, and thought: eighteen years. Perhaps I should have begun here, he told himself. But I really don'thave as much interest in that sort of thing as the earthier types.Simple companionship was all I wanted. And, he thought on, even aninsipid personality like Ronald's would be bearable with certaincompensations. Manet opened the book to the chapter headed: The Making of a Girl . <doc-sep>Veronica crept up behind Manet and slithered her hands up his back andover his shoulders. She leaned forward and breathed a moist warmth intohis ear, and worried the lobe with her even white teeth. Daniel Boone, she sighed huskily, only killed three Indians in hislife. I know. Manet folded his arms stoically and added: Please don't talk. She sighed her instant agreement and moved her expressive hands overhis chest and up to the hollows of his throat. I need a shave, he observed. Her hands instantly caressed his face to prove that she liked a ratherbristly, masculine countenance. Manet elbowed Veronica away in a gentlemanly fashion. She made her return. Not now, he instructed her. Whenever you say. He stood up and began pacing off the dimensions of the compartment.There was no doubt about it: he had been missing his regular exercise. Now? she asked. I'll tell you. If you were a jet pilot, Veronica said wistfully, you would beromantic. You would grab love when you could. You would never knowwhich moment would be last. You would make the most of each one. I'm not a jet pilot, Manet said. There are no jet pilots. Therehaven't been any for generations. Don't be silly, Veronica said. Who else would stop those vile NorthKoreans and Red China 'volunteers'? Veronica, he said carefully, the Korean War is over. It was finishedeven before the last of the jet pilots. Don't be silly, she snapped. If it were over, I'd know about it,wouldn't I? She would, except that somehow she had turned out even less bright,less equipped with Manet's own store of information, than Ronald.Whoever had built the Lifo kit must have had ancient ideas about whatconstituted appropriate feminine characteristics. I suppose, he said heavily, that you would like me to take you backto Earth and introduce you to Daniel Boone? Oh, yes. Veronica, your stupidity is hideous. She lowered her long blonde lashes on her pink cheeks. That is a meanthing to say to me. But I forgive you. An invisible hand began pressing down steadily on the top of his headuntil it forced a sound out of him. Aaaawrraagggh! Must you be socloyingly sweet? Do you have to keep taking that? Isn't there any fightin you at all? He stepped forward and back-handed her across the jaw. It was the first time he had ever struck a woman, he realizedregretfully. He now knew he should have been doing it long ago. Veronica sprang forward and led with a right. <doc-sep>Ronald's cries grew louder as Manet marched Veronica through thecorridor. Hear that? he inquired, smiling with clenched teeth. No, darling. Well, that was all right. He remembered he had once told her to ignorethe noise. She was still following orders. Come on, Bill, open up the hatch for old Ronald, the voice carriedthrough sepulchrally. Shut up! Manet yelled. The voice dwindled stubbornly, then cut off. A silence with a whisper of metallic ring to it. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Maybe because he secretly tookcomfort in the sound of an almost human voice echoing through thestation. Manet threw back the bolt and wheeled back the hatch. Ronald looked just the same as had when Manet had seen him last. Hishands didn't seem to have been worn away in the least. Ronald's lipsseemed a trifle chapped. But that probably came not from all theshouting but from having nothing to drink for some months. Ronald didn't say anything to Manet. But he looked offended. You, Manet said to Veronica with a shove in the small of the back,inside, inside. Ronald sidestepped the lurching girl. Do you know what I'm going to do with you? Manet demanded. I'm goingto lock you up in here, and leave you for a day, a month, a year,forever! Now what do you think about that? If you think it's the right thing, dear, Veronica said hesitantly. You know best, Willy, Ronald said uncertainly. Manet slammed the hatch in disgust. Manet walked carefully down the corridor, watching streamers ofhis reflection corkscrewing into the curved walls. He had to walkcarefully, else the artery would roll up tight and squash him. But hewalked too carefully for this to happen. As he passed the File Room, Ronald's voice said: In my opinion,William, you should let us out. I, Veronica said, honestly feel that you should let me out, Bill,dearest. Manet giggled. What? What was that? Do you suggest that I take youback after you've been behind a locked door with my best friend? He went down the corridor, giggling. He giggled and thought: This will never do. <doc-sep>Pouring and tumbling through the Lifo kit, consulting the manualdiligently, Manet concluded that there weren't enough parts left in thebox to go around. The book gave instructions for The Model Mother, The Model Father, TheModel Sibling and others. Yet there weren't parts enough in the kit. He would have to take parts from Ronald or Veronica in order to makeany one of the others. And he could not do that without the Modifier. He wished Trader Tom would return and extract some higher price fromhim for the Modifier, which was clearly missing from the kit. Or to get even more for simply repossessing the kit. But Trader Tom would not be back. He came this way only once. Manet thumbed through the manual in mechanical frustration. As he didso, the solid piece of the last section parted sheet by sheet. He glanced forward and found the headings: The Final Model . There seemed something ominous about that finality. But he had paida price for the kit, hadn't he? Who knew what price, when it came tothat? He had every right to get everything out of the kit that hecould. He read the unfolding page critically. The odd assortment ofill-matched parts left in the box took a new shape in his mind andunder his fingers.... Manet gave one final spurt from the flesh-sprayer and stood back. Victor was finished. Perfect. Manet stepped forward, lifted the model's left eyelid, tweaked his nose. Move! Victor leaped back into the Lifo kit and did a jig on one of theflesh-sprayers. As the device twisted as handily as good intentions, Manet realizedthat it was not a flesh-sprayer but the Modifier. It's finished! were Victor's first words. It's done! Manet stared at the tiny wreck. To say the least. Victor stepped out of the oblong box. There is something you shouldunderstand. I am different from the others. They all say that. I am not your friend. No? No. You have made yourself an enemy. Manet felt nothing more at this information than an esthetic pleasureat the symmetry of the situation. It completes the final course in socialization, Victor continued. Iam your adversary. I will do everything I can to defeat you. I have all your knowledge. You do not have all your knowledge. If you letyourself know some of the things, it could be used against you. It ismy function to use everything I possibly can against you. When do you start? I've finished. I've done my worst. I have destroyed the Modifier. What's so bad about that? Manet asked with some interest. You'll have Veronica and Ronald and me forever now. We'll neverchange. You'll get older, and we'll never change. You'll lose yourinterest in New York swing and jet combat and Daniel Boone, and we'llnever change. We don't change and you can't change us for others. I'vemade the worst thing happen to you that can happen to any man. I'veseen that you will always keep your friends. <doc-sep>The prospect was frightful. Victor smiled. Aren't you going to denounce me for a fiend? Yes, it is time for the denouncement. Tell me, you feel that now youare through? You have fulfilled your function? Yes. Yes. Now you will have but to lean back, as it were, so to speak, and seeme suffer? Yes. No. Can't do it, old man. Can't. I know. You're too human, toolike me. The one thing a man can't accept is a passive state, a stateof uselessness. Not if he can possibly avoid it. Something has to behappening to him. He has to be happening to something. You didn't killme because then you would have nothing left to do. You'll never killme. Of course not! Victor stormed. Fundamental safety cut-off! Rationalization. You don't want to kill me. And you can't stopchallenging me at every turn. That's your function. Stop talking and just think about your miserable life, Victor saidmeanly. Your friends won't grow and mature with you. You won't makeany new friends. You'll have me to constantly remind you of youruselessness, your constant unrelenting sterility of purpose. How's thatfor boredom, for passiveness? That's what I'm trying to tell you, Manet said irritably, his socialmanners rusty. I won't be bored. You will see to that. It's yourpurpose. You'll be a challenge, an obstacle, a source of triumph everyfoot of the way. Don't you see? With you for an enemy, I don't need afriend! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Ronald and Manet?

Ronald is Manet's first self-made friend. He constructs him using the parts he finds in the LIFO kit, and follows the manual to put him together properly. Their relationship seems jovial enough at first. They play chess together. Ronald eliminates the loneliness that Manet feels for a short time. Manet had purposely made Ronald to be cheerful, submissive and co-operative. Manet wanted Ronald to be as different to himself as he could be. Manet enjoys the fact that Ronald is not as intelligent as him. They talk about various wars, and Daniel Boone. After a while though, Manet becomes incensed by Ronalds endless, mindless droning about these same topics. Manet begins to fight Ronald, to which Ronald participates, only to please his creator. He is so fed up with Ronald eventually that he locks him in a room, and doesn't let him out.

What is the purpose of the modifier? [SEP] <s> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>Manet suspected hallucination, but in an existence with all the palliddispassion of a requited love he was happy to welcome dementia.Sometimes he even manufactured it. Sometimes he would run through thearteries of the factory and play that it had suddenly gone mad hatinghuman beings, and was about to close down its bulkheads on him as sureas the Engineers' Thumb and bale up the pressure-dehydrated digest,making so much stall flooring of him. He ran until he dropped with akind of climaxing release of terror. So Manet put on the pressure suit he had been given because he wouldnever need it, and marched out to meet the visiting spaceship. He wasn't quite clear how he came from walking effortlessly acrossthe Martian plain that had all the distance-perpetuating qualities ofa kid's crank movie machine to the comfortable interior of a strangecabin. Not a ship's cabin but a Northwoods cabin. The black and orange Hallowe'en log charring in the slate stonefireplace seemed real. So did the lean man with the smiling mustachepainted with the random designs of the fire, standing before thehorizontal pattern of chinked wall. Need a fresher? the host inquired. Manet's eyes wondered down to heavy water tumbler full of rich, amberwhiskey full of sparks from the hearth. He stirred himself in thecomfortingly warm leather chair. No, no, I'm fine . He let the wordhang there for examination. Pardon me, but could you tell me just whatplace this is? The host shrugged. It was the only word for it. Whatever place youchoose it to be, so long as you're with Trader Tom. 'Service,' that'smy motto. It is a way of life with me. Trader Tom? Service? Yes! That's it exactly. It's me exactly. Trader Tom Service—Servingthe Wants of the Spaceman Between the Stars. Of course, 'stars' ispoetic. Any point of light in the sky in a star. We service theplanets. Manet took the tumbler in both hands and drank. It was good whiskey,immensely powerful. The government wouldn't pay for somebody servingthe wants of spacemen, he exploded. Ah, Trader Tom said, cautionary. He moved nearer the fire and warmedhis hands and buttocks. Ah, but I am not a government service. Irepresent free enterprise. <doc-sep>Nonsense, Manet said. No group of private individuals can build aspaceship. It takes a combine of nations. But remember only that businessmen are reactionary. It's well-known.Ask anyone on the street. Businessmen are reactionary even beyond thecapitalistic system. Money is a fiction that exists mostly on paper.They play along on paper to get paper things, but to get real thingsthey can forego the papers. Comprehend, mon ami ? My businessmenhave gone back to the barter system. Between them, they have the rawmaterials, the trained men, the man-hours to make a spaceship. So theymake it. Damned reactionaries, all of my principals. I don't believe you, Manet stated flatly. His conversation had grownblunt with disuse. What possible profit could your principals turnfrom running a trading ship among scattered exploration posts on theplanets? What could you give us that a benevolent government doesn'talready supply us with? And if there was anything, how could we pay forit? My year's salary wouldn't cover the transportation costs of thisglass of whiskey. Do you find it good whiskey? Very good. Excellent? Excellent, if you prefer. I only meant—but never mind. We give you what you want. As forpaying for it—why, forget about the payment. You may apply for aTrader Tom Credit Card. And I could buy anything that I wanted with it? Manet demanded.That's absurd. I'd never be able to pay for it. That's it precisely! Trader Tom said with enthusiasm. You never pay for it. Charges are merely deducted from your estate . But I may leave no estate! Trader Tom demonstrated his peculiar shrug. All businesses operate ona certain margin of risk. That is our worry. <doc-sep>Manet finished the mellow whiskey and looked into the glass. It seemedto have been polished clean. What do you have to offer? Whatever you want? Irritably, How do I know what I want until I know what you have? You know. I know? All right, I know. You don't have it for sale. Old chap, understand if you please that I do not only sell . Iam a trader—Trader Tom. I trade with many parties. There are, forexample ... extraterrestrials. Folk legend! On the contrary, mon cher , the only reality it lacks is politicalreality. The Assembly could no longer justify their disposition ofthe cosmos if it were known they were dealing confiscation withoutrepresentation. Come, tell me what you want. Manet gave in to it. I want to be not alone, he said. Of course, Trader Tom replied, I suspected. It is not so unusual,you know. Sign here. And here. Two copies. This is yours. Thank you somuch. Manet handed back the pen and stared at the laminated card in his hand. When he looked up from the card, Manet saw the box. Trader Tom waspushing it across the floor towards him. The box had the general dimensions of a coffin, but it wasn'twood—only brightly illustrated cardboard. There was a large four-colorpicture on the lid showing men, women and children moving through abusy city street. The red and blue letters said: LIFO The Socialization Kit It is commercialized, Trader Tom admitted with no little chagrin.It is presented to appeal to a twelve-year-old child, an erotic,aggressive twelve-year-old, the typical sensie goer—but that isreality. It offends men of good taste like ourselves, yet sometimes itapproaches being art. We must accept it. What's the cost? Manet asked. Before I accept it, I have to know thecharges. You never know the cost. Only your executor knows that. It's theTrader Tom plan. Well, is it guaranteed? There are no guarantees, Trader Tom admitted. But I've never had anycomplaints yet. Suppose I'm the first? Manet suggested reasonably. You won't be, Trader Tom said. I won't pass this way again. <doc-sep>Manet didn't open the box. He let it fade quietly in the filtered butstill brilliant sunlight near a transparent wall. Manet puttered around the spawning monster, trying to brush the coppertaste of the station out of his mouth in the mornings, talking tohimself, winking at Annie Oakley, and waiting to go mad. Finally, Manet woke up one morning. He lay in the sheets of his bunk,suppressing the urge to go wash his hands, and came at last to theconclusion that, after all the delay, he was mad. So he went to open the box. The cardboard lid seemed to have become both brittle and rotten. Itcrumbled as easily as ideals. But Manet was old enough to remember theboxes Japanese toys came in when he was a boy, and was not alarmed. The contents were such a glorious pile of junk, of bottles from oldchemistry sets, of pieces from old Erector sets, of nameless things andunremembered antiques from neglected places, that it seemed too good tohave been assembled commercially. It was the collection of lifetime. On top of everything was a paperbound book, the size of the Reader'sDigest , covered in rippled gray flexiboard. The title was stamped inblack on the spine and cover: The Making of Friends . Manet opened the book and, turning one blank page, found the titlein larger print and slightly amplified: The Making of Friends andOthers . There was no author listed. A further line of informationstated: A Manual for Lifo, The Socialization Kit. At the bottom ofthe title page, the publisher was identified as: LIFO KIT CO., LTD.,SYRACUSE. The unnumbered first chapter was headed Your First Friend . Before you go further, first find the Modifier in your kit. Thisis vital . He quickly riffled through the pages. Other Friends, Authority, ACompanion .... Then The Final Model . Manet tried to flip past thissection, but the pages after the sheet labeled The Final Model werestuck together. More than stuck. There was a thick slab of plastic inthe back of the book. The edges were ridged as if there were pages tothis section, but they could only be the tracks of lame ants. Manet flipped back to page one. First find the Modifier in your kit. This is vital to your entireexperiment in socialization. The Modifier is Part #A-1 on the MasterChart. He prowled through the box looking for some kind of a chart. Therewas nothing that looked like a chart inside. He retrieved the lid andlooked at its inside. Nothing. He tipped the box and looked at itsoutside. Not a thing. There was always something missing from kits.Maybe even the Modifier itself. He read on, and probed and scattered the parts in the long box. Hestudied the manual intently and groped out with his free hand. The toe bone was connected to the foot bone.... The Red King sat smugly in his diagonal corner. The Black King stood two places away, his top half tipsy in frustration. The Red King crabbed sideways one square. The Black King pounced forward one space. The Red King advanced backwards to face the enemy. The Black King shuffled sideways. The Red King followed.... Uselessly. Tie game, Ronald said. Tie game, Manet said. Let's talk, Ronald said cheerfully. He was always cheerful. Cheerfulness was a personality trait Manet had thumbed out for him.Cheerful. Submissive. Co-operative. Manet had selected these factors inorder to make Ronald as different a person from himself as possible. The Korean-American War was the greatest of all wars, Ronald saidpontifically. Only in the air, Manet corrected him. Intelligence was one of the factors Manet had punched to suppress.Intelligence. Aggressiveness. Sense of perfection. Ronald couldn't knowany more than Manet, but he could (and did) know less. He had seen tothat when his own encephalograph matrix had programmed Ronald's feeder. There were no dogfights in Korea, Ronald said. I know. The dogfight was a combat of hundreds of planes in a tight area, thelast of which took place near the end of the First World War. Theaerial duel, sometimes inaccurately referred to as a 'dogfight' was notseen in Korea either. The pilots at supersonic speeds only had time forsingle passes at the enemy. Still, I believe, contrary to all experts,that this took greater skill, man more wedded to machine, than theleisurely combats of World War One. I know. Daniel Boone was still a crack shot at eight-five. He was said to bewarm, sincere, modest, truthful, respected and rheumatic. I know. <doc-sep>Manet knew it all. He had heard it all before. He was so damned sick of hearing about Korean air battles, DanielBoone, the literary qualities of ancient sports fiction magazines,the painting of Norman Rockwell, New York swing, ad nauseum . What anarrow band of interests! With the whole universe to explore in thoughtand concept, why did he have to be trapped with such an unoriginalhuman being? Of course, Ronald wasn't an original human being. He was a copy. Manet had been interested in the Fabulous Forties—Lt. Hoot Gibson,Sam Merwin tennis stories, Saturday Evening Post covers—when he hadfirst learned of them, and he had learned all about them. He had firmopinions on all these. He yearned for someone to challenge him—to say that Dime Sports hadbeen nothing but a cheap yellow rag and, why, Sewanee Review , therehad been a magazine for you. Manet's only consolidation was that Ronald's tastes were lower than hisown. He patriotically insisted that the American Sabre Jet was superiorto the Mig. He maintained with a straight face that Tommy Dorsey was abetter band man than Benny Goodman. Ronald was a terrific jerk. Ronald, Manet said, you are a terrific jerk. Ronald leaped up immediately and led with his right. Manet blocked it deftly and threw a right cross. Ronald blocked it deftly, and drove in a right to the navel. The two men separated and, puffing like steam locomotives passing thediesel works, closed again. Ronald leaped forward and led with his right. Manet stepped inside the swing and lifted an uppercut to the ledge ofRonald's jaw. Ronald pinwheeled to the floor. He lifted his bruised head from the deck and worked his reddened mouth.Had enough? he asked Manet. Manet dropped his fists to his sides and turned away. Yes. Ronald hopped up lightly. Another checkers, Billy Boy? No. Okay. Anything you want, William, old conquerer. Manet scrunched up inside himself in impotent fury. Ronald was maddeningly co-operative and peaceful. He would even get ina fist fight to avoid trouble between them. He would do anything Manetwanted him to do. He was so utterly damned stupid. Manet's eyes orbitted towards the checkerboard. But if he were so much more stupid than he, Manet, why was it thattheir checker games always ended in a tie? <doc-sep>The calendar said it was Spring on Earth when the radio was activatedfor a high-speed information and entertainment transmission. The buzzer-flasher activated in the solarium at the same time. Manet lay stretched out on his back, naked, in front of the transparentwall. By rolling his eyes back in his head, Manet could see over a hedge ofeyebrows for several hundred flat miles of white sand. And several hundred miles of desert could see him. For a moment he gloried in the blatant display of his flabby musclesand patchy sunburn. Then he sighed, rolled over to his feet and started trudging towardCommunication. He padded down the rib-ridged matted corridor, taking his usual smallpleasure in the kaleidoscopic effect of the spiraling reflections onthe walls of the tubeway. As he passed the File Room, he caught the sound of the poundingvibrations against the stoppered plug of the hatch. Come on, Billy Buddy, let me out of this place! Manet padded on down the hall. He had, he recalled, shoved Ronaldin there on Lincoln's Birthday, a minor ironic twist he appreciatedquietly. He had been waiting in vain for Ronald to run down ever since. In Communication, he took a seat and punched the slowed down playbackof the transmission. Hello, Overseers, the Voice said. It was the Voice of the B.B.C.It irritated Manet. He never understood how the British had got thespace transmissions assignment for the English language. He would havepreferred an American disk-jockey himself, one who appreciated New Yorkswing. We imagine that you are most interested in how long you shallbe required to stay at your present stations, said the Voice ofGod's paternal uncle. As you on Mars may know, there has been muchdiscussion as to how long it will require to complete the presentschedule— there was of course no K sound in the word—foratmosphere seeding. The original, non-binding estimate at the time of your departure was18.2 years. However, determining how long it will take our stationsproperly to remake the air of Mars is a problem comparable to findingthe age of the Earth. Estimates change as new factors are learned. Youmay recall that three years ago the official estimate was changed tothirty-one years. The recent estimate by certain reactionary sourcesof two hundred and seventy-four years is not an official governmentestimate. The news for you is good, if you are becoming nostalgic forhome, or not particularly bad if you are counting on drawing yourhandsome salary for the time spent on Mars. We have every reason tobelieve our original estimate was substantially correct. The totaltime is, within limits of error, a flat 18 years. A very flat 18 years, Manet thought as he palmed off the recorder. He sat there thinking about eighteen years. He did not switch to video for some freshly taped westerns. Finally, Manet went back to the solarium and dragged the big box out.There was a lot left inside. One of those parts, one of those bones or struts of flesh sprayers, oneof them, he now knew, was the Modifier. The Modifier was what he needed to change Ronald. Or to shut him off. If only the Master Chart hadn't been lost, so he would know what theModifier looked like! He hoped the Modifier itself wasn't lost. Hehated to think of Ronald locked in the Usher tomb of the File Roomfor 18 flat years. Long before that, he would have worn his fists awayhammering at the hatch. Then he might start pounding with his head.Perhaps before the time was up he would have worn himself down tonothing whatsoever. Manet selected the ripple-finished gray-covered manual from thehodgepodge, and thought: eighteen years. Perhaps I should have begun here, he told himself. But I really don'thave as much interest in that sort of thing as the earthier types.Simple companionship was all I wanted. And, he thought on, even aninsipid personality like Ronald's would be bearable with certaincompensations. Manet opened the book to the chapter headed: The Making of a Girl . <doc-sep>Veronica crept up behind Manet and slithered her hands up his back andover his shoulders. She leaned forward and breathed a moist warmth intohis ear, and worried the lobe with her even white teeth. Daniel Boone, she sighed huskily, only killed three Indians in hislife. I know. Manet folded his arms stoically and added: Please don't talk. She sighed her instant agreement and moved her expressive hands overhis chest and up to the hollows of his throat. I need a shave, he observed. Her hands instantly caressed his face to prove that she liked a ratherbristly, masculine countenance. Manet elbowed Veronica away in a gentlemanly fashion. She made her return. Not now, he instructed her. Whenever you say. He stood up and began pacing off the dimensions of the compartment.There was no doubt about it: he had been missing his regular exercise. Now? she asked. I'll tell you. If you were a jet pilot, Veronica said wistfully, you would beromantic. You would grab love when you could. You would never knowwhich moment would be last. You would make the most of each one. I'm not a jet pilot, Manet said. There are no jet pilots. Therehaven't been any for generations. Don't be silly, Veronica said. Who else would stop those vile NorthKoreans and Red China 'volunteers'? Veronica, he said carefully, the Korean War is over. It was finishedeven before the last of the jet pilots. Don't be silly, she snapped. If it were over, I'd know about it,wouldn't I? She would, except that somehow she had turned out even less bright,less equipped with Manet's own store of information, than Ronald.Whoever had built the Lifo kit must have had ancient ideas about whatconstituted appropriate feminine characteristics. I suppose, he said heavily, that you would like me to take you backto Earth and introduce you to Daniel Boone? Oh, yes. Veronica, your stupidity is hideous. She lowered her long blonde lashes on her pink cheeks. That is a meanthing to say to me. But I forgive you. An invisible hand began pressing down steadily on the top of his headuntil it forced a sound out of him. Aaaawrraagggh! Must you be socloyingly sweet? Do you have to keep taking that? Isn't there any fightin you at all? He stepped forward and back-handed her across the jaw. It was the first time he had ever struck a woman, he realizedregretfully. He now knew he should have been doing it long ago. Veronica sprang forward and led with a right. <doc-sep>Ronald's cries grew louder as Manet marched Veronica through thecorridor. Hear that? he inquired, smiling with clenched teeth. No, darling. Well, that was all right. He remembered he had once told her to ignorethe noise. She was still following orders. Come on, Bill, open up the hatch for old Ronald, the voice carriedthrough sepulchrally. Shut up! Manet yelled. The voice dwindled stubbornly, then cut off. A silence with a whisper of metallic ring to it. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Maybe because he secretly tookcomfort in the sound of an almost human voice echoing through thestation. Manet threw back the bolt and wheeled back the hatch. Ronald looked just the same as had when Manet had seen him last. Hishands didn't seem to have been worn away in the least. Ronald's lipsseemed a trifle chapped. But that probably came not from all theshouting but from having nothing to drink for some months. Ronald didn't say anything to Manet. But he looked offended. You, Manet said to Veronica with a shove in the small of the back,inside, inside. Ronald sidestepped the lurching girl. Do you know what I'm going to do with you? Manet demanded. I'm goingto lock you up in here, and leave you for a day, a month, a year,forever! Now what do you think about that? If you think it's the right thing, dear, Veronica said hesitantly. You know best, Willy, Ronald said uncertainly. Manet slammed the hatch in disgust. Manet walked carefully down the corridor, watching streamers ofhis reflection corkscrewing into the curved walls. He had to walkcarefully, else the artery would roll up tight and squash him. But hewalked too carefully for this to happen. As he passed the File Room, Ronald's voice said: In my opinion,William, you should let us out. I, Veronica said, honestly feel that you should let me out, Bill,dearest. Manet giggled. What? What was that? Do you suggest that I take youback after you've been behind a locked door with my best friend? He went down the corridor, giggling. He giggled and thought: This will never do. <doc-sep>Pouring and tumbling through the Lifo kit, consulting the manualdiligently, Manet concluded that there weren't enough parts left in thebox to go around. The book gave instructions for The Model Mother, The Model Father, TheModel Sibling and others. Yet there weren't parts enough in the kit. He would have to take parts from Ronald or Veronica in order to makeany one of the others. And he could not do that without the Modifier. He wished Trader Tom would return and extract some higher price fromhim for the Modifier, which was clearly missing from the kit. Or to get even more for simply repossessing the kit. But Trader Tom would not be back. He came this way only once. Manet thumbed through the manual in mechanical frustration. As he didso, the solid piece of the last section parted sheet by sheet. He glanced forward and found the headings: The Final Model . There seemed something ominous about that finality. But he had paida price for the kit, hadn't he? Who knew what price, when it came tothat? He had every right to get everything out of the kit that hecould. He read the unfolding page critically. The odd assortment ofill-matched parts left in the box took a new shape in his mind andunder his fingers.... Manet gave one final spurt from the flesh-sprayer and stood back. Victor was finished. Perfect. Manet stepped forward, lifted the model's left eyelid, tweaked his nose. Move! Victor leaped back into the Lifo kit and did a jig on one of theflesh-sprayers. As the device twisted as handily as good intentions, Manet realizedthat it was not a flesh-sprayer but the Modifier. It's finished! were Victor's first words. It's done! Manet stared at the tiny wreck. To say the least. Victor stepped out of the oblong box. There is something you shouldunderstand. I am different from the others. They all say that. I am not your friend. No? No. You have made yourself an enemy. Manet felt nothing more at this information than an esthetic pleasureat the symmetry of the situation. It completes the final course in socialization, Victor continued. Iam your adversary. I will do everything I can to defeat you. I have all your knowledge. You do not have all your knowledge. If you letyourself know some of the things, it could be used against you. It ismy function to use everything I possibly can against you. When do you start? I've finished. I've done my worst. I have destroyed the Modifier. What's so bad about that? Manet asked with some interest. You'll have Veronica and Ronald and me forever now. We'll neverchange. You'll get older, and we'll never change. You'll lose yourinterest in New York swing and jet combat and Daniel Boone, and we'llnever change. We don't change and you can't change us for others. I'vemade the worst thing happen to you that can happen to any man. I'veseen that you will always keep your friends. <doc-sep>The prospect was frightful. Victor smiled. Aren't you going to denounce me for a fiend? Yes, it is time for the denouncement. Tell me, you feel that now youare through? You have fulfilled your function? Yes. Yes. Now you will have but to lean back, as it were, so to speak, and seeme suffer? Yes. No. Can't do it, old man. Can't. I know. You're too human, toolike me. The one thing a man can't accept is a passive state, a stateof uselessness. Not if he can possibly avoid it. Something has to behappening to him. He has to be happening to something. You didn't killme because then you would have nothing left to do. You'll never killme. Of course not! Victor stormed. Fundamental safety cut-off! Rationalization. You don't want to kill me. And you can't stopchallenging me at every turn. That's your function. Stop talking and just think about your miserable life, Victor saidmeanly. Your friends won't grow and mature with you. You won't makeany new friends. You'll have me to constantly remind you of youruselessness, your constant unrelenting sterility of purpose. How's thatfor boredom, for passiveness? That's what I'm trying to tell you, Manet said irritably, his socialmanners rusty. I won't be bored. You will see to that. It's yourpurpose. You'll be a challenge, an obstacle, a source of triumph everyfoot of the way. Don't you see? With you for an enemy, I don't need afriend! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the purpose of the modifier?

When Manet first looks into the LIFO kit, there are a number of strange objects inside. On the top of the box is a manual on how to create these new beings, designed for companionship. In the manual, it clearly states that it is of the utmost importance to first find the modifier in the kit. It could be seen in the first part of the master chart. The only problem was, the master chart is missing. Without the master chart, Manet has no way of knowing what the modifier looked like. He decides to create these companions without it regardless. It only becomes clear what the modifier is used for towards the end of the story. When Victor is created, he immediately leaps inside the box, smashing up something Manet thinks to be a flesh sprayer. When it is destroyed, Manet finally realises that it is in fact, the Modifier. Victor explains the modifier's purpose. The modifier is used to change the artificial beings. They are created based on the creator's likes and dislikes. But, as Manet matures, and he grows out of his initial preferences, he would have the modifier to change his companions to fit his new preferences. With this gone, he is stuck with the same Ronald, Veronica and Victor for the next eighteen years.

How is Manet's madness portrayed in the story? [SEP] <s> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>Manet suspected hallucination, but in an existence with all the palliddispassion of a requited love he was happy to welcome dementia.Sometimes he even manufactured it. Sometimes he would run through thearteries of the factory and play that it had suddenly gone mad hatinghuman beings, and was about to close down its bulkheads on him as sureas the Engineers' Thumb and bale up the pressure-dehydrated digest,making so much stall flooring of him. He ran until he dropped with akind of climaxing release of terror. So Manet put on the pressure suit he had been given because he wouldnever need it, and marched out to meet the visiting spaceship. He wasn't quite clear how he came from walking effortlessly acrossthe Martian plain that had all the distance-perpetuating qualities ofa kid's crank movie machine to the comfortable interior of a strangecabin. Not a ship's cabin but a Northwoods cabin. The black and orange Hallowe'en log charring in the slate stonefireplace seemed real. So did the lean man with the smiling mustachepainted with the random designs of the fire, standing before thehorizontal pattern of chinked wall. Need a fresher? the host inquired. Manet's eyes wondered down to heavy water tumbler full of rich, amberwhiskey full of sparks from the hearth. He stirred himself in thecomfortingly warm leather chair. No, no, I'm fine . He let the wordhang there for examination. Pardon me, but could you tell me just whatplace this is? The host shrugged. It was the only word for it. Whatever place youchoose it to be, so long as you're with Trader Tom. 'Service,' that'smy motto. It is a way of life with me. Trader Tom? Service? Yes! That's it exactly. It's me exactly. Trader Tom Service—Servingthe Wants of the Spaceman Between the Stars. Of course, 'stars' ispoetic. Any point of light in the sky in a star. We service theplanets. Manet took the tumbler in both hands and drank. It was good whiskey,immensely powerful. The government wouldn't pay for somebody servingthe wants of spacemen, he exploded. Ah, Trader Tom said, cautionary. He moved nearer the fire and warmedhis hands and buttocks. Ah, but I am not a government service. Irepresent free enterprise. <doc-sep>Nonsense, Manet said. No group of private individuals can build aspaceship. It takes a combine of nations. But remember only that businessmen are reactionary. It's well-known.Ask anyone on the street. Businessmen are reactionary even beyond thecapitalistic system. Money is a fiction that exists mostly on paper.They play along on paper to get paper things, but to get real thingsthey can forego the papers. Comprehend, mon ami ? My businessmenhave gone back to the barter system. Between them, they have the rawmaterials, the trained men, the man-hours to make a spaceship. So theymake it. Damned reactionaries, all of my principals. I don't believe you, Manet stated flatly. His conversation had grownblunt with disuse. What possible profit could your principals turnfrom running a trading ship among scattered exploration posts on theplanets? What could you give us that a benevolent government doesn'talready supply us with? And if there was anything, how could we pay forit? My year's salary wouldn't cover the transportation costs of thisglass of whiskey. Do you find it good whiskey? Very good. Excellent? Excellent, if you prefer. I only meant—but never mind. We give you what you want. As forpaying for it—why, forget about the payment. You may apply for aTrader Tom Credit Card. And I could buy anything that I wanted with it? Manet demanded.That's absurd. I'd never be able to pay for it. That's it precisely! Trader Tom said with enthusiasm. You never pay for it. Charges are merely deducted from your estate . But I may leave no estate! Trader Tom demonstrated his peculiar shrug. All businesses operate ona certain margin of risk. That is our worry. <doc-sep>Manet finished the mellow whiskey and looked into the glass. It seemedto have been polished clean. What do you have to offer? Whatever you want? Irritably, How do I know what I want until I know what you have? You know. I know? All right, I know. You don't have it for sale. Old chap, understand if you please that I do not only sell . Iam a trader—Trader Tom. I trade with many parties. There are, forexample ... extraterrestrials. Folk legend! On the contrary, mon cher , the only reality it lacks is politicalreality. The Assembly could no longer justify their disposition ofthe cosmos if it were known they were dealing confiscation withoutrepresentation. Come, tell me what you want. Manet gave in to it. I want to be not alone, he said. Of course, Trader Tom replied, I suspected. It is not so unusual,you know. Sign here. And here. Two copies. This is yours. Thank you somuch. Manet handed back the pen and stared at the laminated card in his hand. When he looked up from the card, Manet saw the box. Trader Tom waspushing it across the floor towards him. The box had the general dimensions of a coffin, but it wasn'twood—only brightly illustrated cardboard. There was a large four-colorpicture on the lid showing men, women and children moving through abusy city street. The red and blue letters said: LIFO The Socialization Kit It is commercialized, Trader Tom admitted with no little chagrin.It is presented to appeal to a twelve-year-old child, an erotic,aggressive twelve-year-old, the typical sensie goer—but that isreality. It offends men of good taste like ourselves, yet sometimes itapproaches being art. We must accept it. What's the cost? Manet asked. Before I accept it, I have to know thecharges. You never know the cost. Only your executor knows that. It's theTrader Tom plan. Well, is it guaranteed? There are no guarantees, Trader Tom admitted. But I've never had anycomplaints yet. Suppose I'm the first? Manet suggested reasonably. You won't be, Trader Tom said. I won't pass this way again. <doc-sep>Manet didn't open the box. He let it fade quietly in the filtered butstill brilliant sunlight near a transparent wall. Manet puttered around the spawning monster, trying to brush the coppertaste of the station out of his mouth in the mornings, talking tohimself, winking at Annie Oakley, and waiting to go mad. Finally, Manet woke up one morning. He lay in the sheets of his bunk,suppressing the urge to go wash his hands, and came at last to theconclusion that, after all the delay, he was mad. So he went to open the box. The cardboard lid seemed to have become both brittle and rotten. Itcrumbled as easily as ideals. But Manet was old enough to remember theboxes Japanese toys came in when he was a boy, and was not alarmed. The contents were such a glorious pile of junk, of bottles from oldchemistry sets, of pieces from old Erector sets, of nameless things andunremembered antiques from neglected places, that it seemed too good tohave been assembled commercially. It was the collection of lifetime. On top of everything was a paperbound book, the size of the Reader'sDigest , covered in rippled gray flexiboard. The title was stamped inblack on the spine and cover: The Making of Friends . Manet opened the book and, turning one blank page, found the titlein larger print and slightly amplified: The Making of Friends andOthers . There was no author listed. A further line of informationstated: A Manual for Lifo, The Socialization Kit. At the bottom ofthe title page, the publisher was identified as: LIFO KIT CO., LTD.,SYRACUSE. The unnumbered first chapter was headed Your First Friend . Before you go further, first find the Modifier in your kit. Thisis vital . He quickly riffled through the pages. Other Friends, Authority, ACompanion .... Then The Final Model . Manet tried to flip past thissection, but the pages after the sheet labeled The Final Model werestuck together. More than stuck. There was a thick slab of plastic inthe back of the book. The edges were ridged as if there were pages tothis section, but they could only be the tracks of lame ants. Manet flipped back to page one. First find the Modifier in your kit. This is vital to your entireexperiment in socialization. The Modifier is Part #A-1 on the MasterChart. He prowled through the box looking for some kind of a chart. Therewas nothing that looked like a chart inside. He retrieved the lid andlooked at its inside. Nothing. He tipped the box and looked at itsoutside. Not a thing. There was always something missing from kits.Maybe even the Modifier itself. He read on, and probed and scattered the parts in the long box. Hestudied the manual intently and groped out with his free hand. The toe bone was connected to the foot bone.... The Red King sat smugly in his diagonal corner. The Black King stood two places away, his top half tipsy in frustration. The Red King crabbed sideways one square. The Black King pounced forward one space. The Red King advanced backwards to face the enemy. The Black King shuffled sideways. The Red King followed.... Uselessly. Tie game, Ronald said. Tie game, Manet said. Let's talk, Ronald said cheerfully. He was always cheerful. Cheerfulness was a personality trait Manet had thumbed out for him.Cheerful. Submissive. Co-operative. Manet had selected these factors inorder to make Ronald as different a person from himself as possible. The Korean-American War was the greatest of all wars, Ronald saidpontifically. Only in the air, Manet corrected him. Intelligence was one of the factors Manet had punched to suppress.Intelligence. Aggressiveness. Sense of perfection. Ronald couldn't knowany more than Manet, but he could (and did) know less. He had seen tothat when his own encephalograph matrix had programmed Ronald's feeder. There were no dogfights in Korea, Ronald said. I know. The dogfight was a combat of hundreds of planes in a tight area, thelast of which took place near the end of the First World War. Theaerial duel, sometimes inaccurately referred to as a 'dogfight' was notseen in Korea either. The pilots at supersonic speeds only had time forsingle passes at the enemy. Still, I believe, contrary to all experts,that this took greater skill, man more wedded to machine, than theleisurely combats of World War One. I know. Daniel Boone was still a crack shot at eight-five. He was said to bewarm, sincere, modest, truthful, respected and rheumatic. I know. <doc-sep>Manet knew it all. He had heard it all before. He was so damned sick of hearing about Korean air battles, DanielBoone, the literary qualities of ancient sports fiction magazines,the painting of Norman Rockwell, New York swing, ad nauseum . What anarrow band of interests! With the whole universe to explore in thoughtand concept, why did he have to be trapped with such an unoriginalhuman being? Of course, Ronald wasn't an original human being. He was a copy. Manet had been interested in the Fabulous Forties—Lt. Hoot Gibson,Sam Merwin tennis stories, Saturday Evening Post covers—when he hadfirst learned of them, and he had learned all about them. He had firmopinions on all these. He yearned for someone to challenge him—to say that Dime Sports hadbeen nothing but a cheap yellow rag and, why, Sewanee Review , therehad been a magazine for you. Manet's only consolidation was that Ronald's tastes were lower than hisown. He patriotically insisted that the American Sabre Jet was superiorto the Mig. He maintained with a straight face that Tommy Dorsey was abetter band man than Benny Goodman. Ronald was a terrific jerk. Ronald, Manet said, you are a terrific jerk. Ronald leaped up immediately and led with his right. Manet blocked it deftly and threw a right cross. Ronald blocked it deftly, and drove in a right to the navel. The two men separated and, puffing like steam locomotives passing thediesel works, closed again. Ronald leaped forward and led with his right. Manet stepped inside the swing and lifted an uppercut to the ledge ofRonald's jaw. Ronald pinwheeled to the floor. He lifted his bruised head from the deck and worked his reddened mouth.Had enough? he asked Manet. Manet dropped his fists to his sides and turned away. Yes. Ronald hopped up lightly. Another checkers, Billy Boy? No. Okay. Anything you want, William, old conquerer. Manet scrunched up inside himself in impotent fury. Ronald was maddeningly co-operative and peaceful. He would even get ina fist fight to avoid trouble between them. He would do anything Manetwanted him to do. He was so utterly damned stupid. Manet's eyes orbitted towards the checkerboard. But if he were so much more stupid than he, Manet, why was it thattheir checker games always ended in a tie? <doc-sep>The calendar said it was Spring on Earth when the radio was activatedfor a high-speed information and entertainment transmission. The buzzer-flasher activated in the solarium at the same time. Manet lay stretched out on his back, naked, in front of the transparentwall. By rolling his eyes back in his head, Manet could see over a hedge ofeyebrows for several hundred flat miles of white sand. And several hundred miles of desert could see him. For a moment he gloried in the blatant display of his flabby musclesand patchy sunburn. Then he sighed, rolled over to his feet and started trudging towardCommunication. He padded down the rib-ridged matted corridor, taking his usual smallpleasure in the kaleidoscopic effect of the spiraling reflections onthe walls of the tubeway. As he passed the File Room, he caught the sound of the poundingvibrations against the stoppered plug of the hatch. Come on, Billy Buddy, let me out of this place! Manet padded on down the hall. He had, he recalled, shoved Ronaldin there on Lincoln's Birthday, a minor ironic twist he appreciatedquietly. He had been waiting in vain for Ronald to run down ever since. In Communication, he took a seat and punched the slowed down playbackof the transmission. Hello, Overseers, the Voice said. It was the Voice of the B.B.C.It irritated Manet. He never understood how the British had got thespace transmissions assignment for the English language. He would havepreferred an American disk-jockey himself, one who appreciated New Yorkswing. We imagine that you are most interested in how long you shallbe required to stay at your present stations, said the Voice ofGod's paternal uncle. As you on Mars may know, there has been muchdiscussion as to how long it will require to complete the presentschedule— there was of course no K sound in the word—foratmosphere seeding. The original, non-binding estimate at the time of your departure was18.2 years. However, determining how long it will take our stationsproperly to remake the air of Mars is a problem comparable to findingthe age of the Earth. Estimates change as new factors are learned. Youmay recall that three years ago the official estimate was changed tothirty-one years. The recent estimate by certain reactionary sourcesof two hundred and seventy-four years is not an official governmentestimate. The news for you is good, if you are becoming nostalgic forhome, or not particularly bad if you are counting on drawing yourhandsome salary for the time spent on Mars. We have every reason tobelieve our original estimate was substantially correct. The totaltime is, within limits of error, a flat 18 years. A very flat 18 years, Manet thought as he palmed off the recorder. He sat there thinking about eighteen years. He did not switch to video for some freshly taped westerns. Finally, Manet went back to the solarium and dragged the big box out.There was a lot left inside. One of those parts, one of those bones or struts of flesh sprayers, oneof them, he now knew, was the Modifier. The Modifier was what he needed to change Ronald. Or to shut him off. If only the Master Chart hadn't been lost, so he would know what theModifier looked like! He hoped the Modifier itself wasn't lost. Hehated to think of Ronald locked in the Usher tomb of the File Roomfor 18 flat years. Long before that, he would have worn his fists awayhammering at the hatch. Then he might start pounding with his head.Perhaps before the time was up he would have worn himself down tonothing whatsoever. Manet selected the ripple-finished gray-covered manual from thehodgepodge, and thought: eighteen years. Perhaps I should have begun here, he told himself. But I really don'thave as much interest in that sort of thing as the earthier types.Simple companionship was all I wanted. And, he thought on, even aninsipid personality like Ronald's would be bearable with certaincompensations. Manet opened the book to the chapter headed: The Making of a Girl . <doc-sep>Veronica crept up behind Manet and slithered her hands up his back andover his shoulders. She leaned forward and breathed a moist warmth intohis ear, and worried the lobe with her even white teeth. Daniel Boone, she sighed huskily, only killed three Indians in hislife. I know. Manet folded his arms stoically and added: Please don't talk. She sighed her instant agreement and moved her expressive hands overhis chest and up to the hollows of his throat. I need a shave, he observed. Her hands instantly caressed his face to prove that she liked a ratherbristly, masculine countenance. Manet elbowed Veronica away in a gentlemanly fashion. She made her return. Not now, he instructed her. Whenever you say. He stood up and began pacing off the dimensions of the compartment.There was no doubt about it: he had been missing his regular exercise. Now? she asked. I'll tell you. If you were a jet pilot, Veronica said wistfully, you would beromantic. You would grab love when you could. You would never knowwhich moment would be last. You would make the most of each one. I'm not a jet pilot, Manet said. There are no jet pilots. Therehaven't been any for generations. Don't be silly, Veronica said. Who else would stop those vile NorthKoreans and Red China 'volunteers'? Veronica, he said carefully, the Korean War is over. It was finishedeven before the last of the jet pilots. Don't be silly, she snapped. If it were over, I'd know about it,wouldn't I? She would, except that somehow she had turned out even less bright,less equipped with Manet's own store of information, than Ronald.Whoever had built the Lifo kit must have had ancient ideas about whatconstituted appropriate feminine characteristics. I suppose, he said heavily, that you would like me to take you backto Earth and introduce you to Daniel Boone? Oh, yes. Veronica, your stupidity is hideous. She lowered her long blonde lashes on her pink cheeks. That is a meanthing to say to me. But I forgive you. An invisible hand began pressing down steadily on the top of his headuntil it forced a sound out of him. Aaaawrraagggh! Must you be socloyingly sweet? Do you have to keep taking that? Isn't there any fightin you at all? He stepped forward and back-handed her across the jaw. It was the first time he had ever struck a woman, he realizedregretfully. He now knew he should have been doing it long ago. Veronica sprang forward and led with a right. <doc-sep>Ronald's cries grew louder as Manet marched Veronica through thecorridor. Hear that? he inquired, smiling with clenched teeth. No, darling. Well, that was all right. He remembered he had once told her to ignorethe noise. She was still following orders. Come on, Bill, open up the hatch for old Ronald, the voice carriedthrough sepulchrally. Shut up! Manet yelled. The voice dwindled stubbornly, then cut off. A silence with a whisper of metallic ring to it. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Maybe because he secretly tookcomfort in the sound of an almost human voice echoing through thestation. Manet threw back the bolt and wheeled back the hatch. Ronald looked just the same as had when Manet had seen him last. Hishands didn't seem to have been worn away in the least. Ronald's lipsseemed a trifle chapped. But that probably came not from all theshouting but from having nothing to drink for some months. Ronald didn't say anything to Manet. But he looked offended. You, Manet said to Veronica with a shove in the small of the back,inside, inside. Ronald sidestepped the lurching girl. Do you know what I'm going to do with you? Manet demanded. I'm goingto lock you up in here, and leave you for a day, a month, a year,forever! Now what do you think about that? If you think it's the right thing, dear, Veronica said hesitantly. You know best, Willy, Ronald said uncertainly. Manet slammed the hatch in disgust. Manet walked carefully down the corridor, watching streamers ofhis reflection corkscrewing into the curved walls. He had to walkcarefully, else the artery would roll up tight and squash him. But hewalked too carefully for this to happen. As he passed the File Room, Ronald's voice said: In my opinion,William, you should let us out. I, Veronica said, honestly feel that you should let me out, Bill,dearest. Manet giggled. What? What was that? Do you suggest that I take youback after you've been behind a locked door with my best friend? He went down the corridor, giggling. He giggled and thought: This will never do. <doc-sep>Pouring and tumbling through the Lifo kit, consulting the manualdiligently, Manet concluded that there weren't enough parts left in thebox to go around. The book gave instructions for The Model Mother, The Model Father, TheModel Sibling and others. Yet there weren't parts enough in the kit. He would have to take parts from Ronald or Veronica in order to makeany one of the others. And he could not do that without the Modifier. He wished Trader Tom would return and extract some higher price fromhim for the Modifier, which was clearly missing from the kit. Or to get even more for simply repossessing the kit. But Trader Tom would not be back. He came this way only once. Manet thumbed through the manual in mechanical frustration. As he didso, the solid piece of the last section parted sheet by sheet. He glanced forward and found the headings: The Final Model . There seemed something ominous about that finality. But he had paida price for the kit, hadn't he? Who knew what price, when it came tothat? He had every right to get everything out of the kit that hecould. He read the unfolding page critically. The odd assortment ofill-matched parts left in the box took a new shape in his mind andunder his fingers.... Manet gave one final spurt from the flesh-sprayer and stood back. Victor was finished. Perfect. Manet stepped forward, lifted the model's left eyelid, tweaked his nose. Move! Victor leaped back into the Lifo kit and did a jig on one of theflesh-sprayers. As the device twisted as handily as good intentions, Manet realizedthat it was not a flesh-sprayer but the Modifier. It's finished! were Victor's first words. It's done! Manet stared at the tiny wreck. To say the least. Victor stepped out of the oblong box. There is something you shouldunderstand. I am different from the others. They all say that. I am not your friend. No? No. You have made yourself an enemy. Manet felt nothing more at this information than an esthetic pleasureat the symmetry of the situation. It completes the final course in socialization, Victor continued. Iam your adversary. I will do everything I can to defeat you. I have all your knowledge. You do not have all your knowledge. If you letyourself know some of the things, it could be used against you. It ismy function to use everything I possibly can against you. When do you start? I've finished. I've done my worst. I have destroyed the Modifier. What's so bad about that? Manet asked with some interest. You'll have Veronica and Ronald and me forever now. We'll neverchange. You'll get older, and we'll never change. You'll lose yourinterest in New York swing and jet combat and Daniel Boone, and we'llnever change. We don't change and you can't change us for others. I'vemade the worst thing happen to you that can happen to any man. I'veseen that you will always keep your friends. <doc-sep>The prospect was frightful. Victor smiled. Aren't you going to denounce me for a fiend? Yes, it is time for the denouncement. Tell me, you feel that now youare through? You have fulfilled your function? Yes. Yes. Now you will have but to lean back, as it were, so to speak, and seeme suffer? Yes. No. Can't do it, old man. Can't. I know. You're too human, toolike me. The one thing a man can't accept is a passive state, a stateof uselessness. Not if he can possibly avoid it. Something has to behappening to him. He has to be happening to something. You didn't killme because then you would have nothing left to do. You'll never killme. Of course not! Victor stormed. Fundamental safety cut-off! Rationalization. You don't want to kill me. And you can't stopchallenging me at every turn. That's your function. Stop talking and just think about your miserable life, Victor saidmeanly. Your friends won't grow and mature with you. You won't makeany new friends. You'll have me to constantly remind you of youruselessness, your constant unrelenting sterility of purpose. How's thatfor boredom, for passiveness? That's what I'm trying to tell you, Manet said irritably, his socialmanners rusty. I won't be bored. You will see to that. It's yourpurpose. You'll be a challenge, an obstacle, a source of triumph everyfoot of the way. Don't you see? With you for an enemy, I don't need afriend! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How is Manet's madness portrayed in the story?

When we first meet William Manet, he thinks it is inevitable that he will go insane, and even welcomes it. He would get "fat and dirty" and he would become animalistic and create a god complex for himself. He quickly slips into madness in his isolation, making notes for lectures to give to no one in particular, a picture of Annie Oakley, winking at him on more than one occasion. The idea of madness is also brought up in the illusive character of "Trader Tom". It is not clear whether he or his spaceship are real at all, when it is said that Manet "Thinks" he sees the ship one day. There is no definitive answer as to how he gets onto the ship, or who or what Trader Tom works for. When Manet finishes the glass of whiskey, it becomes instantly clean, like he had never drank from it. His ship is also very strange, with a fireplace in it. We can later see Manet's madness in his violent outbursts. We first see him beat up Ronald, and then Veronica. His madness is truly shown when he exclaims that he should have started beating women much sooner. It is unclear throughout the whole story whether any of this took place in the real world, or whether it was all in Manet's head.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> AMBITION By WILLIAM L. BADE Illustrated by L. WOROMAY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] To the men of the future, the scientific goals of today were as incomprehensible as the ancient quest for the Holy Grail! There was a thump. Maitland stirred, came half awake, and opened hiseyes. The room was dark except where a broad shaft of moonlight fromthe open window fell on the foot of his bed. Outside, the residentialsection of the Reservation slept silently under the pale illuminationof the full Moon. He guessed sleepily that it was about three o'clock. What had he heard? He had a definite impression that the sound had comefrom within the room. It had sounded like someone stumbling into achair, or— Something moved in the darkness on the other side of the room. Maitlandstarted to sit up and it was as though a thousand volts had shorted hisbrain.... This time, he awoke more normally. He opened his eyes, looked throughthe window at a section of azure sky, listened to the singing of birdssomewhere outside. A beautiful day. In the middle of the process ofstretching his rested muscles, arms extended back, legs tensed, hefroze, looking up—for the first time really seeing the ceiling. Heturned his head, then rolled off the bed, wide awake. This wasn't his room! The lawn outside wasn't part of the Reservation! Where the labs andthe shops should have been, there was deep prairie grass, then a greenocean pushed into waves by the breeze stretching to the horizon. Thiswasn't the California desert! Down the hill, where the liquid oxygenplant ought to have been, a river wound across the scene, almost hiddenbeneath its leafy roof of huge ancient trees. Shock contracted Maitland's diaphragm and spread through his body.His breathing quickened. Now he remembered what had happened duringthe night, the sound in the darkness, the dimly seen figure, andthen—what? Blackout.... Where was he? Who had brought him here? For what purpose? He thought he knew the answer to the last of those questions. Asa member of the original atomic reaction-motor team, he possessedinformation that other military powers would very much like to obtain.It was absolutely incredible that anyone had managed to abduct him fromthe heavily guarded confines of the Reservation, yet someone had doneit. How? <doc-sep>He pivoted to inspect the room. Even before his eyes could take inthe details, he had the impression that there was something wrongabout it. To begin with, the style was unfamiliar. There were nostraight lines or sharp corners anywhere. The walls were paneled infeatureless blue plastic and the doors were smooth surfaces of metal,half ellipses, without knobs. The flowing lines of the chair and table,built apparently from an aluminum alloy, somehow gave the impressionof arrested motion. Even after allowances were made for the outlandishdesign, something about the room still was not right. His eyes returned to the doors, and he moved over to study the nearerone. As he had noticed, there was no knob, but at the right of thisone, at about waist level, a push-button projected out of the wall. Hepressed it; the door slid aside and disappeared. Maitland glanced in atthe disclosed bathroom, then went over to look at the other door. There was no button beside this one, nor any other visible means ofcausing it to open. Baffled, he turned again and looked at the large open window—andrealized what it was that had made the room seem so queer. It did not look like a jail cell. There were no bars.... Striding across the room, he lunged forward to peer out and violentlybanged his forehead. He staggered back, grimacing with pain, thenreached forward cautious fingers and discovered a hard sheet of stuffso transparent that he had not even suspected its presence. Not glass!Glass was never this clear or strong. A plastic, no doubt, but one hehadn't heard of. Security sometimes had disadvantages. He looked out at the peaceful vista of river and prairie. The characterof the sunlight seemed to indicate that it was afternoon. He becameaware that he was hungry. Where the devil could this place be? And—muscles tightened about hisempty stomach—what was in store for him here? He stood trembling, acutely conscious that he was afraid and helpless,until a flicker of motion at the bottom of the hill near the river drewhis attention. Pressing his nose against the window, he strained hiseyes to see what it was. A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently theyhad been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around hisneck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair. Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; hedidn't know of any other country where public bathing at this timeof year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't lookScandinavian.... As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntansand showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trainedfor years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,presumably into the building. He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor. <doc-sep>About half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into thewall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks andsandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stoodup and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas hemade an unimpressive figure. The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticedwere the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp fromswimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin. This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure ofhimself. Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the headof a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination. Impassively, the man said, My name is Swarts. You want to know whereyou are. I am not going to tell you. He had an accent, European, butotherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouthto protest, but Swarts went on, However, you're free to do all theguessing you want. Still there was no suggestion of a smile. Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll havethree meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed toleave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed inany way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea thatwe want your childish secrets about rocket motors. Maitland's heartjumped. My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. Iwant to give you some psychological tests.... Are you crazy? Maitland asked quietly. Do you realize that at thismoment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'lladmit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but itseems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to giveyour tests to. Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. They won't find you, he said. Now,come with me. <doc-sep>After that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rathercommonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, anda bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A coupleof them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normalcomplement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ranacross the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in thecenter of the room. Lie down, Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things willbe for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my resultsagainst your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't makeme. What's the idea? Maitland asked. What is all this? Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade ananswer, but to find the proper words. You can think of it as a liedetector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests Igive you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down. Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensedmuscles. Make me. If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. That was the first test,he said. Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot ifyou'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus. Maitland shook his head stubbornly. I see, Swarts said. You want to find out what you're up against. He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to thesolar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was onthe cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps acrosshis chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening aclamp that held his head immovable. Presently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples andto other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging tothe skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hungfrom the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly aroundhis left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black boxclamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joinedthe others. So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skinpotential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses ofthe body to stimuli. The question was, what were the stimuli to be? Your name, said Swarts, is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-fouryears old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularlyas applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going toquestion you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town isMadison, Wisconsin.... You seem to know everything about me, Maitland said defiantly,looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. Why this recital? I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing theequipment, calibrating it to your reactions. He went on, Yourfavorite recreations are chess and reading what you term sciencefiction. Maitland, how would you like to go to the Moon ? Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, andhe tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. What doyou mean? Swarts was chuckling. I really hit a semantic push-button there,didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wantsto go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out why . <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds. She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool. She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas. She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone. Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think. There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy. Where was he? Who was Swarts? What was the purpose of the tests he was being given? It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers. It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass. This might be somewhere in Africa.... He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing. Venus, the most beautiful of the planets. Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its alter ego of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend.... Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe. Last night Venus hadn't been there. Venus was a morning star just now.... Just now! He realized the truth in that moment. <doc-sep>Later, when that jewel of a planet had set and the stars were out,he lay on the bed, still warm with excitement and relief. He didn'thave to worry any more about military secrets, or who Swarts was.Those questions were irrelevant now. And now he could accept thepsychological tests at their face value; most likely, they were whatthey purported to be. Only one question of importance remained: What year was this? He grimaced in the darkness, an involuntary muscular expression ofjubilation and excitement. The future ! Here was the opportunity forthe greatest adventure imaginable to 20th Century man. Somewhere, out there under the stars, there must be grand glitteringcities and busy spaceports, roaring gateways to the planets.Somewhere, out there in the night, there must be men who had walkedbeside the Martian canals and pierced the shining cloud mantle ofVenus—somewhere, perhaps, men who had visited the distant luring starsand returned. Surely, a civilization that had developed time travelcould reach the stars! And he had a chance to become a part of all that! He could spendhis life among the planets, a citizen of deep space, a voyager of thechallenging spaceways between the solar worlds. I'm adaptable, he told himself gleefully. I can learn fast. There'llbe a job for me out there.... If— Suddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, satin the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find away of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the manrealize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts stillwouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. Thefellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,but— After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed. <doc-sep>He woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. Herolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal theevening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smellof bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, exceptthat she had discarded the white cloak. As he swung his legs to the floor, she started toward the door,carrying the tray with the dirty dishes from yesterday. He stopped herwith the word, Miss! She turned, and he thought there was something eager in her face. Miss, do you speak my language? Yes, hesitantly. She lingered too long on the hiss of the lastconsonant. Miss, he asked, watching her face intently, what year is this? Startlingly, she laughed, a mellow peal of mirth that had nothingforced about it. She turned toward the door again and said over hershoulder, You will have to ask Swarts about that. I cannot tell you. Wait! You mean you don't know? She shook her head. I cannot tell you. All right; we'll let it go at that. She grinned at him again as the door slid shut. <doc-sep>Swarts came half an hour later, and Maitland began his plannedoffensive. What year is this? Swarts' steely eyes locked with his. You know what the date is, hestated. No, I don't. Not since yesterday. Come on, Swarts said patiently, let's get going. We have a lot toget through this morning. I know this isn't 1950. It's probably not even the 20th Century.Venus was a morning star before you brought me here. Now it's anevening star. Never mind that. Come. Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to thelaboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attachthe instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts startedsaying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reactiontest—Maitland began the job of integrating csc 3 x dx in his head.It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequenttracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swartshad stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other manstanding over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled. What year is this? Maitland asked in a conversational tone. We'll try another series of tests. It took Swarts nearly twenty minutes to set up the new apparatus. Helowered a bulky affair with two cylindrical tubes like the twin stacksof a binocular microscope over Maitland's head, so that the lenses atthe ends of the tubes were about half an inch from the engineer'seyes. He attached tiny clamps to Maitland's eyelashes. These will keep you from holding your eyes shut, he said. You canblink, but the springs are too strong for you to hold your eyelids downagainst the tension. He inserted button earphones into Maitland's ears— And then the show began. He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there werefootsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with atwelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, Now I've got you, youwife-stealer! He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokelesspowder—then blackness. With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried toslow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was thecountermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around themdeclared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up. Now he was looking at a girl. She.... Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it. He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one dayafter school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who hadall the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but nomore. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness ofSwarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about thisnew world. Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightenedagainst the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on hisforehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated.... The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot andswollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps. The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from hiseyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore athim for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head wasstarting to ache from the effort of blinking. What year is this? he asked. All right, Swarts said. A.D. 2634. Maitland's smile became a grin. <doc-sep>I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies, Swarts saida while later. Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.' Ching? Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals. Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projectorto his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist. That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sitand watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimeswhistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jitteringone leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same themeover and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberantmounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's NinthSymphony. He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himselfaboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at SyrtisMajor; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge brightglobe against the constellations.... Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual trayof food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin andrevealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table. I think you are wonderful, she laughed. You get everything youwant, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a littleof what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20thCentury. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me. Shelaughed again, hands on her rounded hips. I have never seen him soirritated as he was this noon. Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.Eagerly he asked, Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks alot better. She shrugged. Swarts says that I want to go back to the Dark Age ofTechnology because I have not adapted well to modern culture. Myself,I think I have just a romantic nature. Far times and places look moreexciting.... How do you mean— Maitland wrinkled his brow—adapt to modernculture? Don't tell me you're from another time! Oh, no! But my home is Aresund, a little fishing village at the headof a fiord in what you would call Norway. So far north, we are muchbehind the times. We live in the old way, from the sea, speak the oldtongue. <doc-sep>He looked at her golden features, such a felicitous blend ofOriental and European characteristics, and hesitantly asked, MaybeI shouldn't.... This is a little personal, but ... you don't lookaltogether like the Norwegians of my time. His fear that she would be offended proved to be completelyunjustified. She merely laughed and said, There has been muchhistory since 1950. Five hundred years ago, Europe was overrun byPan-Orientals. Today you could not find anywhere a 'pure' Europeanor Asiatic. She giggled. Swarts' ancestors from your time must becursing in their graves. His family is Afrikander all the way back, butone of his great-grandfathers was pure-blooded Bantu. His full name isLassisi Swarts. Maitland wrinkled his brow. Afrikander? The South Africans. Something strange came into her eyes. It mighthave been awe, or even hatred; he could not tell. The Pan-Orientalseventually conquered all the world, except for North America—thelast remnant of the American World Empire—and southern Africa. TheAfrikanders had been partly isolated for several centuries then, andthey had developed technology while the rest of the world lost it. Theyhad a tradition of white supremacy, and in addition they were terrifiedof being encircled. She sighed. They ruled the next world empire andit was founded on the slaughter of one and a half billion human beings.That went into the history books as the War of Annihilation. So many? How? They were clever with machines, the Afrikanders. They made armiesof them. Armies of invincible killing-machines, produced in robotfactories from robot-mined ores.... Very clever. She gave a littleshudder. And yet they founded modern civilization, she added. The grandsonsof the technicians who built the Machine Army set up our robotproduction system, and today no human being has to dirty his handsraising food or manufacturing things. It could never have been done,either, before the population was—reduced to three hundred million. Then the Afrikanders are still on top? Still the masters? <doc-sep>She shook her head. There are no more Afrikanders. Rebellion? No. Intermarriage. Racial blending. There was a psychology of guiltbehind it. So huge a crime eventually required a proportionateexpiation. Afrikaans is still the world language, but there is only onerace now. No more masters or slaves. They were both silent for a moment, and then she sighed. Let us nottalk about them any more. Robot factories and farms, Maitland mused. What else? What means oftransportation? Do you have interstellar flight yet? Inter-what? Have men visited the stars? She shook her head, bewildered. I always thought that would be a tough problem to crack, he agreed.But tell me about what men are doing in the Solar System. How is lifeon Mars and Venus, and how long does it take to get to those places? He waited, expectantly silent, but she only looked puzzled. I don'tunderstand. Mars? What are Mars? After several seconds, Maitland swallowed. Something seemed to be thematter with his throat, making it difficult for him to speak. Surelyyou have space travel? She frowned and shook her head. What does that mean—space travel? He was gripping the edge of the bed now, glaring at her. Acivilization that could discover time travel and build robot factorieswouldn't find it hard to send a ship to Mars! A ship ? Oh, you mean something like a vliegvlotter . Why, no, Idon't suppose it would be hard. But why would anyone want to do athing like that? He was on his feet towering over her, fists clenched. She raised herarms as if to shield her face if he should hit her. Let's get thisperfectly clear, he said, more harshly than he realized. So far asyou know, no one has ever visited the planets, and no one wants to. Isthat right? She nodded apprehensively. I have never heard of it being done. He sank down on the bed and put his face in his hands. After a while helooked up and said bitterly, You're looking at a man who would givehis life to get to Mars. I thought I would in my time. I was positive Iwould when I knew I was in your time. And now I know I never will. <doc-sep>The cot creaked beside him and he felt a soft arm about his shouldersand fingers delicately stroking his brow. Presently he opened his eyesand looked at her. I just don't understand, he said. It seemedobvious to me that whenever men were able to reach the planets, they'ddo it. Her pitying eyes were on his face. He hitched himself around so that hewas facing her. I've got to understand. I've got to know why . Whathappened? Why don't men want the planets any more? Honestly, she said, I did not know they ever had. She hesitated.Maybe you are asking the wrong question. He furrowed his brow, bewildered now by her. I mean, she explained, maybe you should ask why people in the 20thCentury did want to go to worlds men are not suited to inhabit. Maitland felt his face become hot. Men can go anywhere, if they wantto bad enough. But why ? Despite his sudden irrational anger toward her, Maitland tried to stickto logic. Living space, for one thing. The only permanent solution tothe population problem.... We have no population problem. A hundred years ago, we realized thatthe key to social stability is a limited population. Our economicsystem was built to take care of three hundred million people, and wehave held the number at that. Birth control, Maitland scoffed. How do you make it work—secretpolice? No. Education. Each of us has the right to two children, and wecherish that right so much that we make every effort to see that thosetwo are the best children we could possibly produce.... She broke off, looking a little self-conscious. You understand, whatI have been saying applies to most of the world. In some places likeAresund, things are different. Backward. I still do not feel that Ibelong here, although the people of the town have accepted me as one ofthem. Even, he said, granting that you have solved the population problem,there's still the adventure of the thing. Surely, somewhere, there mustbe men who still feel that.... Ingrid, doesn't it fire something inyour blood, the idea of going to Mars—just to go there and see what'sthere and walk under a new sky and a smaller Sun? Aren't you interestedin finding out what the canals are? Or what's under the clouds ofVenus? Wouldn't you like to see the rings of Saturn from, a distanceof only two hundred thousand miles? His hands were trembling as hestopped. She shrugged her shapely shoulders. Go into the past—yes! But go outthere? I still cannot see why. Has the spirit of adventure evaporated from the human race, or what ? She smiled. In a room downstairs there is the head of a lion. Swartskilled the beast when he was a young man. He used a spear. And timetraveling is the greatest adventure there is. At least, that is theway I feel. Listen, Bob. She laid a hand on his arm. You grew up inthe Age of Technology. Everybody was terribly excited about what couldbe done with machines—machines to blow up a city all at once, or flyaround the world, or take a man to Mars. We have had our fill of—whatis the word?—gadgets. Our machines serve us, and so long as theyfunction right, we are satisfied to forget about them. Because this is the Age of Man . We are terribly interested in whatcan be done with people. Our scientists, like Swarts, are studyinghuman rather than nuclear reactions. We are much more fascinated by thelife and death of cultures than by the expansion or contraction of theUniverse. With us, it is the people that are important, not gadgets. Maitland stared at her, his face blank. His mind had just manufactureda discouraging analogy. His present position was like that of anearnest 12th Century crusader, deposited by some freak of nature intothe year 1950, trying to find a way of reanimating the anti-Mohammedanmovement. What chance would he have? The unfortunate knight would arguein vain that the atomic bomb offered a means of finally destroying theinfidel.... Maitland looked up at the girl, who was regarding him silently withtroubled eyes. I think I'd like to be alone for a while, he said. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Maitland, a militant engineer specialized in atomic rocket motors, awakes one night to a strange sound in his room. He blacks out and awakes again, this time in a room that isn't his. He takes in his surroundings and notices a prairie and a river outside his window, and within his room a door to exit which he cannot open. As Maitland wonders helplessly, a man by the name of Swarts enters his room. Swarts tells Maitland that he is here to participate in a series of psychological tests, assuring him that he is not interested in any secret intelligence related to his career. Swarts leads Maitland to his laboratory, where a cot stands in the center of the room under a ceiling of electric cables. Maitland resists initially, wary of the extent Swarts would go to in order for him to comply; however, Swarts manages to get Maitland onto the cot by force. He then reveals his main objective, which is figuring out why Maitland has a passion and longing to go to the Moon. Later that evening, Maitland meets a girl, later referred to as Ingrid Ching, who silently brings him a meal. He stares outside his window, trying to piece together where he could be, when he notices the presence of Venus in the sky as an evening star and comes to the realization that he has traveled to the future. Bewildered, Maitland is eager to learn more about the advancements of society, namely the status of man's trip to space. He asks Ching, who refuses to answer, and is then brought back to Swarts' lab. Maitland, determined to have his questions answered, rebels against Swarts' following tests through mental resistance. Becoming frustrated, Swarts tells Maitland that they are in the year A.D 2634, and that Ching would answer remaining questions if he complied with the tests. Agreeing, Ching visits Maitland that evening, and indulges him in the history of the human race up to this point, including stories of the Afrikanders, who dominated technological advancements and ruled the global empire, and how the world eventually transformed into one race. Maitland asks Ching whether humans have been able to go to space yet, and she is perplexed. She tells him that though she doesn't think it would be impossible, it has not been done, and she wonders why such a thing would be desired. Ching explains that the world is no longer in an age of technology, but an age of understanding humans and cultures within their world. Maitland is defeated; he cannot comprehend how there is no interest in traveling to space, realizing that his lifelong goal has become unattainable.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> AMBITION By WILLIAM L. BADE Illustrated by L. WOROMAY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] To the men of the future, the scientific goals of today were as incomprehensible as the ancient quest for the Holy Grail! There was a thump. Maitland stirred, came half awake, and opened hiseyes. The room was dark except where a broad shaft of moonlight fromthe open window fell on the foot of his bed. Outside, the residentialsection of the Reservation slept silently under the pale illuminationof the full Moon. He guessed sleepily that it was about three o'clock. What had he heard? He had a definite impression that the sound had comefrom within the room. It had sounded like someone stumbling into achair, or— Something moved in the darkness on the other side of the room. Maitlandstarted to sit up and it was as though a thousand volts had shorted hisbrain.... This time, he awoke more normally. He opened his eyes, looked throughthe window at a section of azure sky, listened to the singing of birdssomewhere outside. A beautiful day. In the middle of the process ofstretching his rested muscles, arms extended back, legs tensed, hefroze, looking up—for the first time really seeing the ceiling. Heturned his head, then rolled off the bed, wide awake. This wasn't his room! The lawn outside wasn't part of the Reservation! Where the labs andthe shops should have been, there was deep prairie grass, then a greenocean pushed into waves by the breeze stretching to the horizon. Thiswasn't the California desert! Down the hill, where the liquid oxygenplant ought to have been, a river wound across the scene, almost hiddenbeneath its leafy roof of huge ancient trees. Shock contracted Maitland's diaphragm and spread through his body.His breathing quickened. Now he remembered what had happened duringthe night, the sound in the darkness, the dimly seen figure, andthen—what? Blackout.... Where was he? Who had brought him here? For what purpose? He thought he knew the answer to the last of those questions. Asa member of the original atomic reaction-motor team, he possessedinformation that other military powers would very much like to obtain.It was absolutely incredible that anyone had managed to abduct him fromthe heavily guarded confines of the Reservation, yet someone had doneit. How? <doc-sep>He pivoted to inspect the room. Even before his eyes could take inthe details, he had the impression that there was something wrongabout it. To begin with, the style was unfamiliar. There were nostraight lines or sharp corners anywhere. The walls were paneled infeatureless blue plastic and the doors were smooth surfaces of metal,half ellipses, without knobs. The flowing lines of the chair and table,built apparently from an aluminum alloy, somehow gave the impressionof arrested motion. Even after allowances were made for the outlandishdesign, something about the room still was not right. His eyes returned to the doors, and he moved over to study the nearerone. As he had noticed, there was no knob, but at the right of thisone, at about waist level, a push-button projected out of the wall. Hepressed it; the door slid aside and disappeared. Maitland glanced in atthe disclosed bathroom, then went over to look at the other door. There was no button beside this one, nor any other visible means ofcausing it to open. Baffled, he turned again and looked at the large open window—andrealized what it was that had made the room seem so queer. It did not look like a jail cell. There were no bars.... Striding across the room, he lunged forward to peer out and violentlybanged his forehead. He staggered back, grimacing with pain, thenreached forward cautious fingers and discovered a hard sheet of stuffso transparent that he had not even suspected its presence. Not glass!Glass was never this clear or strong. A plastic, no doubt, but one hehadn't heard of. Security sometimes had disadvantages. He looked out at the peaceful vista of river and prairie. The characterof the sunlight seemed to indicate that it was afternoon. He becameaware that he was hungry. Where the devil could this place be? And—muscles tightened about hisempty stomach—what was in store for him here? He stood trembling, acutely conscious that he was afraid and helpless,until a flicker of motion at the bottom of the hill near the river drewhis attention. Pressing his nose against the window, he strained hiseyes to see what it was. A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently theyhad been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around hisneck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair. Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; hedidn't know of any other country where public bathing at this timeof year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't lookScandinavian.... As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntansand showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trainedfor years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,presumably into the building. He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor. <doc-sep>About half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into thewall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks andsandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stoodup and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas hemade an unimpressive figure. The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticedwere the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp fromswimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin. This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure ofhimself. Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the headof a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination. Impassively, the man said, My name is Swarts. You want to know whereyou are. I am not going to tell you. He had an accent, European, butotherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouthto protest, but Swarts went on, However, you're free to do all theguessing you want. Still there was no suggestion of a smile. Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll havethree meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed toleave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed inany way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea thatwe want your childish secrets about rocket motors. Maitland's heartjumped. My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. Iwant to give you some psychological tests.... Are you crazy? Maitland asked quietly. Do you realize that at thismoment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'lladmit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but itseems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to giveyour tests to. Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. They won't find you, he said. Now,come with me. <doc-sep>After that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rathercommonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, anda bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A coupleof them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normalcomplement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ranacross the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in thecenter of the room. Lie down, Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things willbe for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my resultsagainst your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't makeme. What's the idea? Maitland asked. What is all this? Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade ananswer, but to find the proper words. You can think of it as a liedetector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests Igive you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down. Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensedmuscles. Make me. If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. That was the first test,he said. Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot ifyou'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus. Maitland shook his head stubbornly. I see, Swarts said. You want to find out what you're up against. He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to thesolar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was onthe cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps acrosshis chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening aclamp that held his head immovable. Presently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples andto other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging tothe skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hungfrom the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly aroundhis left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black boxclamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joinedthe others. So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skinpotential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses ofthe body to stimuli. The question was, what were the stimuli to be? Your name, said Swarts, is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-fouryears old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularlyas applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going toquestion you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town isMadison, Wisconsin.... You seem to know everything about me, Maitland said defiantly,looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. Why this recital? I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing theequipment, calibrating it to your reactions. He went on, Yourfavorite recreations are chess and reading what you term sciencefiction. Maitland, how would you like to go to the Moon ? Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, andhe tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. What doyou mean? Swarts was chuckling. I really hit a semantic push-button there,didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wantsto go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out why . <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds. She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool. She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas. She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone. Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think. There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy. Where was he? Who was Swarts? What was the purpose of the tests he was being given? It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers. It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass. This might be somewhere in Africa.... He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing. Venus, the most beautiful of the planets. Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its alter ego of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend.... Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe. Last night Venus hadn't been there. Venus was a morning star just now.... Just now! He realized the truth in that moment. <doc-sep>Later, when that jewel of a planet had set and the stars were out,he lay on the bed, still warm with excitement and relief. He didn'thave to worry any more about military secrets, or who Swarts was.Those questions were irrelevant now. And now he could accept thepsychological tests at their face value; most likely, they were whatthey purported to be. Only one question of importance remained: What year was this? He grimaced in the darkness, an involuntary muscular expression ofjubilation and excitement. The future ! Here was the opportunity forthe greatest adventure imaginable to 20th Century man. Somewhere, out there under the stars, there must be grand glitteringcities and busy spaceports, roaring gateways to the planets.Somewhere, out there in the night, there must be men who had walkedbeside the Martian canals and pierced the shining cloud mantle ofVenus—somewhere, perhaps, men who had visited the distant luring starsand returned. Surely, a civilization that had developed time travelcould reach the stars! And he had a chance to become a part of all that! He could spendhis life among the planets, a citizen of deep space, a voyager of thechallenging spaceways between the solar worlds. I'm adaptable, he told himself gleefully. I can learn fast. There'llbe a job for me out there.... If— Suddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, satin the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find away of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the manrealize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts stillwouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. Thefellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,but— After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed. <doc-sep>He woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. Herolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal theevening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smellof bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, exceptthat she had discarded the white cloak. As he swung his legs to the floor, she started toward the door,carrying the tray with the dirty dishes from yesterday. He stopped herwith the word, Miss! She turned, and he thought there was something eager in her face. Miss, do you speak my language? Yes, hesitantly. She lingered too long on the hiss of the lastconsonant. Miss, he asked, watching her face intently, what year is this? Startlingly, she laughed, a mellow peal of mirth that had nothingforced about it. She turned toward the door again and said over hershoulder, You will have to ask Swarts about that. I cannot tell you. Wait! You mean you don't know? She shook her head. I cannot tell you. All right; we'll let it go at that. She grinned at him again as the door slid shut. <doc-sep>Swarts came half an hour later, and Maitland began his plannedoffensive. What year is this? Swarts' steely eyes locked with his. You know what the date is, hestated. No, I don't. Not since yesterday. Come on, Swarts said patiently, let's get going. We have a lot toget through this morning. I know this isn't 1950. It's probably not even the 20th Century.Venus was a morning star before you brought me here. Now it's anevening star. Never mind that. Come. Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to thelaboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attachthe instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts startedsaying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reactiontest—Maitland began the job of integrating csc 3 x dx in his head.It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequenttracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swartshad stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other manstanding over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled. What year is this? Maitland asked in a conversational tone. We'll try another series of tests. It took Swarts nearly twenty minutes to set up the new apparatus. Helowered a bulky affair with two cylindrical tubes like the twin stacksof a binocular microscope over Maitland's head, so that the lenses atthe ends of the tubes were about half an inch from the engineer'seyes. He attached tiny clamps to Maitland's eyelashes. These will keep you from holding your eyes shut, he said. You canblink, but the springs are too strong for you to hold your eyelids downagainst the tension. He inserted button earphones into Maitland's ears— And then the show began. He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there werefootsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with atwelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, Now I've got you, youwife-stealer! He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokelesspowder—then blackness. With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried toslow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was thecountermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around themdeclared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up. Now he was looking at a girl. She.... Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it. He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one dayafter school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who hadall the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but nomore. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness ofSwarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about thisnew world. Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightenedagainst the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on hisforehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated.... The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot andswollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps. The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from hiseyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore athim for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head wasstarting to ache from the effort of blinking. What year is this? he asked. All right, Swarts said. A.D. 2634. Maitland's smile became a grin. <doc-sep>I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies, Swarts saida while later. Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.' Ching? Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals. Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projectorto his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist. That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sitand watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimeswhistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jitteringone leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same themeover and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberantmounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's NinthSymphony. He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himselfaboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at SyrtisMajor; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge brightglobe against the constellations.... Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual trayof food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin andrevealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table. I think you are wonderful, she laughed. You get everything youwant, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a littleof what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20thCentury. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me. Shelaughed again, hands on her rounded hips. I have never seen him soirritated as he was this noon. Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.Eagerly he asked, Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks alot better. She shrugged. Swarts says that I want to go back to the Dark Age ofTechnology because I have not adapted well to modern culture. Myself,I think I have just a romantic nature. Far times and places look moreexciting.... How do you mean— Maitland wrinkled his brow—adapt to modernculture? Don't tell me you're from another time! Oh, no! But my home is Aresund, a little fishing village at the headof a fiord in what you would call Norway. So far north, we are muchbehind the times. We live in the old way, from the sea, speak the oldtongue. <doc-sep>He looked at her golden features, such a felicitous blend ofOriental and European characteristics, and hesitantly asked, MaybeI shouldn't.... This is a little personal, but ... you don't lookaltogether like the Norwegians of my time. His fear that she would be offended proved to be completelyunjustified. She merely laughed and said, There has been muchhistory since 1950. Five hundred years ago, Europe was overrun byPan-Orientals. Today you could not find anywhere a 'pure' Europeanor Asiatic. She giggled. Swarts' ancestors from your time must becursing in their graves. His family is Afrikander all the way back, butone of his great-grandfathers was pure-blooded Bantu. His full name isLassisi Swarts. Maitland wrinkled his brow. Afrikander? The South Africans. Something strange came into her eyes. It mighthave been awe, or even hatred; he could not tell. The Pan-Orientalseventually conquered all the world, except for North America—thelast remnant of the American World Empire—and southern Africa. TheAfrikanders had been partly isolated for several centuries then, andthey had developed technology while the rest of the world lost it. Theyhad a tradition of white supremacy, and in addition they were terrifiedof being encircled. She sighed. They ruled the next world empire andit was founded on the slaughter of one and a half billion human beings.That went into the history books as the War of Annihilation. So many? How? They were clever with machines, the Afrikanders. They made armiesof them. Armies of invincible killing-machines, produced in robotfactories from robot-mined ores.... Very clever. She gave a littleshudder. And yet they founded modern civilization, she added. The grandsonsof the technicians who built the Machine Army set up our robotproduction system, and today no human being has to dirty his handsraising food or manufacturing things. It could never have been done,either, before the population was—reduced to three hundred million. Then the Afrikanders are still on top? Still the masters? <doc-sep>She shook her head. There are no more Afrikanders. Rebellion? No. Intermarriage. Racial blending. There was a psychology of guiltbehind it. So huge a crime eventually required a proportionateexpiation. Afrikaans is still the world language, but there is only onerace now. No more masters or slaves. They were both silent for a moment, and then she sighed. Let us nottalk about them any more. Robot factories and farms, Maitland mused. What else? What means oftransportation? Do you have interstellar flight yet? Inter-what? Have men visited the stars? She shook her head, bewildered. I always thought that would be a tough problem to crack, he agreed.But tell me about what men are doing in the Solar System. How is lifeon Mars and Venus, and how long does it take to get to those places? He waited, expectantly silent, but she only looked puzzled. I don'tunderstand. Mars? What are Mars? After several seconds, Maitland swallowed. Something seemed to be thematter with his throat, making it difficult for him to speak. Surelyyou have space travel? She frowned and shook her head. What does that mean—space travel? He was gripping the edge of the bed now, glaring at her. Acivilization that could discover time travel and build robot factorieswouldn't find it hard to send a ship to Mars! A ship ? Oh, you mean something like a vliegvlotter . Why, no, Idon't suppose it would be hard. But why would anyone want to do athing like that? He was on his feet towering over her, fists clenched. She raised herarms as if to shield her face if he should hit her. Let's get thisperfectly clear, he said, more harshly than he realized. So far asyou know, no one has ever visited the planets, and no one wants to. Isthat right? She nodded apprehensively. I have never heard of it being done. He sank down on the bed and put his face in his hands. After a while helooked up and said bitterly, You're looking at a man who would givehis life to get to Mars. I thought I would in my time. I was positive Iwould when I knew I was in your time. And now I know I never will. <doc-sep>The cot creaked beside him and he felt a soft arm about his shouldersand fingers delicately stroking his brow. Presently he opened his eyesand looked at her. I just don't understand, he said. It seemedobvious to me that whenever men were able to reach the planets, they'ddo it. Her pitying eyes were on his face. He hitched himself around so that hewas facing her. I've got to understand. I've got to know why . Whathappened? Why don't men want the planets any more? Honestly, she said, I did not know they ever had. She hesitated.Maybe you are asking the wrong question. He furrowed his brow, bewildered now by her. I mean, she explained, maybe you should ask why people in the 20thCentury did want to go to worlds men are not suited to inhabit. Maitland felt his face become hot. Men can go anywhere, if they wantto bad enough. But why ? Despite his sudden irrational anger toward her, Maitland tried to stickto logic. Living space, for one thing. The only permanent solution tothe population problem.... We have no population problem. A hundred years ago, we realized thatthe key to social stability is a limited population. Our economicsystem was built to take care of three hundred million people, and wehave held the number at that. Birth control, Maitland scoffed. How do you make it work—secretpolice? No. Education. Each of us has the right to two children, and wecherish that right so much that we make every effort to see that thosetwo are the best children we could possibly produce.... She broke off, looking a little self-conscious. You understand, whatI have been saying applies to most of the world. In some places likeAresund, things are different. Backward. I still do not feel that Ibelong here, although the people of the town have accepted me as one ofthem. Even, he said, granting that you have solved the population problem,there's still the adventure of the thing. Surely, somewhere, there mustbe men who still feel that.... Ingrid, doesn't it fire something inyour blood, the idea of going to Mars—just to go there and see what'sthere and walk under a new sky and a smaller Sun? Aren't you interestedin finding out what the canals are? Or what's under the clouds ofVenus? Wouldn't you like to see the rings of Saturn from, a distanceof only two hundred thousand miles? His hands were trembling as hestopped. She shrugged her shapely shoulders. Go into the past—yes! But go outthere? I still cannot see why. Has the spirit of adventure evaporated from the human race, or what ? She smiled. In a room downstairs there is the head of a lion. Swartskilled the beast when he was a young man. He used a spear. And timetraveling is the greatest adventure there is. At least, that is theway I feel. Listen, Bob. She laid a hand on his arm. You grew up inthe Age of Technology. Everybody was terribly excited about what couldbe done with machines—machines to blow up a city all at once, or flyaround the world, or take a man to Mars. We have had our fill of—whatis the word?—gadgets. Our machines serve us, and so long as theyfunction right, we are satisfied to forget about them. Because this is the Age of Man . We are terribly interested in whatcan be done with people. Our scientists, like Swarts, are studyinghuman rather than nuclear reactions. We are much more fascinated by thelife and death of cultures than by the expansion or contraction of theUniverse. With us, it is the people that are important, not gadgets. Maitland stared at her, his face blank. His mind had just manufactureda discouraging analogy. His present position was like that of anearnest 12th Century crusader, deposited by some freak of nature intothe year 1950, trying to find a way of reanimating the anti-Mohammedanmovement. What chance would he have? The unfortunate knight would arguein vain that the atomic bomb offered a means of finally destroying theinfidel.... Maitland looked up at the girl, who was regarding him silently withtroubled eyes. I think I'd like to be alone for a while, he said. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The majority of the story takes place in the cell that Maitland is kept in by Swarts. The room is unconventional, according to Maitland, with no sharp edges, lines, or corners. Instead, the room is rounded, mostly made of smooth metal and plastic. There is no knob or latch on his door, and his window is made of a plastic so transparent it looks invisible. Because Maitland cannot leave his room, his observation of the outside is limited to what is through his window; the land outside is lush, with a rich prairie, an ocean, and a river. He has a view of the vast sky, and at night is able to see the stars. The other location that Maitland experiences in the story is Swarts' lab, which looks similar to an ordinary lab, with familiar electronics and machinery.

What is the significance of space in the story? [SEP] <s> AMBITION By WILLIAM L. BADE Illustrated by L. WOROMAY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] To the men of the future, the scientific goals of today were as incomprehensible as the ancient quest for the Holy Grail! There was a thump. Maitland stirred, came half awake, and opened hiseyes. The room was dark except where a broad shaft of moonlight fromthe open window fell on the foot of his bed. Outside, the residentialsection of the Reservation slept silently under the pale illuminationof the full Moon. He guessed sleepily that it was about three o'clock. What had he heard? He had a definite impression that the sound had comefrom within the room. It had sounded like someone stumbling into achair, or— Something moved in the darkness on the other side of the room. Maitlandstarted to sit up and it was as though a thousand volts had shorted hisbrain.... This time, he awoke more normally. He opened his eyes, looked throughthe window at a section of azure sky, listened to the singing of birdssomewhere outside. A beautiful day. In the middle of the process ofstretching his rested muscles, arms extended back, legs tensed, hefroze, looking up—for the first time really seeing the ceiling. Heturned his head, then rolled off the bed, wide awake. This wasn't his room! The lawn outside wasn't part of the Reservation! Where the labs andthe shops should have been, there was deep prairie grass, then a greenocean pushed into waves by the breeze stretching to the horizon. Thiswasn't the California desert! Down the hill, where the liquid oxygenplant ought to have been, a river wound across the scene, almost hiddenbeneath its leafy roof of huge ancient trees. Shock contracted Maitland's diaphragm and spread through his body.His breathing quickened. Now he remembered what had happened duringthe night, the sound in the darkness, the dimly seen figure, andthen—what? Blackout.... Where was he? Who had brought him here? For what purpose? He thought he knew the answer to the last of those questions. Asa member of the original atomic reaction-motor team, he possessedinformation that other military powers would very much like to obtain.It was absolutely incredible that anyone had managed to abduct him fromthe heavily guarded confines of the Reservation, yet someone had doneit. How? <doc-sep>He pivoted to inspect the room. Even before his eyes could take inthe details, he had the impression that there was something wrongabout it. To begin with, the style was unfamiliar. There were nostraight lines or sharp corners anywhere. The walls were paneled infeatureless blue plastic and the doors were smooth surfaces of metal,half ellipses, without knobs. The flowing lines of the chair and table,built apparently from an aluminum alloy, somehow gave the impressionof arrested motion. Even after allowances were made for the outlandishdesign, something about the room still was not right. His eyes returned to the doors, and he moved over to study the nearerone. As he had noticed, there was no knob, but at the right of thisone, at about waist level, a push-button projected out of the wall. Hepressed it; the door slid aside and disappeared. Maitland glanced in atthe disclosed bathroom, then went over to look at the other door. There was no button beside this one, nor any other visible means ofcausing it to open. Baffled, he turned again and looked at the large open window—andrealized what it was that had made the room seem so queer. It did not look like a jail cell. There were no bars.... Striding across the room, he lunged forward to peer out and violentlybanged his forehead. He staggered back, grimacing with pain, thenreached forward cautious fingers and discovered a hard sheet of stuffso transparent that he had not even suspected its presence. Not glass!Glass was never this clear or strong. A plastic, no doubt, but one hehadn't heard of. Security sometimes had disadvantages. He looked out at the peaceful vista of river and prairie. The characterof the sunlight seemed to indicate that it was afternoon. He becameaware that he was hungry. Where the devil could this place be? And—muscles tightened about hisempty stomach—what was in store for him here? He stood trembling, acutely conscious that he was afraid and helpless,until a flicker of motion at the bottom of the hill near the river drewhis attention. Pressing his nose against the window, he strained hiseyes to see what it was. A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently theyhad been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around hisneck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair. Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; hedidn't know of any other country where public bathing at this timeof year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't lookScandinavian.... As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntansand showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trainedfor years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,presumably into the building. He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor. <doc-sep>About half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into thewall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks andsandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stoodup and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas hemade an unimpressive figure. The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticedwere the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp fromswimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin. This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure ofhimself. Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the headof a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination. Impassively, the man said, My name is Swarts. You want to know whereyou are. I am not going to tell you. He had an accent, European, butotherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouthto protest, but Swarts went on, However, you're free to do all theguessing you want. Still there was no suggestion of a smile. Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll havethree meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed toleave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed inany way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea thatwe want your childish secrets about rocket motors. Maitland's heartjumped. My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. Iwant to give you some psychological tests.... Are you crazy? Maitland asked quietly. Do you realize that at thismoment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'lladmit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but itseems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to giveyour tests to. Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. They won't find you, he said. Now,come with me. <doc-sep>After that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rathercommonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, anda bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A coupleof them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normalcomplement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ranacross the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in thecenter of the room. Lie down, Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things willbe for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my resultsagainst your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't makeme. What's the idea? Maitland asked. What is all this? Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade ananswer, but to find the proper words. You can think of it as a liedetector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests Igive you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down. Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensedmuscles. Make me. If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. That was the first test,he said. Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot ifyou'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus. Maitland shook his head stubbornly. I see, Swarts said. You want to find out what you're up against. He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to thesolar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was onthe cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps acrosshis chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening aclamp that held his head immovable. Presently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples andto other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging tothe skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hungfrom the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly aroundhis left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black boxclamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joinedthe others. So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skinpotential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses ofthe body to stimuli. The question was, what were the stimuli to be? Your name, said Swarts, is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-fouryears old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularlyas applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going toquestion you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town isMadison, Wisconsin.... You seem to know everything about me, Maitland said defiantly,looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. Why this recital? I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing theequipment, calibrating it to your reactions. He went on, Yourfavorite recreations are chess and reading what you term sciencefiction. Maitland, how would you like to go to the Moon ? Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, andhe tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. What doyou mean? Swarts was chuckling. I really hit a semantic push-button there,didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wantsto go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out why . <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds. She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool. She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas. She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone. Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think. There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy. Where was he? Who was Swarts? What was the purpose of the tests he was being given? It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers. It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass. This might be somewhere in Africa.... He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing. Venus, the most beautiful of the planets. Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its alter ego of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend.... Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe. Last night Venus hadn't been there. Venus was a morning star just now.... Just now! He realized the truth in that moment. <doc-sep>Later, when that jewel of a planet had set and the stars were out,he lay on the bed, still warm with excitement and relief. He didn'thave to worry any more about military secrets, or who Swarts was.Those questions were irrelevant now. And now he could accept thepsychological tests at their face value; most likely, they were whatthey purported to be. Only one question of importance remained: What year was this? He grimaced in the darkness, an involuntary muscular expression ofjubilation and excitement. The future ! Here was the opportunity forthe greatest adventure imaginable to 20th Century man. Somewhere, out there under the stars, there must be grand glitteringcities and busy spaceports, roaring gateways to the planets.Somewhere, out there in the night, there must be men who had walkedbeside the Martian canals and pierced the shining cloud mantle ofVenus—somewhere, perhaps, men who had visited the distant luring starsand returned. Surely, a civilization that had developed time travelcould reach the stars! And he had a chance to become a part of all that! He could spendhis life among the planets, a citizen of deep space, a voyager of thechallenging spaceways between the solar worlds. I'm adaptable, he told himself gleefully. I can learn fast. There'llbe a job for me out there.... If— Suddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, satin the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find away of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the manrealize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts stillwouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. Thefellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,but— After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed. <doc-sep>He woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. Herolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal theevening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smellof bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, exceptthat she had discarded the white cloak. As he swung his legs to the floor, she started toward the door,carrying the tray with the dirty dishes from yesterday. He stopped herwith the word, Miss! She turned, and he thought there was something eager in her face. Miss, do you speak my language? Yes, hesitantly. She lingered too long on the hiss of the lastconsonant. Miss, he asked, watching her face intently, what year is this? Startlingly, she laughed, a mellow peal of mirth that had nothingforced about it. She turned toward the door again and said over hershoulder, You will have to ask Swarts about that. I cannot tell you. Wait! You mean you don't know? She shook her head. I cannot tell you. All right; we'll let it go at that. She grinned at him again as the door slid shut. <doc-sep>Swarts came half an hour later, and Maitland began his plannedoffensive. What year is this? Swarts' steely eyes locked with his. You know what the date is, hestated. No, I don't. Not since yesterday. Come on, Swarts said patiently, let's get going. We have a lot toget through this morning. I know this isn't 1950. It's probably not even the 20th Century.Venus was a morning star before you brought me here. Now it's anevening star. Never mind that. Come. Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to thelaboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attachthe instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts startedsaying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reactiontest—Maitland began the job of integrating csc 3 x dx in his head.It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequenttracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swartshad stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other manstanding over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled. What year is this? Maitland asked in a conversational tone. We'll try another series of tests. It took Swarts nearly twenty minutes to set up the new apparatus. Helowered a bulky affair with two cylindrical tubes like the twin stacksof a binocular microscope over Maitland's head, so that the lenses atthe ends of the tubes were about half an inch from the engineer'seyes. He attached tiny clamps to Maitland's eyelashes. These will keep you from holding your eyes shut, he said. You canblink, but the springs are too strong for you to hold your eyelids downagainst the tension. He inserted button earphones into Maitland's ears— And then the show began. He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there werefootsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with atwelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, Now I've got you, youwife-stealer! He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokelesspowder—then blackness. With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried toslow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was thecountermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around themdeclared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up. Now he was looking at a girl. She.... Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it. He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one dayafter school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who hadall the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but nomore. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness ofSwarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about thisnew world. Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightenedagainst the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on hisforehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated.... The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot andswollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps. The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from hiseyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore athim for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head wasstarting to ache from the effort of blinking. What year is this? he asked. All right, Swarts said. A.D. 2634. Maitland's smile became a grin. <doc-sep>I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies, Swarts saida while later. Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.' Ching? Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals. Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projectorto his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist. That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sitand watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimeswhistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jitteringone leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same themeover and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberantmounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's NinthSymphony. He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himselfaboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at SyrtisMajor; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge brightglobe against the constellations.... Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual trayof food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin andrevealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table. I think you are wonderful, she laughed. You get everything youwant, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a littleof what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20thCentury. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me. Shelaughed again, hands on her rounded hips. I have never seen him soirritated as he was this noon. Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.Eagerly he asked, Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks alot better. She shrugged. Swarts says that I want to go back to the Dark Age ofTechnology because I have not adapted well to modern culture. Myself,I think I have just a romantic nature. Far times and places look moreexciting.... How do you mean— Maitland wrinkled his brow—adapt to modernculture? Don't tell me you're from another time! Oh, no! But my home is Aresund, a little fishing village at the headof a fiord in what you would call Norway. So far north, we are muchbehind the times. We live in the old way, from the sea, speak the oldtongue. <doc-sep>He looked at her golden features, such a felicitous blend ofOriental and European characteristics, and hesitantly asked, MaybeI shouldn't.... This is a little personal, but ... you don't lookaltogether like the Norwegians of my time. His fear that she would be offended proved to be completelyunjustified. She merely laughed and said, There has been muchhistory since 1950. Five hundred years ago, Europe was overrun byPan-Orientals. Today you could not find anywhere a 'pure' Europeanor Asiatic. She giggled. Swarts' ancestors from your time must becursing in their graves. His family is Afrikander all the way back, butone of his great-grandfathers was pure-blooded Bantu. His full name isLassisi Swarts. Maitland wrinkled his brow. Afrikander? The South Africans. Something strange came into her eyes. It mighthave been awe, or even hatred; he could not tell. The Pan-Orientalseventually conquered all the world, except for North America—thelast remnant of the American World Empire—and southern Africa. TheAfrikanders had been partly isolated for several centuries then, andthey had developed technology while the rest of the world lost it. Theyhad a tradition of white supremacy, and in addition they were terrifiedof being encircled. She sighed. They ruled the next world empire andit was founded on the slaughter of one and a half billion human beings.That went into the history books as the War of Annihilation. So many? How? They were clever with machines, the Afrikanders. They made armiesof them. Armies of invincible killing-machines, produced in robotfactories from robot-mined ores.... Very clever. She gave a littleshudder. And yet they founded modern civilization, she added. The grandsonsof the technicians who built the Machine Army set up our robotproduction system, and today no human being has to dirty his handsraising food or manufacturing things. It could never have been done,either, before the population was—reduced to three hundred million. Then the Afrikanders are still on top? Still the masters? <doc-sep>She shook her head. There are no more Afrikanders. Rebellion? No. Intermarriage. Racial blending. There was a psychology of guiltbehind it. So huge a crime eventually required a proportionateexpiation. Afrikaans is still the world language, but there is only onerace now. No more masters or slaves. They were both silent for a moment, and then she sighed. Let us nottalk about them any more. Robot factories and farms, Maitland mused. What else? What means oftransportation? Do you have interstellar flight yet? Inter-what? Have men visited the stars? She shook her head, bewildered. I always thought that would be a tough problem to crack, he agreed.But tell me about what men are doing in the Solar System. How is lifeon Mars and Venus, and how long does it take to get to those places? He waited, expectantly silent, but she only looked puzzled. I don'tunderstand. Mars? What are Mars? After several seconds, Maitland swallowed. Something seemed to be thematter with his throat, making it difficult for him to speak. Surelyyou have space travel? She frowned and shook her head. What does that mean—space travel? He was gripping the edge of the bed now, glaring at her. Acivilization that could discover time travel and build robot factorieswouldn't find it hard to send a ship to Mars! A ship ? Oh, you mean something like a vliegvlotter . Why, no, Idon't suppose it would be hard. But why would anyone want to do athing like that? He was on his feet towering over her, fists clenched. She raised herarms as if to shield her face if he should hit her. Let's get thisperfectly clear, he said, more harshly than he realized. So far asyou know, no one has ever visited the planets, and no one wants to. Isthat right? She nodded apprehensively. I have never heard of it being done. He sank down on the bed and put his face in his hands. After a while helooked up and said bitterly, You're looking at a man who would givehis life to get to Mars. I thought I would in my time. I was positive Iwould when I knew I was in your time. And now I know I never will. <doc-sep>The cot creaked beside him and he felt a soft arm about his shouldersand fingers delicately stroking his brow. Presently he opened his eyesand looked at her. I just don't understand, he said. It seemedobvious to me that whenever men were able to reach the planets, they'ddo it. Her pitying eyes were on his face. He hitched himself around so that hewas facing her. I've got to understand. I've got to know why . Whathappened? Why don't men want the planets any more? Honestly, she said, I did not know they ever had. She hesitated.Maybe you are asking the wrong question. He furrowed his brow, bewildered now by her. I mean, she explained, maybe you should ask why people in the 20thCentury did want to go to worlds men are not suited to inhabit. Maitland felt his face become hot. Men can go anywhere, if they wantto bad enough. But why ? Despite his sudden irrational anger toward her, Maitland tried to stickto logic. Living space, for one thing. The only permanent solution tothe population problem.... We have no population problem. A hundred years ago, we realized thatthe key to social stability is a limited population. Our economicsystem was built to take care of three hundred million people, and wehave held the number at that. Birth control, Maitland scoffed. How do you make it work—secretpolice? No. Education. Each of us has the right to two children, and wecherish that right so much that we make every effort to see that thosetwo are the best children we could possibly produce.... She broke off, looking a little self-conscious. You understand, whatI have been saying applies to most of the world. In some places likeAresund, things are different. Backward. I still do not feel that Ibelong here, although the people of the town have accepted me as one ofthem. Even, he said, granting that you have solved the population problem,there's still the adventure of the thing. Surely, somewhere, there mustbe men who still feel that.... Ingrid, doesn't it fire something inyour blood, the idea of going to Mars—just to go there and see what'sthere and walk under a new sky and a smaller Sun? Aren't you interestedin finding out what the canals are? Or what's under the clouds ofVenus? Wouldn't you like to see the rings of Saturn from, a distanceof only two hundred thousand miles? His hands were trembling as hestopped. She shrugged her shapely shoulders. Go into the past—yes! But go outthere? I still cannot see why. Has the spirit of adventure evaporated from the human race, or what ? She smiled. In a room downstairs there is the head of a lion. Swartskilled the beast when he was a young man. He used a spear. And timetraveling is the greatest adventure there is. At least, that is theway I feel. Listen, Bob. She laid a hand on his arm. You grew up inthe Age of Technology. Everybody was terribly excited about what couldbe done with machines—machines to blow up a city all at once, or flyaround the world, or take a man to Mars. We have had our fill of—whatis the word?—gadgets. Our machines serve us, and so long as theyfunction right, we are satisfied to forget about them. Because this is the Age of Man . We are terribly interested in whatcan be done with people. Our scientists, like Swarts, are studyinghuman rather than nuclear reactions. We are much more fascinated by thelife and death of cultures than by the expansion or contraction of theUniverse. With us, it is the people that are important, not gadgets. Maitland stared at her, his face blank. His mind had just manufactureda discouraging analogy. His present position was like that of anearnest 12th Century crusader, deposited by some freak of nature intothe year 1950, trying to find a way of reanimating the anti-Mohammedanmovement. What chance would he have? The unfortunate knight would arguein vain that the atomic bomb offered a means of finally destroying theinfidel.... Maitland looked up at the girl, who was regarding him silently withtroubled eyes. I think I'd like to be alone for a while, he said. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of space in the story?

Throughout the story, Maitland shows his passion and knowledge for space; it defines him as a character and helps him in figuring out certain aspects of his situation. Maitland's passion for space is first introduced when Swarts asks him about going to the Moon. Maitland is taken aback by this question, and Swarts knows that the idea is extremely important to him; in fact, Maitland's dream of going to the Moon is the whole reason why he is experiencing these tests. Later on, space is significant in helping Maitland come to a realization. As he stares out the window trying to gauge where in the world he is located, he notices that Venus, his favorite planet, is in the sky during the evening, when back at the Reservation, it was a morning star. Maitland's knowledge of constellations and planets leads him to realize that he must have traveled into the future. Once Maitland realizes this, his main question is about space travel, and whether humans have achieved it. Once he learns that it has not been attempted or achieved, Maitland's motivation is lost; space was the driving force in his life and career, and space travel not being possible left him hopeless.

What is the relationship between Maitland and Ching throughout the story? [SEP] <s> AMBITION By WILLIAM L. BADE Illustrated by L. WOROMAY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] To the men of the future, the scientific goals of today were as incomprehensible as the ancient quest for the Holy Grail! There was a thump. Maitland stirred, came half awake, and opened hiseyes. The room was dark except where a broad shaft of moonlight fromthe open window fell on the foot of his bed. Outside, the residentialsection of the Reservation slept silently under the pale illuminationof the full Moon. He guessed sleepily that it was about three o'clock. What had he heard? He had a definite impression that the sound had comefrom within the room. It had sounded like someone stumbling into achair, or— Something moved in the darkness on the other side of the room. Maitlandstarted to sit up and it was as though a thousand volts had shorted hisbrain.... This time, he awoke more normally. He opened his eyes, looked throughthe window at a section of azure sky, listened to the singing of birdssomewhere outside. A beautiful day. In the middle of the process ofstretching his rested muscles, arms extended back, legs tensed, hefroze, looking up—for the first time really seeing the ceiling. Heturned his head, then rolled off the bed, wide awake. This wasn't his room! The lawn outside wasn't part of the Reservation! Where the labs andthe shops should have been, there was deep prairie grass, then a greenocean pushed into waves by the breeze stretching to the horizon. Thiswasn't the California desert! Down the hill, where the liquid oxygenplant ought to have been, a river wound across the scene, almost hiddenbeneath its leafy roof of huge ancient trees. Shock contracted Maitland's diaphragm and spread through his body.His breathing quickened. Now he remembered what had happened duringthe night, the sound in the darkness, the dimly seen figure, andthen—what? Blackout.... Where was he? Who had brought him here? For what purpose? He thought he knew the answer to the last of those questions. Asa member of the original atomic reaction-motor team, he possessedinformation that other military powers would very much like to obtain.It was absolutely incredible that anyone had managed to abduct him fromthe heavily guarded confines of the Reservation, yet someone had doneit. How? <doc-sep>He pivoted to inspect the room. Even before his eyes could take inthe details, he had the impression that there was something wrongabout it. To begin with, the style was unfamiliar. There were nostraight lines or sharp corners anywhere. The walls were paneled infeatureless blue plastic and the doors were smooth surfaces of metal,half ellipses, without knobs. The flowing lines of the chair and table,built apparently from an aluminum alloy, somehow gave the impressionof arrested motion. Even after allowances were made for the outlandishdesign, something about the room still was not right. His eyes returned to the doors, and he moved over to study the nearerone. As he had noticed, there was no knob, but at the right of thisone, at about waist level, a push-button projected out of the wall. Hepressed it; the door slid aside and disappeared. Maitland glanced in atthe disclosed bathroom, then went over to look at the other door. There was no button beside this one, nor any other visible means ofcausing it to open. Baffled, he turned again and looked at the large open window—andrealized what it was that had made the room seem so queer. It did not look like a jail cell. There were no bars.... Striding across the room, he lunged forward to peer out and violentlybanged his forehead. He staggered back, grimacing with pain, thenreached forward cautious fingers and discovered a hard sheet of stuffso transparent that he had not even suspected its presence. Not glass!Glass was never this clear or strong. A plastic, no doubt, but one hehadn't heard of. Security sometimes had disadvantages. He looked out at the peaceful vista of river and prairie. The characterof the sunlight seemed to indicate that it was afternoon. He becameaware that he was hungry. Where the devil could this place be? And—muscles tightened about hisempty stomach—what was in store for him here? He stood trembling, acutely conscious that he was afraid and helpless,until a flicker of motion at the bottom of the hill near the river drewhis attention. Pressing his nose against the window, he strained hiseyes to see what it was. A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently theyhad been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around hisneck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair. Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; hedidn't know of any other country where public bathing at this timeof year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't lookScandinavian.... As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntansand showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trainedfor years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,presumably into the building. He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor. <doc-sep>About half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into thewall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks andsandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stoodup and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas hemade an unimpressive figure. The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticedwere the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp fromswimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin. This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure ofhimself. Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the headof a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination. Impassively, the man said, My name is Swarts. You want to know whereyou are. I am not going to tell you. He had an accent, European, butotherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouthto protest, but Swarts went on, However, you're free to do all theguessing you want. Still there was no suggestion of a smile. Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll havethree meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed toleave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed inany way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea thatwe want your childish secrets about rocket motors. Maitland's heartjumped. My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. Iwant to give you some psychological tests.... Are you crazy? Maitland asked quietly. Do you realize that at thismoment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'lladmit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but itseems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to giveyour tests to. Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. They won't find you, he said. Now,come with me. <doc-sep>After that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rathercommonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, anda bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A coupleof them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normalcomplement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ranacross the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in thecenter of the room. Lie down, Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things willbe for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my resultsagainst your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't makeme. What's the idea? Maitland asked. What is all this? Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade ananswer, but to find the proper words. You can think of it as a liedetector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests Igive you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down. Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensedmuscles. Make me. If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. That was the first test,he said. Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot ifyou'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus. Maitland shook his head stubbornly. I see, Swarts said. You want to find out what you're up against. He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to thesolar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was onthe cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps acrosshis chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening aclamp that held his head immovable. Presently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples andto other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging tothe skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hungfrom the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly aroundhis left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black boxclamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joinedthe others. So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skinpotential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses ofthe body to stimuli. The question was, what were the stimuli to be? Your name, said Swarts, is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-fouryears old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularlyas applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going toquestion you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town isMadison, Wisconsin.... You seem to know everything about me, Maitland said defiantly,looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. Why this recital? I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing theequipment, calibrating it to your reactions. He went on, Yourfavorite recreations are chess and reading what you term sciencefiction. Maitland, how would you like to go to the Moon ? Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, andhe tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. What doyou mean? Swarts was chuckling. I really hit a semantic push-button there,didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wantsto go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out why . <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds. She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool. She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas. She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone. Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think. There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy. Where was he? Who was Swarts? What was the purpose of the tests he was being given? It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers. It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass. This might be somewhere in Africa.... He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing. Venus, the most beautiful of the planets. Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its alter ego of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend.... Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe. Last night Venus hadn't been there. Venus was a morning star just now.... Just now! He realized the truth in that moment. <doc-sep>Later, when that jewel of a planet had set and the stars were out,he lay on the bed, still warm with excitement and relief. He didn'thave to worry any more about military secrets, or who Swarts was.Those questions were irrelevant now. And now he could accept thepsychological tests at their face value; most likely, they were whatthey purported to be. Only one question of importance remained: What year was this? He grimaced in the darkness, an involuntary muscular expression ofjubilation and excitement. The future ! Here was the opportunity forthe greatest adventure imaginable to 20th Century man. Somewhere, out there under the stars, there must be grand glitteringcities and busy spaceports, roaring gateways to the planets.Somewhere, out there in the night, there must be men who had walkedbeside the Martian canals and pierced the shining cloud mantle ofVenus—somewhere, perhaps, men who had visited the distant luring starsand returned. Surely, a civilization that had developed time travelcould reach the stars! And he had a chance to become a part of all that! He could spendhis life among the planets, a citizen of deep space, a voyager of thechallenging spaceways between the solar worlds. I'm adaptable, he told himself gleefully. I can learn fast. There'llbe a job for me out there.... If— Suddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, satin the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find away of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the manrealize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts stillwouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. Thefellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,but— After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed. <doc-sep>He woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. Herolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal theevening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smellof bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, exceptthat she had discarded the white cloak. As he swung his legs to the floor, she started toward the door,carrying the tray with the dirty dishes from yesterday. He stopped herwith the word, Miss! She turned, and he thought there was something eager in her face. Miss, do you speak my language? Yes, hesitantly. She lingered too long on the hiss of the lastconsonant. Miss, he asked, watching her face intently, what year is this? Startlingly, she laughed, a mellow peal of mirth that had nothingforced about it. She turned toward the door again and said over hershoulder, You will have to ask Swarts about that. I cannot tell you. Wait! You mean you don't know? She shook her head. I cannot tell you. All right; we'll let it go at that. She grinned at him again as the door slid shut. <doc-sep>Swarts came half an hour later, and Maitland began his plannedoffensive. What year is this? Swarts' steely eyes locked with his. You know what the date is, hestated. No, I don't. Not since yesterday. Come on, Swarts said patiently, let's get going. We have a lot toget through this morning. I know this isn't 1950. It's probably not even the 20th Century.Venus was a morning star before you brought me here. Now it's anevening star. Never mind that. Come. Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to thelaboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attachthe instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts startedsaying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reactiontest—Maitland began the job of integrating csc 3 x dx in his head.It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequenttracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swartshad stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other manstanding over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled. What year is this? Maitland asked in a conversational tone. We'll try another series of tests. It took Swarts nearly twenty minutes to set up the new apparatus. Helowered a bulky affair with two cylindrical tubes like the twin stacksof a binocular microscope over Maitland's head, so that the lenses atthe ends of the tubes were about half an inch from the engineer'seyes. He attached tiny clamps to Maitland's eyelashes. These will keep you from holding your eyes shut, he said. You canblink, but the springs are too strong for you to hold your eyelids downagainst the tension. He inserted button earphones into Maitland's ears— And then the show began. He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there werefootsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with atwelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, Now I've got you, youwife-stealer! He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokelesspowder—then blackness. With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried toslow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was thecountermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around themdeclared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up. Now he was looking at a girl. She.... Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it. He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one dayafter school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who hadall the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but nomore. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness ofSwarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about thisnew world. Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightenedagainst the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on hisforehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated.... The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot andswollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps. The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from hiseyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore athim for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head wasstarting to ache from the effort of blinking. What year is this? he asked. All right, Swarts said. A.D. 2634. Maitland's smile became a grin. <doc-sep>I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies, Swarts saida while later. Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.' Ching? Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals. Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projectorto his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist. That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sitand watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimeswhistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jitteringone leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same themeover and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberantmounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's NinthSymphony. He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himselfaboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at SyrtisMajor; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge brightglobe against the constellations.... Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual trayof food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin andrevealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table. I think you are wonderful, she laughed. You get everything youwant, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a littleof what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20thCentury. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me. Shelaughed again, hands on her rounded hips. I have never seen him soirritated as he was this noon. Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.Eagerly he asked, Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks alot better. She shrugged. Swarts says that I want to go back to the Dark Age ofTechnology because I have not adapted well to modern culture. Myself,I think I have just a romantic nature. Far times and places look moreexciting.... How do you mean— Maitland wrinkled his brow—adapt to modernculture? Don't tell me you're from another time! Oh, no! But my home is Aresund, a little fishing village at the headof a fiord in what you would call Norway. So far north, we are muchbehind the times. We live in the old way, from the sea, speak the oldtongue. <doc-sep>He looked at her golden features, such a felicitous blend ofOriental and European characteristics, and hesitantly asked, MaybeI shouldn't.... This is a little personal, but ... you don't lookaltogether like the Norwegians of my time. His fear that she would be offended proved to be completelyunjustified. She merely laughed and said, There has been muchhistory since 1950. Five hundred years ago, Europe was overrun byPan-Orientals. Today you could not find anywhere a 'pure' Europeanor Asiatic. She giggled. Swarts' ancestors from your time must becursing in their graves. His family is Afrikander all the way back, butone of his great-grandfathers was pure-blooded Bantu. His full name isLassisi Swarts. Maitland wrinkled his brow. Afrikander? The South Africans. Something strange came into her eyes. It mighthave been awe, or even hatred; he could not tell. The Pan-Orientalseventually conquered all the world, except for North America—thelast remnant of the American World Empire—and southern Africa. TheAfrikanders had been partly isolated for several centuries then, andthey had developed technology while the rest of the world lost it. Theyhad a tradition of white supremacy, and in addition they were terrifiedof being encircled. She sighed. They ruled the next world empire andit was founded on the slaughter of one and a half billion human beings.That went into the history books as the War of Annihilation. So many? How? They were clever with machines, the Afrikanders. They made armiesof them. Armies of invincible killing-machines, produced in robotfactories from robot-mined ores.... Very clever. She gave a littleshudder. And yet they founded modern civilization, she added. The grandsonsof the technicians who built the Machine Army set up our robotproduction system, and today no human being has to dirty his handsraising food or manufacturing things. It could never have been done,either, before the population was—reduced to three hundred million. Then the Afrikanders are still on top? Still the masters? <doc-sep>She shook her head. There are no more Afrikanders. Rebellion? No. Intermarriage. Racial blending. There was a psychology of guiltbehind it. So huge a crime eventually required a proportionateexpiation. Afrikaans is still the world language, but there is only onerace now. No more masters or slaves. They were both silent for a moment, and then she sighed. Let us nottalk about them any more. Robot factories and farms, Maitland mused. What else? What means oftransportation? Do you have interstellar flight yet? Inter-what? Have men visited the stars? She shook her head, bewildered. I always thought that would be a tough problem to crack, he agreed.But tell me about what men are doing in the Solar System. How is lifeon Mars and Venus, and how long does it take to get to those places? He waited, expectantly silent, but she only looked puzzled. I don'tunderstand. Mars? What are Mars? After several seconds, Maitland swallowed. Something seemed to be thematter with his throat, making it difficult for him to speak. Surelyyou have space travel? She frowned and shook her head. What does that mean—space travel? He was gripping the edge of the bed now, glaring at her. Acivilization that could discover time travel and build robot factorieswouldn't find it hard to send a ship to Mars! A ship ? Oh, you mean something like a vliegvlotter . Why, no, Idon't suppose it would be hard. But why would anyone want to do athing like that? He was on his feet towering over her, fists clenched. She raised herarms as if to shield her face if he should hit her. Let's get thisperfectly clear, he said, more harshly than he realized. So far asyou know, no one has ever visited the planets, and no one wants to. Isthat right? She nodded apprehensively. I have never heard of it being done. He sank down on the bed and put his face in his hands. After a while helooked up and said bitterly, You're looking at a man who would givehis life to get to Mars. I thought I would in my time. I was positive Iwould when I knew I was in your time. And now I know I never will. <doc-sep>The cot creaked beside him and he felt a soft arm about his shouldersand fingers delicately stroking his brow. Presently he opened his eyesand looked at her. I just don't understand, he said. It seemedobvious to me that whenever men were able to reach the planets, they'ddo it. Her pitying eyes were on his face. He hitched himself around so that hewas facing her. I've got to understand. I've got to know why . Whathappened? Why don't men want the planets any more? Honestly, she said, I did not know they ever had. She hesitated.Maybe you are asking the wrong question. He furrowed his brow, bewildered now by her. I mean, she explained, maybe you should ask why people in the 20thCentury did want to go to worlds men are not suited to inhabit. Maitland felt his face become hot. Men can go anywhere, if they wantto bad enough. But why ? Despite his sudden irrational anger toward her, Maitland tried to stickto logic. Living space, for one thing. The only permanent solution tothe population problem.... We have no population problem. A hundred years ago, we realized thatthe key to social stability is a limited population. Our economicsystem was built to take care of three hundred million people, and wehave held the number at that. Birth control, Maitland scoffed. How do you make it work—secretpolice? No. Education. Each of us has the right to two children, and wecherish that right so much that we make every effort to see that thosetwo are the best children we could possibly produce.... She broke off, looking a little self-conscious. You understand, whatI have been saying applies to most of the world. In some places likeAresund, things are different. Backward. I still do not feel that Ibelong here, although the people of the town have accepted me as one ofthem. Even, he said, granting that you have solved the population problem,there's still the adventure of the thing. Surely, somewhere, there mustbe men who still feel that.... Ingrid, doesn't it fire something inyour blood, the idea of going to Mars—just to go there and see what'sthere and walk under a new sky and a smaller Sun? Aren't you interestedin finding out what the canals are? Or what's under the clouds ofVenus? Wouldn't you like to see the rings of Saturn from, a distanceof only two hundred thousand miles? His hands were trembling as hestopped. She shrugged her shapely shoulders. Go into the past—yes! But go outthere? I still cannot see why. Has the spirit of adventure evaporated from the human race, or what ? She smiled. In a room downstairs there is the head of a lion. Swartskilled the beast when he was a young man. He used a spear. And timetraveling is the greatest adventure there is. At least, that is theway I feel. Listen, Bob. She laid a hand on his arm. You grew up inthe Age of Technology. Everybody was terribly excited about what couldbe done with machines—machines to blow up a city all at once, or flyaround the world, or take a man to Mars. We have had our fill of—whatis the word?—gadgets. Our machines serve us, and so long as theyfunction right, we are satisfied to forget about them. Because this is the Age of Man . We are terribly interested in whatcan be done with people. Our scientists, like Swarts, are studyinghuman rather than nuclear reactions. We are much more fascinated by thelife and death of cultures than by the expansion or contraction of theUniverse. With us, it is the people that are important, not gadgets. Maitland stared at her, his face blank. His mind had just manufactureda discouraging analogy. His present position was like that of anearnest 12th Century crusader, deposited by some freak of nature intothe year 1950, trying to find a way of reanimating the anti-Mohammedanmovement. What chance would he have? The unfortunate knight would arguein vain that the atomic bomb offered a means of finally destroying theinfidel.... Maitland looked up at the girl, who was regarding him silently withtroubled eyes. I think I'd like to be alone for a while, he said. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Maitland and Ching throughout the story?

Maitland and Ching hold no significant reservations about each other upon meeting; they had no more interaction than Ching bringing him meals and leaving. As the story progresses, and Ching is able to answer Maitland's questions about the world they are in, she shares a bit about herself. Trust is built between the two as Ching shares her knowledge of global history, and Maitland learns that like his passion for space travel, Ching has a passion for time travel, specifically back to the 20th century, where Maitland is from. Though Ching has to break the news to Maitland that space travel has not been done, she attempts to comfort him through explanations and consolation. While by the end of the story, Ching and Maitland are not exactly friends, they have both confided in each other and have learned a lot about the other.

What kinds of gadgets and machinery are used by Swarts in the story? [SEP] <s> AMBITION By WILLIAM L. BADE Illustrated by L. WOROMAY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] To the men of the future, the scientific goals of today were as incomprehensible as the ancient quest for the Holy Grail! There was a thump. Maitland stirred, came half awake, and opened hiseyes. The room was dark except where a broad shaft of moonlight fromthe open window fell on the foot of his bed. Outside, the residentialsection of the Reservation slept silently under the pale illuminationof the full Moon. He guessed sleepily that it was about three o'clock. What had he heard? He had a definite impression that the sound had comefrom within the room. It had sounded like someone stumbling into achair, or— Something moved in the darkness on the other side of the room. Maitlandstarted to sit up and it was as though a thousand volts had shorted hisbrain.... This time, he awoke more normally. He opened his eyes, looked throughthe window at a section of azure sky, listened to the singing of birdssomewhere outside. A beautiful day. In the middle of the process ofstretching his rested muscles, arms extended back, legs tensed, hefroze, looking up—for the first time really seeing the ceiling. Heturned his head, then rolled off the bed, wide awake. This wasn't his room! The lawn outside wasn't part of the Reservation! Where the labs andthe shops should have been, there was deep prairie grass, then a greenocean pushed into waves by the breeze stretching to the horizon. Thiswasn't the California desert! Down the hill, where the liquid oxygenplant ought to have been, a river wound across the scene, almost hiddenbeneath its leafy roof of huge ancient trees. Shock contracted Maitland's diaphragm and spread through his body.His breathing quickened. Now he remembered what had happened duringthe night, the sound in the darkness, the dimly seen figure, andthen—what? Blackout.... Where was he? Who had brought him here? For what purpose? He thought he knew the answer to the last of those questions. Asa member of the original atomic reaction-motor team, he possessedinformation that other military powers would very much like to obtain.It was absolutely incredible that anyone had managed to abduct him fromthe heavily guarded confines of the Reservation, yet someone had doneit. How? <doc-sep>He pivoted to inspect the room. Even before his eyes could take inthe details, he had the impression that there was something wrongabout it. To begin with, the style was unfamiliar. There were nostraight lines or sharp corners anywhere. The walls were paneled infeatureless blue plastic and the doors were smooth surfaces of metal,half ellipses, without knobs. The flowing lines of the chair and table,built apparently from an aluminum alloy, somehow gave the impressionof arrested motion. Even after allowances were made for the outlandishdesign, something about the room still was not right. His eyes returned to the doors, and he moved over to study the nearerone. As he had noticed, there was no knob, but at the right of thisone, at about waist level, a push-button projected out of the wall. Hepressed it; the door slid aside and disappeared. Maitland glanced in atthe disclosed bathroom, then went over to look at the other door. There was no button beside this one, nor any other visible means ofcausing it to open. Baffled, he turned again and looked at the large open window—andrealized what it was that had made the room seem so queer. It did not look like a jail cell. There were no bars.... Striding across the room, he lunged forward to peer out and violentlybanged his forehead. He staggered back, grimacing with pain, thenreached forward cautious fingers and discovered a hard sheet of stuffso transparent that he had not even suspected its presence. Not glass!Glass was never this clear or strong. A plastic, no doubt, but one hehadn't heard of. Security sometimes had disadvantages. He looked out at the peaceful vista of river and prairie. The characterof the sunlight seemed to indicate that it was afternoon. He becameaware that he was hungry. Where the devil could this place be? And—muscles tightened about hisempty stomach—what was in store for him here? He stood trembling, acutely conscious that he was afraid and helpless,until a flicker of motion at the bottom of the hill near the river drewhis attention. Pressing his nose against the window, he strained hiseyes to see what it was. A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently theyhad been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around hisneck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair. Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; hedidn't know of any other country where public bathing at this timeof year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't lookScandinavian.... As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntansand showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trainedfor years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,presumably into the building. He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor. <doc-sep>About half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into thewall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks andsandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stoodup and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas hemade an unimpressive figure. The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticedwere the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp fromswimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin. This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure ofhimself. Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the headof a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination. Impassively, the man said, My name is Swarts. You want to know whereyou are. I am not going to tell you. He had an accent, European, butotherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouthto protest, but Swarts went on, However, you're free to do all theguessing you want. Still there was no suggestion of a smile. Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll havethree meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed toleave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed inany way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea thatwe want your childish secrets about rocket motors. Maitland's heartjumped. My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. Iwant to give you some psychological tests.... Are you crazy? Maitland asked quietly. Do you realize that at thismoment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'lladmit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but itseems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to giveyour tests to. Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. They won't find you, he said. Now,come with me. <doc-sep>After that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rathercommonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, anda bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A coupleof them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normalcomplement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ranacross the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in thecenter of the room. Lie down, Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things willbe for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my resultsagainst your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't makeme. What's the idea? Maitland asked. What is all this? Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade ananswer, but to find the proper words. You can think of it as a liedetector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests Igive you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down. Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensedmuscles. Make me. If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. That was the first test,he said. Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot ifyou'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus. Maitland shook his head stubbornly. I see, Swarts said. You want to find out what you're up against. He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to thesolar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was onthe cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps acrosshis chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening aclamp that held his head immovable. Presently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples andto other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging tothe skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hungfrom the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly aroundhis left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black boxclamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joinedthe others. So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skinpotential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses ofthe body to stimuli. The question was, what were the stimuli to be? Your name, said Swarts, is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-fouryears old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularlyas applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going toquestion you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town isMadison, Wisconsin.... You seem to know everything about me, Maitland said defiantly,looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. Why this recital? I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing theequipment, calibrating it to your reactions. He went on, Yourfavorite recreations are chess and reading what you term sciencefiction. Maitland, how would you like to go to the Moon ? Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, andhe tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. What doyou mean? Swarts was chuckling. I really hit a semantic push-button there,didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wantsto go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out why . <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds. She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool. She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas. She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone. Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think. There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy. Where was he? Who was Swarts? What was the purpose of the tests he was being given? It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers. It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass. This might be somewhere in Africa.... He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing. Venus, the most beautiful of the planets. Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its alter ego of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend.... Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe. Last night Venus hadn't been there. Venus was a morning star just now.... Just now! He realized the truth in that moment. <doc-sep>Later, when that jewel of a planet had set and the stars were out,he lay on the bed, still warm with excitement and relief. He didn'thave to worry any more about military secrets, or who Swarts was.Those questions were irrelevant now. And now he could accept thepsychological tests at their face value; most likely, they were whatthey purported to be. Only one question of importance remained: What year was this? He grimaced in the darkness, an involuntary muscular expression ofjubilation and excitement. The future ! Here was the opportunity forthe greatest adventure imaginable to 20th Century man. Somewhere, out there under the stars, there must be grand glitteringcities and busy spaceports, roaring gateways to the planets.Somewhere, out there in the night, there must be men who had walkedbeside the Martian canals and pierced the shining cloud mantle ofVenus—somewhere, perhaps, men who had visited the distant luring starsand returned. Surely, a civilization that had developed time travelcould reach the stars! And he had a chance to become a part of all that! He could spendhis life among the planets, a citizen of deep space, a voyager of thechallenging spaceways between the solar worlds. I'm adaptable, he told himself gleefully. I can learn fast. There'llbe a job for me out there.... If— Suddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, satin the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find away of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the manrealize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts stillwouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. Thefellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,but— After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed. <doc-sep>He woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. Herolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal theevening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smellof bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, exceptthat she had discarded the white cloak. As he swung his legs to the floor, she started toward the door,carrying the tray with the dirty dishes from yesterday. He stopped herwith the word, Miss! She turned, and he thought there was something eager in her face. Miss, do you speak my language? Yes, hesitantly. She lingered too long on the hiss of the lastconsonant. Miss, he asked, watching her face intently, what year is this? Startlingly, she laughed, a mellow peal of mirth that had nothingforced about it. She turned toward the door again and said over hershoulder, You will have to ask Swarts about that. I cannot tell you. Wait! You mean you don't know? She shook her head. I cannot tell you. All right; we'll let it go at that. She grinned at him again as the door slid shut. <doc-sep>Swarts came half an hour later, and Maitland began his plannedoffensive. What year is this? Swarts' steely eyes locked with his. You know what the date is, hestated. No, I don't. Not since yesterday. Come on, Swarts said patiently, let's get going. We have a lot toget through this morning. I know this isn't 1950. It's probably not even the 20th Century.Venus was a morning star before you brought me here. Now it's anevening star. Never mind that. Come. Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to thelaboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attachthe instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts startedsaying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reactiontest—Maitland began the job of integrating csc 3 x dx in his head.It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequenttracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swartshad stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other manstanding over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled. What year is this? Maitland asked in a conversational tone. We'll try another series of tests. It took Swarts nearly twenty minutes to set up the new apparatus. Helowered a bulky affair with two cylindrical tubes like the twin stacksof a binocular microscope over Maitland's head, so that the lenses atthe ends of the tubes were about half an inch from the engineer'seyes. He attached tiny clamps to Maitland's eyelashes. These will keep you from holding your eyes shut, he said. You canblink, but the springs are too strong for you to hold your eyelids downagainst the tension. He inserted button earphones into Maitland's ears— And then the show began. He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there werefootsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with atwelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, Now I've got you, youwife-stealer! He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokelesspowder—then blackness. With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried toslow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was thecountermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around themdeclared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up. Now he was looking at a girl. She.... Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it. He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one dayafter school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who hadall the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but nomore. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness ofSwarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about thisnew world. Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightenedagainst the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on hisforehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated.... The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot andswollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps. The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from hiseyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore athim for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head wasstarting to ache from the effort of blinking. What year is this? he asked. All right, Swarts said. A.D. 2634. Maitland's smile became a grin. <doc-sep>I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies, Swarts saida while later. Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.' Ching? Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals. Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projectorto his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist. That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sitand watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimeswhistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jitteringone leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same themeover and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberantmounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's NinthSymphony. He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himselfaboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at SyrtisMajor; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge brightglobe against the constellations.... Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual trayof food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin andrevealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table. I think you are wonderful, she laughed. You get everything youwant, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a littleof what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20thCentury. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me. Shelaughed again, hands on her rounded hips. I have never seen him soirritated as he was this noon. Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.Eagerly he asked, Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks alot better. She shrugged. Swarts says that I want to go back to the Dark Age ofTechnology because I have not adapted well to modern culture. Myself,I think I have just a romantic nature. Far times and places look moreexciting.... How do you mean— Maitland wrinkled his brow—adapt to modernculture? Don't tell me you're from another time! Oh, no! But my home is Aresund, a little fishing village at the headof a fiord in what you would call Norway. So far north, we are muchbehind the times. We live in the old way, from the sea, speak the oldtongue. <doc-sep>He looked at her golden features, such a felicitous blend ofOriental and European characteristics, and hesitantly asked, MaybeI shouldn't.... This is a little personal, but ... you don't lookaltogether like the Norwegians of my time. His fear that she would be offended proved to be completelyunjustified. She merely laughed and said, There has been muchhistory since 1950. Five hundred years ago, Europe was overrun byPan-Orientals. Today you could not find anywhere a 'pure' Europeanor Asiatic. She giggled. Swarts' ancestors from your time must becursing in their graves. His family is Afrikander all the way back, butone of his great-grandfathers was pure-blooded Bantu. His full name isLassisi Swarts. Maitland wrinkled his brow. Afrikander? The South Africans. Something strange came into her eyes. It mighthave been awe, or even hatred; he could not tell. The Pan-Orientalseventually conquered all the world, except for North America—thelast remnant of the American World Empire—and southern Africa. TheAfrikanders had been partly isolated for several centuries then, andthey had developed technology while the rest of the world lost it. Theyhad a tradition of white supremacy, and in addition they were terrifiedof being encircled. She sighed. They ruled the next world empire andit was founded on the slaughter of one and a half billion human beings.That went into the history books as the War of Annihilation. So many? How? They were clever with machines, the Afrikanders. They made armiesof them. Armies of invincible killing-machines, produced in robotfactories from robot-mined ores.... Very clever. She gave a littleshudder. And yet they founded modern civilization, she added. The grandsonsof the technicians who built the Machine Army set up our robotproduction system, and today no human being has to dirty his handsraising food or manufacturing things. It could never have been done,either, before the population was—reduced to three hundred million. Then the Afrikanders are still on top? Still the masters? <doc-sep>She shook her head. There are no more Afrikanders. Rebellion? No. Intermarriage. Racial blending. There was a psychology of guiltbehind it. So huge a crime eventually required a proportionateexpiation. Afrikaans is still the world language, but there is only onerace now. No more masters or slaves. They were both silent for a moment, and then she sighed. Let us nottalk about them any more. Robot factories and farms, Maitland mused. What else? What means oftransportation? Do you have interstellar flight yet? Inter-what? Have men visited the stars? She shook her head, bewildered. I always thought that would be a tough problem to crack, he agreed.But tell me about what men are doing in the Solar System. How is lifeon Mars and Venus, and how long does it take to get to those places? He waited, expectantly silent, but she only looked puzzled. I don'tunderstand. Mars? What are Mars? After several seconds, Maitland swallowed. Something seemed to be thematter with his throat, making it difficult for him to speak. Surelyyou have space travel? She frowned and shook her head. What does that mean—space travel? He was gripping the edge of the bed now, glaring at her. Acivilization that could discover time travel and build robot factorieswouldn't find it hard to send a ship to Mars! A ship ? Oh, you mean something like a vliegvlotter . Why, no, Idon't suppose it would be hard. But why would anyone want to do athing like that? He was on his feet towering over her, fists clenched. She raised herarms as if to shield her face if he should hit her. Let's get thisperfectly clear, he said, more harshly than he realized. So far asyou know, no one has ever visited the planets, and no one wants to. Isthat right? She nodded apprehensively. I have never heard of it being done. He sank down on the bed and put his face in his hands. After a while helooked up and said bitterly, You're looking at a man who would givehis life to get to Mars. I thought I would in my time. I was positive Iwould when I knew I was in your time. And now I know I never will. <doc-sep>The cot creaked beside him and he felt a soft arm about his shouldersand fingers delicately stroking his brow. Presently he opened his eyesand looked at her. I just don't understand, he said. It seemedobvious to me that whenever men were able to reach the planets, they'ddo it. Her pitying eyes were on his face. He hitched himself around so that hewas facing her. I've got to understand. I've got to know why . Whathappened? Why don't men want the planets any more? Honestly, she said, I did not know they ever had. She hesitated.Maybe you are asking the wrong question. He furrowed his brow, bewildered now by her. I mean, she explained, maybe you should ask why people in the 20thCentury did want to go to worlds men are not suited to inhabit. Maitland felt his face become hot. Men can go anywhere, if they wantto bad enough. But why ? Despite his sudden irrational anger toward her, Maitland tried to stickto logic. Living space, for one thing. The only permanent solution tothe population problem.... We have no population problem. A hundred years ago, we realized thatthe key to social stability is a limited population. Our economicsystem was built to take care of three hundred million people, and wehave held the number at that. Birth control, Maitland scoffed. How do you make it work—secretpolice? No. Education. Each of us has the right to two children, and wecherish that right so much that we make every effort to see that thosetwo are the best children we could possibly produce.... She broke off, looking a little self-conscious. You understand, whatI have been saying applies to most of the world. In some places likeAresund, things are different. Backward. I still do not feel that Ibelong here, although the people of the town have accepted me as one ofthem. Even, he said, granting that you have solved the population problem,there's still the adventure of the thing. Surely, somewhere, there mustbe men who still feel that.... Ingrid, doesn't it fire something inyour blood, the idea of going to Mars—just to go there and see what'sthere and walk under a new sky and a smaller Sun? Aren't you interestedin finding out what the canals are? Or what's under the clouds ofVenus? Wouldn't you like to see the rings of Saturn from, a distanceof only two hundred thousand miles? His hands were trembling as hestopped. She shrugged her shapely shoulders. Go into the past—yes! But go outthere? I still cannot see why. Has the spirit of adventure evaporated from the human race, or what ? She smiled. In a room downstairs there is the head of a lion. Swartskilled the beast when he was a young man. He used a spear. And timetraveling is the greatest adventure there is. At least, that is theway I feel. Listen, Bob. She laid a hand on his arm. You grew up inthe Age of Technology. Everybody was terribly excited about what couldbe done with machines—machines to blow up a city all at once, or flyaround the world, or take a man to Mars. We have had our fill of—whatis the word?—gadgets. Our machines serve us, and so long as theyfunction right, we are satisfied to forget about them. Because this is the Age of Man . We are terribly interested in whatcan be done with people. Our scientists, like Swarts, are studyinghuman rather than nuclear reactions. We are much more fascinated by thelife and death of cultures than by the expansion or contraction of theUniverse. With us, it is the people that are important, not gadgets. Maitland stared at her, his face blank. His mind had just manufactureda discouraging analogy. His present position was like that of anearnest 12th Century crusader, deposited by some freak of nature intothe year 1950, trying to find a way of reanimating the anti-Mohammedanmovement. What chance would he have? The unfortunate knight would arguein vain that the atomic bomb offered a means of finally destroying theinfidel.... Maitland looked up at the girl, who was regarding him silently withtroubled eyes. I think I'd like to be alone for a while, he said. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What kinds of gadgets and machinery are used by Swarts in the story?

Swarts uses different technology for his various tests. In the first, he uses electrodes and cables placed in various spots on Maitland's body, meant to record how Maitland responds and reacts to various stimuli. These include heart monitors, blood pressure recorders, and measurements of brain activity. Swarts uses similar technology in the next test to record Maitland's reactions, with a few additions. Firstly, he introduces gadgets attached to Maitland's eyelashes that keep him from closing his eyes. He also attaches lenses and a projector to Maitland's eyes to display different scenes to him.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Morgue Ship By RAY BRADBURY This was Burnett's last trip. Three more shelves to fill with space-slain warriors—and he would be among the living again. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He heard the star-port grind open, and the movement of the metal clawsgroping into space, and then the star-port closed. There was another dead man aboard the Constellation . Sam Burnett shook his long head, trying to think clearly. Pallid andquiet, three bodies lay on the cold transparent tables around him;machines stirred, revolved, hummed. He didn't see them. He didn't seeanything but a red haze over his mind. It blotted out the far wall ofthe laboratory where the shelves went up and down, numbered in scarlet,keeping the bodies of soldiers from all further harm. Burnett didn't move. He stood there in his rumpled white surgicalgown, staring at his fingers gloved in bone-white rubber; feeling alltight and wild inside himself. It went on for days. Moving the ship.Opening the star-port. Extending the retriever claw. Plucking some poorwarrior's body out of the void. He didn't like it any more. Ten years is too long to go back andforth from Earth to nowhere. You came out empty and you went backfull-cargoed with a lot of warriors who didn't laugh or talk or smoke,who just lay on their shelves, all one hundred of them, waiting for adecent burial. Number ninety-eight. Coming matter of fact and slow, Rice's voicefrom the ceiling radio hit Burnett. Number ninety-eight, Burnett repeated. Working on ninety-five,ninety-six and ninety-seven now. Blood-pumps, preservative, slightsurgery. Off a million miles away his voice was talking. It soundeddeep. It didn't belong to him anymore. Rice said: Boyohbody! Two more pick-ups and back to New York. Me for a ten-daydrunk! Burnett peeled the gloves off his huge, red, soft hands, slapped theminto a floor incinerator mouth. Back to Earth. Then spin around andshoot right out again in the trail of the war-rockets that blasted oneanother in galactic fury, to sidle up behind gutted wrecks of ships,salvaging any bodies still intact after the conflict. Two men. Rice and himself. Sharing a cozy morgue ship with a hundredother men who had forgotten, quite suddenly, however, to talk again. Ten years of it. Every hour of those ten years eating like maggotsinside, working out to the surface of Burnett's face, working under thehusk of his starved eyes and starved limbs. Starved for life. Starvedfor action. This would be his last trip, or he'd know the reason why! Sam! Burnett jerked. Rice's voice clipped through the drainage-preservativelab, bounded against glassite retorts, echoed from the refrigeratorshelves. Burnett stared at the tabled bodies as if they would leap tolife, even while preservative was being pumped into their veins. Sam! On the double! Up the rungs! Burnett closed his eyes and said a couple of words, firmly. Nothing wasworth running for any more. Another body. There had been one hundredthousand bodies preceding it. Nothing unusual about a body with bloodcooling in it. <doc-sep>Shaking his head, he walked unsteadily toward the rungs that gleamedup into the air-lock, control-room sector of the rocket. He climbedwithout making any noise on the rungs. He kept thinking the one thing he couldn't forget. You never catch up with the war. All the color is ahead of you. The drive of orange rocket traces acrossstars, the whamming of steel-nosed bombs into elusive targets, thetitanic explosions and breathless pursuits, the flags and the excitedglory are always a million miles ahead. He bit his teeth together. You never catch up with the war. You come along when space has settled back, when the vacuum has stoppedtrembling from unleashed forces between worlds. You come along in thedark quiet of death to find the wreckage plunging with all the fury ofits original acceleration in no particular direction. You can only seeit; you don't hear anything in space but your own heart kicking yourribs. You see bodies, each in its own terrific orbit, given impetus bygrinding collisions, tossed from mother ships and dancing head overfeet forever and forever with no goal. Bits of flesh in ruptured spacesuits, mouths open for air that had never been there in a hundredbillion centuries. And they kept dancing without music until youextended the retriever-claw and culled them into the air-lock. That was all the war-glory he got. Nothing but the stunned, shiveringsilence, the memory of rockets long gone, and the shelves filling upall too quickly with men who had once loved laughing. You wondered who all the men were; and who the next ones would be.After ten years you made yourself blind to them. You went around doingyour job with mechanical hands. But even a machine breaks down.... <doc-sep>Sam! Rice turned swiftly as Burnett dragged himself up the ladder.Red and warm, Rice's face hovered over the body of a sprawled enemyofficial. Take a look at this! Burnett caught his breath. His eyes narrowed. There was something wrongwith the body; his experienced glance knew that. He didn't know what itwas. Maybe it was because the body looked a little too dead. Burnett didn't say anything, but he climbed the rest of the way,stood quietly in the grey-metal air-lock. The enemy official was asdelicately made as a fine white spider. Eyelids, closed, were faintlyblue. The hair was thin silken strands of pale gold, waved and pressedclose to a veined skull. Where the thin-lipped mouth fell open acluster of needle-tipped teeth glittered. The fragile body was enclosedcompletely in milk-pale syntha-silk, a holstered gun at the middle. Burnett rubbed his jaw. Well? Rice exploded. His eyes were hot in his young, sharp-cut face, hot andblack. Good Lord, Sam, do you know who this is? Burnett scowled uneasily and said no. It's Lethla! Rice retorted. Burnett said, Lethla? And then: Oh, yes! Kriere's majordomo. Thatright? Don't say it calm, Sam. Say it big. Say it big! If Lethla is here inspace, then Kriere's not far away from him! Burnett shrugged. More bodies, more people, more war. What the hell.What the hell. He was tired. Talk about bodies and rulers to someoneelse. Rice grabbed him by the shoulders. Snap out of it, Sam. Think!Kriere—The All-Mighty—in our territory. His right hand man dead. Thatmeans Kriere was in an accident, too! Sam opened his thin lips and the words fell out all by themselves.Look, Rice, you're new at this game. I've been at it ever since theVenus-Earth mess started. It's been see-sawing back and forth since theday you played hookey in the tenth grade, and I've been in the thickof it. When there's nothing left but seared memories, I'll be prowlingthrough the void picking up warriors and taking them back to the goodgreen Earth. Grisly, yes, but it's routine. As for Kriere—if he's anywhere around, he's smart. Every precautionis taken to protect that one. But Lethla! His body must mean something! And if it does? Have we got guns aboard this morgue-ship? Are we abattle-cuiser to go against him? We'll radio for help? Yeah? If there's a warship within our radio range, seven hundredthousand miles, we'll get it. Unfortunately, the tide of battle hasswept out past Earth in a new war concerning Io. That's out, Rice. Rice stood about three inches below Sam Burnett's six-foot-one. Jawhard and determined, he stared at Sam, a funny light in his eyes. Hisfingers twitched all by themselves at his sides. His mouth twisted,You're one hell of a patriot, Sam Burnett! Burnett reached out with one long finger, tapped it quietly on Rice'sbarrel-chest. Haul a cargo of corpses for three thousand nights anddays and see how patriotic you feel. All those fine muscled ladsbloated and crushed by space pressures and heat-blasts. Fine lads whostart out smiling and get the smile burned off down to the bone— Burnett swallowed and didn't say anything more, but he closed his eyes.He stood there, smelling the death-odor in the hot air of the ship,hearing the chug-chug-chug of the blood pumps down below, and his ownheart waiting warm and heavy at the base of his throat. This is my last cargo, Rice. I can't take it any longer. And I don'tcare much how I go back to earth. This Venusian here—what's his name?Lethla. He's number ninety-eight. Shove me into shelf ninety-ninebeside him and get the hell home. That's how I feel! Rice was going to say something, but he didn't have time. Lethla was alive. He rose from the floor with slow, easy movements, almost like a dream.He didn't say anything. The heat-blast in his white fingers did all thenecessary talking. It didn't say anything either, but Burnett knew whatlanguage it would use if it had to. Burnett swallowed hard. The body had looked funny. Too dead. Now heknew why. Involuntarily, Burnett moved forward. Lethla moved like apale spider, flicking his fragile arm to cover Burnett, the gun in itlike a dead cold star. Rice sucked in his breath. Burnett forced himself to take it easy. Fromthe corners of his eyes he saw Rice's expression go deep and tight,biting lines into his sharp face. Rice got it out, finally. How'd you do it? he demanded, bitterly.How'd you live in the void? It's impossible! A crazy thought came ramming down and exploded in Burnett's head. Younever catch up with the war! But what if the war catches up with you? What in hell would Lethla be wanting aboard a morgue ship? <doc-sep>Lethla half-crouched in the midst of the smell of death and thechugging of blood-pumps below. In the silence he reached up with quickfingers, tapped a tiny crystal stud upon the back of his head, and thehalves of a microscopically thin chrysalis parted transparently offof his face. He shucked it off, trailing air-tendrils that had beeninserted, hidden in the uniform, ending in thin globules of oxygen. He spoke. Triumph warmed his crystal-thin voice. That's how I did it,Earthman. Glassite! said Rice. A face-moulded mask of glassite! Lethla nodded. His milk-blue eyes dilated. Very marvelously pared toan unbreakable thickness of one-thirtieth of an inch; worn only on thehead. You have to look quickly to notice it, and, unfortunately, viewedas you saw it, outside the ship, floating in the void, not discernibleat all. Prickles of sweat appeared on Rice's face. He swore at the Venusian andthe Venusian laughed like some sort of stringed instrument, high andquick. Burnett laughed, too. Ironically. First time in years a man ever cameaboard the Constellation alive. It's a welcome change. Lethla showed his needle-like teeth. I thought it might be. Where'syour radio? Go find it! snapped Rice, hotly. I will. One hand, blue-veined, on the ladder-rungs, Lethla paused.I know you're weaponless; Purple Cross regulations. And this air-lockis safe. Don't move. Whispering, his naked feet padded white up theladder. Two long breaths later something crashed; metal and glass andcoils. The radio. Burnett put his shoulder blades against the wall-metal, looking at hisfeet. When he glanced up, Rice's fresh, animated face was spoiled bythe new bitterness in it. Lethla came down. Like a breath of air on the rungs. He smiled. That's better. Now. We can talk— Rice said it, slow: Interplanetary law declares it straight, Lethla! Get out! Only deadmen belong here. Lethla's gun grip tightened. More talk of that nature, and only deadmen there will be. He blinked. But first—we must rescue Kriere.... Kriere! Rice acted as if he had been hit in the jaw. Burnett moved his tongue back and forth on his lips silently, his eyeslidded, listening to the two of them as if they were a radio drama.Lethla's voice came next: Rather unfortunately, yes. He's still alive, heading toward Venusat an orbital velocity of two thousand m.p.h., wearing one of theseair-chrysali. Enough air for two more hours. Our flag ship was attackedunexpectedly yesterday near Mars. We were forced to take to thelife-boats, scattering, Kriere and I in one, the others sacrificingtheir lives to cover our escape. We were lucky. We got through theEarth cordon unseen. But luck can't last forever. We saw your morgue ship an hour ago. It's a long, long way to Venus.We were running out of fuel, food, water. Radio was broken. Capturewas certain. You were coming our way; we took the chance. We set asmall time-bomb to destroy the life-rocket, and cast off, wearing ourchrysali-helmets. It was the first time we had ever tried using them totrick anyone. We knew you wouldn't know we were alive until it was toolate and we controlled your ship. We knew you picked up all bodies forbrief exams, returning alien corpses to space later. Rice's voice was sullen. A set-up for you, huh? Traveling under theprotection of the Purple Cross you can get your damned All-Mighty safeto Venus. Lethla bowed slightly. Who would suspect a Morgue Rocket of providingsafe hiding for precious Venusian cargo? Precious is the word for you, brother! said Rice. Enough! Lethla moved his gun several inches. Accelerate toward Venus, mote-detectors wide open. Kriere must bepicked up— now! <doc-sep>Rice didn't move. Burnett moved first, feeling alive for the first timein years. Sure, said Sam, smiling. We'll pick him up. No tricks, said Lethla. Burnett scowled and smiled together. No tricks. You'll have Kriere onboard the Constellation in half an hour or I'm no coroner. Follow me up the ladder. Lethla danced up, turned, waved his gun. Come on. Burnett went up, quick. Almost as if he enjoyed doing Lethla a favor.Rice grumbled and cursed after him. On the way up, Burnett thought about it. About Lethla poised likea white feather at the top, holding death in his hand. You neverknew whose body would come in through the star-port next. Numberninety-eight was Lethla. Number ninety-nine would be Kriere. There were two shelves numbered and empty. They should be filled. Andwhat more proper than that Kriere and Lethla should fill them? But, hechewed his lip, that would need a bit of doing. And even then the cargowouldn't be full. Still one more body to get; one hundred. And younever knew who it would be. He came out of the quick thoughts when he looped his long leg overthe hole-rim, stepped up, faced Lethla in a cramped control room thatwas one glittering swirl of silver levers, audio-plates and visuals.Chronometers, clicking, told of the steady dropping toward the sun at aslow pace. Burnett set his teeth together, bone against bone. Help Kriere escape?See him safely to Venus, and then be freed? Sounded easy, wouldn't behard. Venusians weren't blind with malice. Rice and he could come outalive; if they cooperated. But there were a lot of warriors sleeping on a lot of numbered shelvesin the dim corridors of the long years. And their dead lips werestirring to life in Burnett's ears. Not so easily could they be ignored. You may never catch up with the war again. The last trip! Yes, this could be it. Capture Kriere and end the war. But whatridiculous fantasy was it made him believe he could actually do it? Two muscles moved on Burnett, one in each long cheek. The sag in hisbody vanished as he tautened his spine, flexed his lean-sinewed arms,wet thin lips. Now, where do you want this crate? he asked Lethla easily. Lethla exhaled softly. Cooperation. I like it. You're wise, Earthman. Very, said Burnett. He was thinking about three thousand eternal nights of young bodiesbeing ripped, slaughtered, flung to the vacuum tides. Ten years ofhating a job and hoping that some day there would be a last trip and itwould all be over. Burnett laughed through his nose. Controls moved under his fingers likefluid; loved, caressed, tended by his familiar touching. Looking ahead,he squinted. There's your Ruler now, Lethla. Doing somersaults. Looks dead. A goodtrick. Cut power! We don't want to burn him! <doc-sep>Burnett cut. Kriere's milky face floated dreamily into a visual-screen,eyes sealed, lips gaping, hands sagging, clutching emptily at the stars. We're about fifty miles from him, catching up. Burnett turned toLethla with an intent scowl. Funny. This was the first and the lasttime anybody would ever board the Constellation alive. His stomachwent flat, tautened with sudden weakening fear. If Kriere could be captured, that meant the end of the war, the endof shelves stacked with sleeping warriors, the end of this blindsearching. Kriere, then, had to be taken aboard. After that— Kriere, the All-Mighty. At whose behest all space had quivered likea smitten gong for part of a century. Kriere, revolving in his neat,water-blue uniform, emblems shining gold, heat-gun tucked in glossyjet holster. With Kriere aboard, chances of overcoming him would beeliminated. Now: Rice and Burnett against Lethla. Lethla favoredbecause of his gun. Kriere would make odds impossible. Something had to be done before Kriere came in. Lethla had to be yanked off guard. Shocked, bewildered,fooled—somehow. But—how? Burnett's jaw froze tight. He could feel a spot on his shoulder-bladewhere Lethla would send a bullet crashing into rib, sinew,artery—heart. There was a way. And there was a weapon. And the war would be over andthis would be the last trip. Sweat covered his palms in a nervous smear. Steady, Rice, he said, matter of factly. With the rockets cut, therewas too much silence, and his voice sounded guilty standing up alone inthe center of that silence. Take controls, Rice. I'll manipulate thestar-port. Burnett slipped from the control console. Rice replaced him grimly.Burnett strode to the next console of levers. That spot on his backkept aching like it was sear-branded X. For the place where the bulletsings and rips. And if you turn quick, catching it in the arm first,why— Kriere loomed bigger, a white spider delicately dancing on a web ofstars. His eyes flicked open behind the glassite sheath, and saw the Constellation . Kriere smiled. His hands came up. He knew he was aboutto be rescued. Burnett smiled right back at him. What Kriere didn't know was that hewas about to end a ten-years' war. There was only one way of drawing Lethla off guard, and it had to befast. Burnett jabbed a purple-topped stud. The star-port clashed open asit had done a thousand times before; but for the first time it was agood sound. And out of the star-port, at Sam Burnett's easily fingereddirections, slid the long claw-like mechanism that picked up bodiesfrom space. Lethla watched, intent and cold and quiet. The gun was cold and quiet,too. The claw glided toward Kriere without a sound, now, dream-like in itsslowness. It reached Kriere. Burnett inhaled a deep breath. The metal claw cuddled Kriere in its shiny palm. Lethla watched. He watched while Burnett exhaled, touched another lever and said: Youknow, Lethla, there's an old saying that only dead men come aboard the Constellation . I believe it. <doc-sep>And the claw closed as Burnett spoke, closed slowly and certainly, allaround Kriere, crushing him into a ridiculous posture of silence. Therewas blood running on the claw, and the only recognizable part was thehead, which was carefully preserved for identification. That was the only way to draw Lethla off guard. Burnett spun about and leaped. The horror on Lethla's face didn't go away as he fired his gun. Rice came in fighting, too, but not before something like a red-hotramrod stabbed Sam Burnett, catching him in the ribs, spinning him backlike a drunken idiot to fall in a corner. Fists made blunt flesh noises. Lethla went down, weaponless andscreaming. Rice kicked. After awhile Lethla quit screaming, and theroom swam around in Burnett's eyes, and he closed them tight andstarted laughing. He didn't finish laughing for maybe ten minutes. He heard the retrieverclaws come inside, and the star-port grind shut. Out of the red darkness, Rice's voice came and then he could see Rice'syoung face over him. Burnett groaned. Rice said, Sam, you shouldn't have done it. You shouldn't have, Sam. To hell with it. Burnett winced, and fought to keep his eyes open.Something wet and sticky covered his chest. I said this was my lasttrip and I meant it. One way or the other, I'd have quit! This is the hard way— Maybe. I dunno. Kind of nice to think of all those kids who'll neverhave to come aboard the Constellation , though, Rice. His voicetrailed off. You watch the shelves fill up and you never know who'llbe next. Who'd have thought, four days ago— Something happened to his tongue so it felt like hard ice blocking hismouth. He had a lot more words to say, but only time to get a few ofthem out: Rice? Yeah, Sam? We haven't got a full cargo, boy. Full enough for me, sir. But still not full. If we went back to Center Base without fillingthe shelves, it wouldn't be right. Look there—number ninety-eight isLethla—number ninety-nine is Kriere. Three thousand days of rollingthis rocket, and not once come back without a bunch of the kids whowant to sleep easy on the good green earth. Not right to be going backany way—but—the way—we used to— His voice got all full of fog. As thick as the fists of a dozenwarriors. Rice was going away from him. Rice was standing still, andBurnett was lying down, not moving, but somehow Rice was going away amillion miles. Ain't I one hell of a patriot, Rice? Then everything got dark except Rice's face. And that was starting todissolve. Ninety-eight: Lethla. Ninety-nine: Kriere. He could still see Rice standing over him for a long time, breathingout and in. Down under the tables the blood-pumps pulsed and pulsed,thick and slow. Rice looked down at Burnett and then at the empty shelfat the far end of the room, and then back at Burnett again. And then he said softly: One hundred. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Sam Burnett hears the familiar sounds that indicate another dead body has been retrieved and collected onto the Morgue ship where he works. Burnett is a coroner that works to retrieve dead bodies from space lost in war and bring them back to Earth. He thinks of how his job has emotionally drained him. Rice interrupts his thoughts and yells for Sam to meet with him. Sam climbs up to the control room of the rocket. When he meets Rice, he realizes that the recovered body is an enemy official. Sam is suspicious of the condition of the body when Rice excitedly exclaims that it is the body of Lethla, Kriere’s majordomo. Burnett is indifferent to the revelation. Yet, Rice is excited for the possibility of a high enemy official being dead and the possibility of the war coming to an end; Sam is still jaded. Lethla moves and they realize that he is not dead. Lethla was able to survive in the void of space with the usage of a well-hidden face mask made of glassite. Lethla threatens the two to not make any moves and communicates his intent to control the ship. Rice tells Lethla to leave because it is against Interplanetary law to mess with a morgue ship. Lethla rebuffs that defense. All the while, Sam is observing the two interact. Lethla lets the two know that Kriere is still alive and is also wearing the same mask that Lethla had worn. He explains that they were attacked near Mars while they were on their way to Venus. They were running out of supplies and decided to trick the morgue ship to continue their trip to Venus. After Lethla explains why and how he got to the morgue ship, he commands them to go pick up Kriere. Sam smiles and complies with Lethla’s orders. Sam thinks over his options and considers getting Lethla and Kriere to Venus so that he can peacefully return to Earth. They spot Kriere in space floating as if he is dead. Sam continues thinking about his options to overpower both Kriere and Lethla and experiences some fear over the possible success of his plan. He begins to sweat nervously but becomes more confident as he puts the plan into action. Sam activates the ship’s claw mechanism to pick up Kriere’s body. As Lethla watches him he mentions a saying about how the ship is meant for dead men and then unexpectedly begins to crush Kriere’s body with the claw, killing Kriere. Lethla is caught off guard but manages to fire his gun at Sam before Rice attacks him. Lethla screams in horror for a time while Burnett uncontrollably laughs. Rice expresses how he doesn’t believe Sam should have killed Kriere. Sam argues that it didn’t matter as long as it was his last trip somehow. Sam dies and becomes the 100 body on the ship, filling it and allowing the ship to return back to Earth fulfilling Sam’s last desire.

Describe what Sam Burnett does for his job. [SEP] <s> Morgue Ship By RAY BRADBURY This was Burnett's last trip. Three more shelves to fill with space-slain warriors—and he would be among the living again. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He heard the star-port grind open, and the movement of the metal clawsgroping into space, and then the star-port closed. There was another dead man aboard the Constellation . Sam Burnett shook his long head, trying to think clearly. Pallid andquiet, three bodies lay on the cold transparent tables around him;machines stirred, revolved, hummed. He didn't see them. He didn't seeanything but a red haze over his mind. It blotted out the far wall ofthe laboratory where the shelves went up and down, numbered in scarlet,keeping the bodies of soldiers from all further harm. Burnett didn't move. He stood there in his rumpled white surgicalgown, staring at his fingers gloved in bone-white rubber; feeling alltight and wild inside himself. It went on for days. Moving the ship.Opening the star-port. Extending the retriever claw. Plucking some poorwarrior's body out of the void. He didn't like it any more. Ten years is too long to go back andforth from Earth to nowhere. You came out empty and you went backfull-cargoed with a lot of warriors who didn't laugh or talk or smoke,who just lay on their shelves, all one hundred of them, waiting for adecent burial. Number ninety-eight. Coming matter of fact and slow, Rice's voicefrom the ceiling radio hit Burnett. Number ninety-eight, Burnett repeated. Working on ninety-five,ninety-six and ninety-seven now. Blood-pumps, preservative, slightsurgery. Off a million miles away his voice was talking. It soundeddeep. It didn't belong to him anymore. Rice said: Boyohbody! Two more pick-ups and back to New York. Me for a ten-daydrunk! Burnett peeled the gloves off his huge, red, soft hands, slapped theminto a floor incinerator mouth. Back to Earth. Then spin around andshoot right out again in the trail of the war-rockets that blasted oneanother in galactic fury, to sidle up behind gutted wrecks of ships,salvaging any bodies still intact after the conflict. Two men. Rice and himself. Sharing a cozy morgue ship with a hundredother men who had forgotten, quite suddenly, however, to talk again. Ten years of it. Every hour of those ten years eating like maggotsinside, working out to the surface of Burnett's face, working under thehusk of his starved eyes and starved limbs. Starved for life. Starvedfor action. This would be his last trip, or he'd know the reason why! Sam! Burnett jerked. Rice's voice clipped through the drainage-preservativelab, bounded against glassite retorts, echoed from the refrigeratorshelves. Burnett stared at the tabled bodies as if they would leap tolife, even while preservative was being pumped into their veins. Sam! On the double! Up the rungs! Burnett closed his eyes and said a couple of words, firmly. Nothing wasworth running for any more. Another body. There had been one hundredthousand bodies preceding it. Nothing unusual about a body with bloodcooling in it. <doc-sep>Shaking his head, he walked unsteadily toward the rungs that gleamedup into the air-lock, control-room sector of the rocket. He climbedwithout making any noise on the rungs. He kept thinking the one thing he couldn't forget. You never catch up with the war. All the color is ahead of you. The drive of orange rocket traces acrossstars, the whamming of steel-nosed bombs into elusive targets, thetitanic explosions and breathless pursuits, the flags and the excitedglory are always a million miles ahead. He bit his teeth together. You never catch up with the war. You come along when space has settled back, when the vacuum has stoppedtrembling from unleashed forces between worlds. You come along in thedark quiet of death to find the wreckage plunging with all the fury ofits original acceleration in no particular direction. You can only seeit; you don't hear anything in space but your own heart kicking yourribs. You see bodies, each in its own terrific orbit, given impetus bygrinding collisions, tossed from mother ships and dancing head overfeet forever and forever with no goal. Bits of flesh in ruptured spacesuits, mouths open for air that had never been there in a hundredbillion centuries. And they kept dancing without music until youextended the retriever-claw and culled them into the air-lock. That was all the war-glory he got. Nothing but the stunned, shiveringsilence, the memory of rockets long gone, and the shelves filling upall too quickly with men who had once loved laughing. You wondered who all the men were; and who the next ones would be.After ten years you made yourself blind to them. You went around doingyour job with mechanical hands. But even a machine breaks down.... <doc-sep>Sam! Rice turned swiftly as Burnett dragged himself up the ladder.Red and warm, Rice's face hovered over the body of a sprawled enemyofficial. Take a look at this! Burnett caught his breath. His eyes narrowed. There was something wrongwith the body; his experienced glance knew that. He didn't know what itwas. Maybe it was because the body looked a little too dead. Burnett didn't say anything, but he climbed the rest of the way,stood quietly in the grey-metal air-lock. The enemy official was asdelicately made as a fine white spider. Eyelids, closed, were faintlyblue. The hair was thin silken strands of pale gold, waved and pressedclose to a veined skull. Where the thin-lipped mouth fell open acluster of needle-tipped teeth glittered. The fragile body was enclosedcompletely in milk-pale syntha-silk, a holstered gun at the middle. Burnett rubbed his jaw. Well? Rice exploded. His eyes were hot in his young, sharp-cut face, hot andblack. Good Lord, Sam, do you know who this is? Burnett scowled uneasily and said no. It's Lethla! Rice retorted. Burnett said, Lethla? And then: Oh, yes! Kriere's majordomo. Thatright? Don't say it calm, Sam. Say it big. Say it big! If Lethla is here inspace, then Kriere's not far away from him! Burnett shrugged. More bodies, more people, more war. What the hell.What the hell. He was tired. Talk about bodies and rulers to someoneelse. Rice grabbed him by the shoulders. Snap out of it, Sam. Think!Kriere—The All-Mighty—in our territory. His right hand man dead. Thatmeans Kriere was in an accident, too! Sam opened his thin lips and the words fell out all by themselves.Look, Rice, you're new at this game. I've been at it ever since theVenus-Earth mess started. It's been see-sawing back and forth since theday you played hookey in the tenth grade, and I've been in the thickof it. When there's nothing left but seared memories, I'll be prowlingthrough the void picking up warriors and taking them back to the goodgreen Earth. Grisly, yes, but it's routine. As for Kriere—if he's anywhere around, he's smart. Every precautionis taken to protect that one. But Lethla! His body must mean something! And if it does? Have we got guns aboard this morgue-ship? Are we abattle-cuiser to go against him? We'll radio for help? Yeah? If there's a warship within our radio range, seven hundredthousand miles, we'll get it. Unfortunately, the tide of battle hasswept out past Earth in a new war concerning Io. That's out, Rice. Rice stood about three inches below Sam Burnett's six-foot-one. Jawhard and determined, he stared at Sam, a funny light in his eyes. Hisfingers twitched all by themselves at his sides. His mouth twisted,You're one hell of a patriot, Sam Burnett! Burnett reached out with one long finger, tapped it quietly on Rice'sbarrel-chest. Haul a cargo of corpses for three thousand nights anddays and see how patriotic you feel. All those fine muscled ladsbloated and crushed by space pressures and heat-blasts. Fine lads whostart out smiling and get the smile burned off down to the bone— Burnett swallowed and didn't say anything more, but he closed his eyes.He stood there, smelling the death-odor in the hot air of the ship,hearing the chug-chug-chug of the blood pumps down below, and his ownheart waiting warm and heavy at the base of his throat. This is my last cargo, Rice. I can't take it any longer. And I don'tcare much how I go back to earth. This Venusian here—what's his name?Lethla. He's number ninety-eight. Shove me into shelf ninety-ninebeside him and get the hell home. That's how I feel! Rice was going to say something, but he didn't have time. Lethla was alive. He rose from the floor with slow, easy movements, almost like a dream.He didn't say anything. The heat-blast in his white fingers did all thenecessary talking. It didn't say anything either, but Burnett knew whatlanguage it would use if it had to. Burnett swallowed hard. The body had looked funny. Too dead. Now heknew why. Involuntarily, Burnett moved forward. Lethla moved like apale spider, flicking his fragile arm to cover Burnett, the gun in itlike a dead cold star. Rice sucked in his breath. Burnett forced himself to take it easy. Fromthe corners of his eyes he saw Rice's expression go deep and tight,biting lines into his sharp face. Rice got it out, finally. How'd you do it? he demanded, bitterly.How'd you live in the void? It's impossible! A crazy thought came ramming down and exploded in Burnett's head. Younever catch up with the war! But what if the war catches up with you? What in hell would Lethla be wanting aboard a morgue ship? <doc-sep>Lethla half-crouched in the midst of the smell of death and thechugging of blood-pumps below. In the silence he reached up with quickfingers, tapped a tiny crystal stud upon the back of his head, and thehalves of a microscopically thin chrysalis parted transparently offof his face. He shucked it off, trailing air-tendrils that had beeninserted, hidden in the uniform, ending in thin globules of oxygen. He spoke. Triumph warmed his crystal-thin voice. That's how I did it,Earthman. Glassite! said Rice. A face-moulded mask of glassite! Lethla nodded. His milk-blue eyes dilated. Very marvelously pared toan unbreakable thickness of one-thirtieth of an inch; worn only on thehead. You have to look quickly to notice it, and, unfortunately, viewedas you saw it, outside the ship, floating in the void, not discernibleat all. Prickles of sweat appeared on Rice's face. He swore at the Venusian andthe Venusian laughed like some sort of stringed instrument, high andquick. Burnett laughed, too. Ironically. First time in years a man ever cameaboard the Constellation alive. It's a welcome change. Lethla showed his needle-like teeth. I thought it might be. Where'syour radio? Go find it! snapped Rice, hotly. I will. One hand, blue-veined, on the ladder-rungs, Lethla paused.I know you're weaponless; Purple Cross regulations. And this air-lockis safe. Don't move. Whispering, his naked feet padded white up theladder. Two long breaths later something crashed; metal and glass andcoils. The radio. Burnett put his shoulder blades against the wall-metal, looking at hisfeet. When he glanced up, Rice's fresh, animated face was spoiled bythe new bitterness in it. Lethla came down. Like a breath of air on the rungs. He smiled. That's better. Now. We can talk— Rice said it, slow: Interplanetary law declares it straight, Lethla! Get out! Only deadmen belong here. Lethla's gun grip tightened. More talk of that nature, and only deadmen there will be. He blinked. But first—we must rescue Kriere.... Kriere! Rice acted as if he had been hit in the jaw. Burnett moved his tongue back and forth on his lips silently, his eyeslidded, listening to the two of them as if they were a radio drama.Lethla's voice came next: Rather unfortunately, yes. He's still alive, heading toward Venusat an orbital velocity of two thousand m.p.h., wearing one of theseair-chrysali. Enough air for two more hours. Our flag ship was attackedunexpectedly yesterday near Mars. We were forced to take to thelife-boats, scattering, Kriere and I in one, the others sacrificingtheir lives to cover our escape. We were lucky. We got through theEarth cordon unseen. But luck can't last forever. We saw your morgue ship an hour ago. It's a long, long way to Venus.We were running out of fuel, food, water. Radio was broken. Capturewas certain. You were coming our way; we took the chance. We set asmall time-bomb to destroy the life-rocket, and cast off, wearing ourchrysali-helmets. It was the first time we had ever tried using them totrick anyone. We knew you wouldn't know we were alive until it was toolate and we controlled your ship. We knew you picked up all bodies forbrief exams, returning alien corpses to space later. Rice's voice was sullen. A set-up for you, huh? Traveling under theprotection of the Purple Cross you can get your damned All-Mighty safeto Venus. Lethla bowed slightly. Who would suspect a Morgue Rocket of providingsafe hiding for precious Venusian cargo? Precious is the word for you, brother! said Rice. Enough! Lethla moved his gun several inches. Accelerate toward Venus, mote-detectors wide open. Kriere must bepicked up— now! <doc-sep>Rice didn't move. Burnett moved first, feeling alive for the first timein years. Sure, said Sam, smiling. We'll pick him up. No tricks, said Lethla. Burnett scowled and smiled together. No tricks. You'll have Kriere onboard the Constellation in half an hour or I'm no coroner. Follow me up the ladder. Lethla danced up, turned, waved his gun. Come on. Burnett went up, quick. Almost as if he enjoyed doing Lethla a favor.Rice grumbled and cursed after him. On the way up, Burnett thought about it. About Lethla poised likea white feather at the top, holding death in his hand. You neverknew whose body would come in through the star-port next. Numberninety-eight was Lethla. Number ninety-nine would be Kriere. There were two shelves numbered and empty. They should be filled. Andwhat more proper than that Kriere and Lethla should fill them? But, hechewed his lip, that would need a bit of doing. And even then the cargowouldn't be full. Still one more body to get; one hundred. And younever knew who it would be. He came out of the quick thoughts when he looped his long leg overthe hole-rim, stepped up, faced Lethla in a cramped control room thatwas one glittering swirl of silver levers, audio-plates and visuals.Chronometers, clicking, told of the steady dropping toward the sun at aslow pace. Burnett set his teeth together, bone against bone. Help Kriere escape?See him safely to Venus, and then be freed? Sounded easy, wouldn't behard. Venusians weren't blind with malice. Rice and he could come outalive; if they cooperated. But there were a lot of warriors sleeping on a lot of numbered shelvesin the dim corridors of the long years. And their dead lips werestirring to life in Burnett's ears. Not so easily could they be ignored. You may never catch up with the war again. The last trip! Yes, this could be it. Capture Kriere and end the war. But whatridiculous fantasy was it made him believe he could actually do it? Two muscles moved on Burnett, one in each long cheek. The sag in hisbody vanished as he tautened his spine, flexed his lean-sinewed arms,wet thin lips. Now, where do you want this crate? he asked Lethla easily. Lethla exhaled softly. Cooperation. I like it. You're wise, Earthman. Very, said Burnett. He was thinking about three thousand eternal nights of young bodiesbeing ripped, slaughtered, flung to the vacuum tides. Ten years ofhating a job and hoping that some day there would be a last trip and itwould all be over. Burnett laughed through his nose. Controls moved under his fingers likefluid; loved, caressed, tended by his familiar touching. Looking ahead,he squinted. There's your Ruler now, Lethla. Doing somersaults. Looks dead. A goodtrick. Cut power! We don't want to burn him! <doc-sep>Burnett cut. Kriere's milky face floated dreamily into a visual-screen,eyes sealed, lips gaping, hands sagging, clutching emptily at the stars. We're about fifty miles from him, catching up. Burnett turned toLethla with an intent scowl. Funny. This was the first and the lasttime anybody would ever board the Constellation alive. His stomachwent flat, tautened with sudden weakening fear. If Kriere could be captured, that meant the end of the war, the endof shelves stacked with sleeping warriors, the end of this blindsearching. Kriere, then, had to be taken aboard. After that— Kriere, the All-Mighty. At whose behest all space had quivered likea smitten gong for part of a century. Kriere, revolving in his neat,water-blue uniform, emblems shining gold, heat-gun tucked in glossyjet holster. With Kriere aboard, chances of overcoming him would beeliminated. Now: Rice and Burnett against Lethla. Lethla favoredbecause of his gun. Kriere would make odds impossible. Something had to be done before Kriere came in. Lethla had to be yanked off guard. Shocked, bewildered,fooled—somehow. But—how? Burnett's jaw froze tight. He could feel a spot on his shoulder-bladewhere Lethla would send a bullet crashing into rib, sinew,artery—heart. There was a way. And there was a weapon. And the war would be over andthis would be the last trip. Sweat covered his palms in a nervous smear. Steady, Rice, he said, matter of factly. With the rockets cut, therewas too much silence, and his voice sounded guilty standing up alone inthe center of that silence. Take controls, Rice. I'll manipulate thestar-port. Burnett slipped from the control console. Rice replaced him grimly.Burnett strode to the next console of levers. That spot on his backkept aching like it was sear-branded X. For the place where the bulletsings and rips. And if you turn quick, catching it in the arm first,why— Kriere loomed bigger, a white spider delicately dancing on a web ofstars. His eyes flicked open behind the glassite sheath, and saw the Constellation . Kriere smiled. His hands came up. He knew he was aboutto be rescued. Burnett smiled right back at him. What Kriere didn't know was that hewas about to end a ten-years' war. There was only one way of drawing Lethla off guard, and it had to befast. Burnett jabbed a purple-topped stud. The star-port clashed open asit had done a thousand times before; but for the first time it was agood sound. And out of the star-port, at Sam Burnett's easily fingereddirections, slid the long claw-like mechanism that picked up bodiesfrom space. Lethla watched, intent and cold and quiet. The gun was cold and quiet,too. The claw glided toward Kriere without a sound, now, dream-like in itsslowness. It reached Kriere. Burnett inhaled a deep breath. The metal claw cuddled Kriere in its shiny palm. Lethla watched. He watched while Burnett exhaled, touched another lever and said: Youknow, Lethla, there's an old saying that only dead men come aboard the Constellation . I believe it. <doc-sep>And the claw closed as Burnett spoke, closed slowly and certainly, allaround Kriere, crushing him into a ridiculous posture of silence. Therewas blood running on the claw, and the only recognizable part was thehead, which was carefully preserved for identification. That was the only way to draw Lethla off guard. Burnett spun about and leaped. The horror on Lethla's face didn't go away as he fired his gun. Rice came in fighting, too, but not before something like a red-hotramrod stabbed Sam Burnett, catching him in the ribs, spinning him backlike a drunken idiot to fall in a corner. Fists made blunt flesh noises. Lethla went down, weaponless andscreaming. Rice kicked. After awhile Lethla quit screaming, and theroom swam around in Burnett's eyes, and he closed them tight andstarted laughing. He didn't finish laughing for maybe ten minutes. He heard the retrieverclaws come inside, and the star-port grind shut. Out of the red darkness, Rice's voice came and then he could see Rice'syoung face over him. Burnett groaned. Rice said, Sam, you shouldn't have done it. You shouldn't have, Sam. To hell with it. Burnett winced, and fought to keep his eyes open.Something wet and sticky covered his chest. I said this was my lasttrip and I meant it. One way or the other, I'd have quit! This is the hard way— Maybe. I dunno. Kind of nice to think of all those kids who'll neverhave to come aboard the Constellation , though, Rice. His voicetrailed off. You watch the shelves fill up and you never know who'llbe next. Who'd have thought, four days ago— Something happened to his tongue so it felt like hard ice blocking hismouth. He had a lot more words to say, but only time to get a few ofthem out: Rice? Yeah, Sam? We haven't got a full cargo, boy. Full enough for me, sir. But still not full. If we went back to Center Base without fillingthe shelves, it wouldn't be right. Look there—number ninety-eight isLethla—number ninety-nine is Kriere. Three thousand days of rollingthis rocket, and not once come back without a bunch of the kids whowant to sleep easy on the good green earth. Not right to be going backany way—but—the way—we used to— His voice got all full of fog. As thick as the fists of a dozenwarriors. Rice was going away from him. Rice was standing still, andBurnett was lying down, not moving, but somehow Rice was going away amillion miles. Ain't I one hell of a patriot, Rice? Then everything got dark except Rice's face. And that was starting todissolve. Ninety-eight: Lethla. Ninety-nine: Kriere. He could still see Rice standing over him for a long time, breathingout and in. Down under the tables the blood-pumps pulsed and pulsed,thick and slow. Rice looked down at Burnett and then at the empty shelfat the far end of the room, and then back at Burnett again. And then he said softly: One hundred. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe what Sam Burnett does for his job.

Sam Burnett is a coroner on the morgue ship Constellation. His job is to go to space and pick up 100 dead warriors and then return to Earth for them to be given a proper burial. When the ship has filled its capacity it returns specifically to New York. Sam has been working at this job for the past ten years. He uses a machine with metal claws to pick the dead bodies from space and then bring them in through the star-port grind. After the bodies are brought onto the ship, if they are not enemy warriors, the bodies are prepared for return to Earth. The bodies are prepared by Sam in a drainage-preservative lab.

How does Sam Burnett feel about his job? [SEP] <s> Morgue Ship By RAY BRADBURY This was Burnett's last trip. Three more shelves to fill with space-slain warriors—and he would be among the living again. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He heard the star-port grind open, and the movement of the metal clawsgroping into space, and then the star-port closed. There was another dead man aboard the Constellation . Sam Burnett shook his long head, trying to think clearly. Pallid andquiet, three bodies lay on the cold transparent tables around him;machines stirred, revolved, hummed. He didn't see them. He didn't seeanything but a red haze over his mind. It blotted out the far wall ofthe laboratory where the shelves went up and down, numbered in scarlet,keeping the bodies of soldiers from all further harm. Burnett didn't move. He stood there in his rumpled white surgicalgown, staring at his fingers gloved in bone-white rubber; feeling alltight and wild inside himself. It went on for days. Moving the ship.Opening the star-port. Extending the retriever claw. Plucking some poorwarrior's body out of the void. He didn't like it any more. Ten years is too long to go back andforth from Earth to nowhere. You came out empty and you went backfull-cargoed with a lot of warriors who didn't laugh or talk or smoke,who just lay on their shelves, all one hundred of them, waiting for adecent burial. Number ninety-eight. Coming matter of fact and slow, Rice's voicefrom the ceiling radio hit Burnett. Number ninety-eight, Burnett repeated. Working on ninety-five,ninety-six and ninety-seven now. Blood-pumps, preservative, slightsurgery. Off a million miles away his voice was talking. It soundeddeep. It didn't belong to him anymore. Rice said: Boyohbody! Two more pick-ups and back to New York. Me for a ten-daydrunk! Burnett peeled the gloves off his huge, red, soft hands, slapped theminto a floor incinerator mouth. Back to Earth. Then spin around andshoot right out again in the trail of the war-rockets that blasted oneanother in galactic fury, to sidle up behind gutted wrecks of ships,salvaging any bodies still intact after the conflict. Two men. Rice and himself. Sharing a cozy morgue ship with a hundredother men who had forgotten, quite suddenly, however, to talk again. Ten years of it. Every hour of those ten years eating like maggotsinside, working out to the surface of Burnett's face, working under thehusk of his starved eyes and starved limbs. Starved for life. Starvedfor action. This would be his last trip, or he'd know the reason why! Sam! Burnett jerked. Rice's voice clipped through the drainage-preservativelab, bounded against glassite retorts, echoed from the refrigeratorshelves. Burnett stared at the tabled bodies as if they would leap tolife, even while preservative was being pumped into their veins. Sam! On the double! Up the rungs! Burnett closed his eyes and said a couple of words, firmly. Nothing wasworth running for any more. Another body. There had been one hundredthousand bodies preceding it. Nothing unusual about a body with bloodcooling in it. <doc-sep>Shaking his head, he walked unsteadily toward the rungs that gleamedup into the air-lock, control-room sector of the rocket. He climbedwithout making any noise on the rungs. He kept thinking the one thing he couldn't forget. You never catch up with the war. All the color is ahead of you. The drive of orange rocket traces acrossstars, the whamming of steel-nosed bombs into elusive targets, thetitanic explosions and breathless pursuits, the flags and the excitedglory are always a million miles ahead. He bit his teeth together. You never catch up with the war. You come along when space has settled back, when the vacuum has stoppedtrembling from unleashed forces between worlds. You come along in thedark quiet of death to find the wreckage plunging with all the fury ofits original acceleration in no particular direction. You can only seeit; you don't hear anything in space but your own heart kicking yourribs. You see bodies, each in its own terrific orbit, given impetus bygrinding collisions, tossed from mother ships and dancing head overfeet forever and forever with no goal. Bits of flesh in ruptured spacesuits, mouths open for air that had never been there in a hundredbillion centuries. And they kept dancing without music until youextended the retriever-claw and culled them into the air-lock. That was all the war-glory he got. Nothing but the stunned, shiveringsilence, the memory of rockets long gone, and the shelves filling upall too quickly with men who had once loved laughing. You wondered who all the men were; and who the next ones would be.After ten years you made yourself blind to them. You went around doingyour job with mechanical hands. But even a machine breaks down.... <doc-sep>Sam! Rice turned swiftly as Burnett dragged himself up the ladder.Red and warm, Rice's face hovered over the body of a sprawled enemyofficial. Take a look at this! Burnett caught his breath. His eyes narrowed. There was something wrongwith the body; his experienced glance knew that. He didn't know what itwas. Maybe it was because the body looked a little too dead. Burnett didn't say anything, but he climbed the rest of the way,stood quietly in the grey-metal air-lock. The enemy official was asdelicately made as a fine white spider. Eyelids, closed, were faintlyblue. The hair was thin silken strands of pale gold, waved and pressedclose to a veined skull. Where the thin-lipped mouth fell open acluster of needle-tipped teeth glittered. The fragile body was enclosedcompletely in milk-pale syntha-silk, a holstered gun at the middle. Burnett rubbed his jaw. Well? Rice exploded. His eyes were hot in his young, sharp-cut face, hot andblack. Good Lord, Sam, do you know who this is? Burnett scowled uneasily and said no. It's Lethla! Rice retorted. Burnett said, Lethla? And then: Oh, yes! Kriere's majordomo. Thatright? Don't say it calm, Sam. Say it big. Say it big! If Lethla is here inspace, then Kriere's not far away from him! Burnett shrugged. More bodies, more people, more war. What the hell.What the hell. He was tired. Talk about bodies and rulers to someoneelse. Rice grabbed him by the shoulders. Snap out of it, Sam. Think!Kriere—The All-Mighty—in our territory. His right hand man dead. Thatmeans Kriere was in an accident, too! Sam opened his thin lips and the words fell out all by themselves.Look, Rice, you're new at this game. I've been at it ever since theVenus-Earth mess started. It's been see-sawing back and forth since theday you played hookey in the tenth grade, and I've been in the thickof it. When there's nothing left but seared memories, I'll be prowlingthrough the void picking up warriors and taking them back to the goodgreen Earth. Grisly, yes, but it's routine. As for Kriere—if he's anywhere around, he's smart. Every precautionis taken to protect that one. But Lethla! His body must mean something! And if it does? Have we got guns aboard this morgue-ship? Are we abattle-cuiser to go against him? We'll radio for help? Yeah? If there's a warship within our radio range, seven hundredthousand miles, we'll get it. Unfortunately, the tide of battle hasswept out past Earth in a new war concerning Io. That's out, Rice. Rice stood about three inches below Sam Burnett's six-foot-one. Jawhard and determined, he stared at Sam, a funny light in his eyes. Hisfingers twitched all by themselves at his sides. His mouth twisted,You're one hell of a patriot, Sam Burnett! Burnett reached out with one long finger, tapped it quietly on Rice'sbarrel-chest. Haul a cargo of corpses for three thousand nights anddays and see how patriotic you feel. All those fine muscled ladsbloated and crushed by space pressures and heat-blasts. Fine lads whostart out smiling and get the smile burned off down to the bone— Burnett swallowed and didn't say anything more, but he closed his eyes.He stood there, smelling the death-odor in the hot air of the ship,hearing the chug-chug-chug of the blood pumps down below, and his ownheart waiting warm and heavy at the base of his throat. This is my last cargo, Rice. I can't take it any longer. And I don'tcare much how I go back to earth. This Venusian here—what's his name?Lethla. He's number ninety-eight. Shove me into shelf ninety-ninebeside him and get the hell home. That's how I feel! Rice was going to say something, but he didn't have time. Lethla was alive. He rose from the floor with slow, easy movements, almost like a dream.He didn't say anything. The heat-blast in his white fingers did all thenecessary talking. It didn't say anything either, but Burnett knew whatlanguage it would use if it had to. Burnett swallowed hard. The body had looked funny. Too dead. Now heknew why. Involuntarily, Burnett moved forward. Lethla moved like apale spider, flicking his fragile arm to cover Burnett, the gun in itlike a dead cold star. Rice sucked in his breath. Burnett forced himself to take it easy. Fromthe corners of his eyes he saw Rice's expression go deep and tight,biting lines into his sharp face. Rice got it out, finally. How'd you do it? he demanded, bitterly.How'd you live in the void? It's impossible! A crazy thought came ramming down and exploded in Burnett's head. Younever catch up with the war! But what if the war catches up with you? What in hell would Lethla be wanting aboard a morgue ship? <doc-sep>Lethla half-crouched in the midst of the smell of death and thechugging of blood-pumps below. In the silence he reached up with quickfingers, tapped a tiny crystal stud upon the back of his head, and thehalves of a microscopically thin chrysalis parted transparently offof his face. He shucked it off, trailing air-tendrils that had beeninserted, hidden in the uniform, ending in thin globules of oxygen. He spoke. Triumph warmed his crystal-thin voice. That's how I did it,Earthman. Glassite! said Rice. A face-moulded mask of glassite! Lethla nodded. His milk-blue eyes dilated. Very marvelously pared toan unbreakable thickness of one-thirtieth of an inch; worn only on thehead. You have to look quickly to notice it, and, unfortunately, viewedas you saw it, outside the ship, floating in the void, not discernibleat all. Prickles of sweat appeared on Rice's face. He swore at the Venusian andthe Venusian laughed like some sort of stringed instrument, high andquick. Burnett laughed, too. Ironically. First time in years a man ever cameaboard the Constellation alive. It's a welcome change. Lethla showed his needle-like teeth. I thought it might be. Where'syour radio? Go find it! snapped Rice, hotly. I will. One hand, blue-veined, on the ladder-rungs, Lethla paused.I know you're weaponless; Purple Cross regulations. And this air-lockis safe. Don't move. Whispering, his naked feet padded white up theladder. Two long breaths later something crashed; metal and glass andcoils. The radio. Burnett put his shoulder blades against the wall-metal, looking at hisfeet. When he glanced up, Rice's fresh, animated face was spoiled bythe new bitterness in it. Lethla came down. Like a breath of air on the rungs. He smiled. That's better. Now. We can talk— Rice said it, slow: Interplanetary law declares it straight, Lethla! Get out! Only deadmen belong here. Lethla's gun grip tightened. More talk of that nature, and only deadmen there will be. He blinked. But first—we must rescue Kriere.... Kriere! Rice acted as if he had been hit in the jaw. Burnett moved his tongue back and forth on his lips silently, his eyeslidded, listening to the two of them as if they were a radio drama.Lethla's voice came next: Rather unfortunately, yes. He's still alive, heading toward Venusat an orbital velocity of two thousand m.p.h., wearing one of theseair-chrysali. Enough air for two more hours. Our flag ship was attackedunexpectedly yesterday near Mars. We were forced to take to thelife-boats, scattering, Kriere and I in one, the others sacrificingtheir lives to cover our escape. We were lucky. We got through theEarth cordon unseen. But luck can't last forever. We saw your morgue ship an hour ago. It's a long, long way to Venus.We were running out of fuel, food, water. Radio was broken. Capturewas certain. You were coming our way; we took the chance. We set asmall time-bomb to destroy the life-rocket, and cast off, wearing ourchrysali-helmets. It was the first time we had ever tried using them totrick anyone. We knew you wouldn't know we were alive until it was toolate and we controlled your ship. We knew you picked up all bodies forbrief exams, returning alien corpses to space later. Rice's voice was sullen. A set-up for you, huh? Traveling under theprotection of the Purple Cross you can get your damned All-Mighty safeto Venus. Lethla bowed slightly. Who would suspect a Morgue Rocket of providingsafe hiding for precious Venusian cargo? Precious is the word for you, brother! said Rice. Enough! Lethla moved his gun several inches. Accelerate toward Venus, mote-detectors wide open. Kriere must bepicked up— now! <doc-sep>Rice didn't move. Burnett moved first, feeling alive for the first timein years. Sure, said Sam, smiling. We'll pick him up. No tricks, said Lethla. Burnett scowled and smiled together. No tricks. You'll have Kriere onboard the Constellation in half an hour or I'm no coroner. Follow me up the ladder. Lethla danced up, turned, waved his gun. Come on. Burnett went up, quick. Almost as if he enjoyed doing Lethla a favor.Rice grumbled and cursed after him. On the way up, Burnett thought about it. About Lethla poised likea white feather at the top, holding death in his hand. You neverknew whose body would come in through the star-port next. Numberninety-eight was Lethla. Number ninety-nine would be Kriere. There were two shelves numbered and empty. They should be filled. Andwhat more proper than that Kriere and Lethla should fill them? But, hechewed his lip, that would need a bit of doing. And even then the cargowouldn't be full. Still one more body to get; one hundred. And younever knew who it would be. He came out of the quick thoughts when he looped his long leg overthe hole-rim, stepped up, faced Lethla in a cramped control room thatwas one glittering swirl of silver levers, audio-plates and visuals.Chronometers, clicking, told of the steady dropping toward the sun at aslow pace. Burnett set his teeth together, bone against bone. Help Kriere escape?See him safely to Venus, and then be freed? Sounded easy, wouldn't behard. Venusians weren't blind with malice. Rice and he could come outalive; if they cooperated. But there were a lot of warriors sleeping on a lot of numbered shelvesin the dim corridors of the long years. And their dead lips werestirring to life in Burnett's ears. Not so easily could they be ignored. You may never catch up with the war again. The last trip! Yes, this could be it. Capture Kriere and end the war. But whatridiculous fantasy was it made him believe he could actually do it? Two muscles moved on Burnett, one in each long cheek. The sag in hisbody vanished as he tautened his spine, flexed his lean-sinewed arms,wet thin lips. Now, where do you want this crate? he asked Lethla easily. Lethla exhaled softly. Cooperation. I like it. You're wise, Earthman. Very, said Burnett. He was thinking about three thousand eternal nights of young bodiesbeing ripped, slaughtered, flung to the vacuum tides. Ten years ofhating a job and hoping that some day there would be a last trip and itwould all be over. Burnett laughed through his nose. Controls moved under his fingers likefluid; loved, caressed, tended by his familiar touching. Looking ahead,he squinted. There's your Ruler now, Lethla. Doing somersaults. Looks dead. A goodtrick. Cut power! We don't want to burn him! <doc-sep>Burnett cut. Kriere's milky face floated dreamily into a visual-screen,eyes sealed, lips gaping, hands sagging, clutching emptily at the stars. We're about fifty miles from him, catching up. Burnett turned toLethla with an intent scowl. Funny. This was the first and the lasttime anybody would ever board the Constellation alive. His stomachwent flat, tautened with sudden weakening fear. If Kriere could be captured, that meant the end of the war, the endof shelves stacked with sleeping warriors, the end of this blindsearching. Kriere, then, had to be taken aboard. After that— Kriere, the All-Mighty. At whose behest all space had quivered likea smitten gong for part of a century. Kriere, revolving in his neat,water-blue uniform, emblems shining gold, heat-gun tucked in glossyjet holster. With Kriere aboard, chances of overcoming him would beeliminated. Now: Rice and Burnett against Lethla. Lethla favoredbecause of his gun. Kriere would make odds impossible. Something had to be done before Kriere came in. Lethla had to be yanked off guard. Shocked, bewildered,fooled—somehow. But—how? Burnett's jaw froze tight. He could feel a spot on his shoulder-bladewhere Lethla would send a bullet crashing into rib, sinew,artery—heart. There was a way. And there was a weapon. And the war would be over andthis would be the last trip. Sweat covered his palms in a nervous smear. Steady, Rice, he said, matter of factly. With the rockets cut, therewas too much silence, and his voice sounded guilty standing up alone inthe center of that silence. Take controls, Rice. I'll manipulate thestar-port. Burnett slipped from the control console. Rice replaced him grimly.Burnett strode to the next console of levers. That spot on his backkept aching like it was sear-branded X. For the place where the bulletsings and rips. And if you turn quick, catching it in the arm first,why— Kriere loomed bigger, a white spider delicately dancing on a web ofstars. His eyes flicked open behind the glassite sheath, and saw the Constellation . Kriere smiled. His hands came up. He knew he was aboutto be rescued. Burnett smiled right back at him. What Kriere didn't know was that hewas about to end a ten-years' war. There was only one way of drawing Lethla off guard, and it had to befast. Burnett jabbed a purple-topped stud. The star-port clashed open asit had done a thousand times before; but for the first time it was agood sound. And out of the star-port, at Sam Burnett's easily fingereddirections, slid the long claw-like mechanism that picked up bodiesfrom space. Lethla watched, intent and cold and quiet. The gun was cold and quiet,too. The claw glided toward Kriere without a sound, now, dream-like in itsslowness. It reached Kriere. Burnett inhaled a deep breath. The metal claw cuddled Kriere in its shiny palm. Lethla watched. He watched while Burnett exhaled, touched another lever and said: Youknow, Lethla, there's an old saying that only dead men come aboard the Constellation . I believe it. <doc-sep>And the claw closed as Burnett spoke, closed slowly and certainly, allaround Kriere, crushing him into a ridiculous posture of silence. Therewas blood running on the claw, and the only recognizable part was thehead, which was carefully preserved for identification. That was the only way to draw Lethla off guard. Burnett spun about and leaped. The horror on Lethla's face didn't go away as he fired his gun. Rice came in fighting, too, but not before something like a red-hotramrod stabbed Sam Burnett, catching him in the ribs, spinning him backlike a drunken idiot to fall in a corner. Fists made blunt flesh noises. Lethla went down, weaponless andscreaming. Rice kicked. After awhile Lethla quit screaming, and theroom swam around in Burnett's eyes, and he closed them tight andstarted laughing. He didn't finish laughing for maybe ten minutes. He heard the retrieverclaws come inside, and the star-port grind shut. Out of the red darkness, Rice's voice came and then he could see Rice'syoung face over him. Burnett groaned. Rice said, Sam, you shouldn't have done it. You shouldn't have, Sam. To hell with it. Burnett winced, and fought to keep his eyes open.Something wet and sticky covered his chest. I said this was my lasttrip and I meant it. One way or the other, I'd have quit! This is the hard way— Maybe. I dunno. Kind of nice to think of all those kids who'll neverhave to come aboard the Constellation , though, Rice. His voicetrailed off. You watch the shelves fill up and you never know who'llbe next. Who'd have thought, four days ago— Something happened to his tongue so it felt like hard ice blocking hismouth. He had a lot more words to say, but only time to get a few ofthem out: Rice? Yeah, Sam? We haven't got a full cargo, boy. Full enough for me, sir. But still not full. If we went back to Center Base without fillingthe shelves, it wouldn't be right. Look there—number ninety-eight isLethla—number ninety-nine is Kriere. Three thousand days of rollingthis rocket, and not once come back without a bunch of the kids whowant to sleep easy on the good green earth. Not right to be going backany way—but—the way—we used to— His voice got all full of fog. As thick as the fists of a dozenwarriors. Rice was going away from him. Rice was standing still, andBurnett was lying down, not moving, but somehow Rice was going away amillion miles. Ain't I one hell of a patriot, Rice? Then everything got dark except Rice's face. And that was starting todissolve. Ninety-eight: Lethla. Ninety-nine: Kriere. He could still see Rice standing over him for a long time, breathingout and in. Down under the tables the blood-pumps pulsed and pulsed,thick and slow. Rice looked down at Burnett and then at the empty shelfat the far end of the room, and then back at Burnett again. And then he said softly: One hundred. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does Sam Burnett feel about his job?

Sam Burnett is very jaded by his job. He has spent years returning dead bodies to Earth, lost in a seemingly endless war. He suggests that he began the job with less of a sullen view, but that opinion is forever lost. He no longer has the emotional capacity to acknowledge the individual lives of each lost warrior. Sam feels as if his job is rotting him from the inside and starving him from real life and action. He has no energy or excitement in his actions anymore because of his job causing him to complete it in an almost mechanical way. He becomes numb to the bodies; seeing them and preparing them to be stored is just a regular part of his routine. All Sam wants to do is return back to Earth, dead or alive.

What is the setting of the story? [SEP] <s> Morgue Ship By RAY BRADBURY This was Burnett's last trip. Three more shelves to fill with space-slain warriors—and he would be among the living again. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He heard the star-port grind open, and the movement of the metal clawsgroping into space, and then the star-port closed. There was another dead man aboard the Constellation . Sam Burnett shook his long head, trying to think clearly. Pallid andquiet, three bodies lay on the cold transparent tables around him;machines stirred, revolved, hummed. He didn't see them. He didn't seeanything but a red haze over his mind. It blotted out the far wall ofthe laboratory where the shelves went up and down, numbered in scarlet,keeping the bodies of soldiers from all further harm. Burnett didn't move. He stood there in his rumpled white surgicalgown, staring at his fingers gloved in bone-white rubber; feeling alltight and wild inside himself. It went on for days. Moving the ship.Opening the star-port. Extending the retriever claw. Plucking some poorwarrior's body out of the void. He didn't like it any more. Ten years is too long to go back andforth from Earth to nowhere. You came out empty and you went backfull-cargoed with a lot of warriors who didn't laugh or talk or smoke,who just lay on their shelves, all one hundred of them, waiting for adecent burial. Number ninety-eight. Coming matter of fact and slow, Rice's voicefrom the ceiling radio hit Burnett. Number ninety-eight, Burnett repeated. Working on ninety-five,ninety-six and ninety-seven now. Blood-pumps, preservative, slightsurgery. Off a million miles away his voice was talking. It soundeddeep. It didn't belong to him anymore. Rice said: Boyohbody! Two more pick-ups and back to New York. Me for a ten-daydrunk! Burnett peeled the gloves off his huge, red, soft hands, slapped theminto a floor incinerator mouth. Back to Earth. Then spin around andshoot right out again in the trail of the war-rockets that blasted oneanother in galactic fury, to sidle up behind gutted wrecks of ships,salvaging any bodies still intact after the conflict. Two men. Rice and himself. Sharing a cozy morgue ship with a hundredother men who had forgotten, quite suddenly, however, to talk again. Ten years of it. Every hour of those ten years eating like maggotsinside, working out to the surface of Burnett's face, working under thehusk of his starved eyes and starved limbs. Starved for life. Starvedfor action. This would be his last trip, or he'd know the reason why! Sam! Burnett jerked. Rice's voice clipped through the drainage-preservativelab, bounded against glassite retorts, echoed from the refrigeratorshelves. Burnett stared at the tabled bodies as if they would leap tolife, even while preservative was being pumped into their veins. Sam! On the double! Up the rungs! Burnett closed his eyes and said a couple of words, firmly. Nothing wasworth running for any more. Another body. There had been one hundredthousand bodies preceding it. Nothing unusual about a body with bloodcooling in it. <doc-sep>Shaking his head, he walked unsteadily toward the rungs that gleamedup into the air-lock, control-room sector of the rocket. He climbedwithout making any noise on the rungs. He kept thinking the one thing he couldn't forget. You never catch up with the war. All the color is ahead of you. The drive of orange rocket traces acrossstars, the whamming of steel-nosed bombs into elusive targets, thetitanic explosions and breathless pursuits, the flags and the excitedglory are always a million miles ahead. He bit his teeth together. You never catch up with the war. You come along when space has settled back, when the vacuum has stoppedtrembling from unleashed forces between worlds. You come along in thedark quiet of death to find the wreckage plunging with all the fury ofits original acceleration in no particular direction. You can only seeit; you don't hear anything in space but your own heart kicking yourribs. You see bodies, each in its own terrific orbit, given impetus bygrinding collisions, tossed from mother ships and dancing head overfeet forever and forever with no goal. Bits of flesh in ruptured spacesuits, mouths open for air that had never been there in a hundredbillion centuries. And they kept dancing without music until youextended the retriever-claw and culled them into the air-lock. That was all the war-glory he got. Nothing but the stunned, shiveringsilence, the memory of rockets long gone, and the shelves filling upall too quickly with men who had once loved laughing. You wondered who all the men were; and who the next ones would be.After ten years you made yourself blind to them. You went around doingyour job with mechanical hands. But even a machine breaks down.... <doc-sep>Sam! Rice turned swiftly as Burnett dragged himself up the ladder.Red and warm, Rice's face hovered over the body of a sprawled enemyofficial. Take a look at this! Burnett caught his breath. His eyes narrowed. There was something wrongwith the body; his experienced glance knew that. He didn't know what itwas. Maybe it was because the body looked a little too dead. Burnett didn't say anything, but he climbed the rest of the way,stood quietly in the grey-metal air-lock. The enemy official was asdelicately made as a fine white spider. Eyelids, closed, were faintlyblue. The hair was thin silken strands of pale gold, waved and pressedclose to a veined skull. Where the thin-lipped mouth fell open acluster of needle-tipped teeth glittered. The fragile body was enclosedcompletely in milk-pale syntha-silk, a holstered gun at the middle. Burnett rubbed his jaw. Well? Rice exploded. His eyes were hot in his young, sharp-cut face, hot andblack. Good Lord, Sam, do you know who this is? Burnett scowled uneasily and said no. It's Lethla! Rice retorted. Burnett said, Lethla? And then: Oh, yes! Kriere's majordomo. Thatright? Don't say it calm, Sam. Say it big. Say it big! If Lethla is here inspace, then Kriere's not far away from him! Burnett shrugged. More bodies, more people, more war. What the hell.What the hell. He was tired. Talk about bodies and rulers to someoneelse. Rice grabbed him by the shoulders. Snap out of it, Sam. Think!Kriere—The All-Mighty—in our territory. His right hand man dead. Thatmeans Kriere was in an accident, too! Sam opened his thin lips and the words fell out all by themselves.Look, Rice, you're new at this game. I've been at it ever since theVenus-Earth mess started. It's been see-sawing back and forth since theday you played hookey in the tenth grade, and I've been in the thickof it. When there's nothing left but seared memories, I'll be prowlingthrough the void picking up warriors and taking them back to the goodgreen Earth. Grisly, yes, but it's routine. As for Kriere—if he's anywhere around, he's smart. Every precautionis taken to protect that one. But Lethla! His body must mean something! And if it does? Have we got guns aboard this morgue-ship? Are we abattle-cuiser to go against him? We'll radio for help? Yeah? If there's a warship within our radio range, seven hundredthousand miles, we'll get it. Unfortunately, the tide of battle hasswept out past Earth in a new war concerning Io. That's out, Rice. Rice stood about three inches below Sam Burnett's six-foot-one. Jawhard and determined, he stared at Sam, a funny light in his eyes. Hisfingers twitched all by themselves at his sides. His mouth twisted,You're one hell of a patriot, Sam Burnett! Burnett reached out with one long finger, tapped it quietly on Rice'sbarrel-chest. Haul a cargo of corpses for three thousand nights anddays and see how patriotic you feel. All those fine muscled ladsbloated and crushed by space pressures and heat-blasts. Fine lads whostart out smiling and get the smile burned off down to the bone— Burnett swallowed and didn't say anything more, but he closed his eyes.He stood there, smelling the death-odor in the hot air of the ship,hearing the chug-chug-chug of the blood pumps down below, and his ownheart waiting warm and heavy at the base of his throat. This is my last cargo, Rice. I can't take it any longer. And I don'tcare much how I go back to earth. This Venusian here—what's his name?Lethla. He's number ninety-eight. Shove me into shelf ninety-ninebeside him and get the hell home. That's how I feel! Rice was going to say something, but he didn't have time. Lethla was alive. He rose from the floor with slow, easy movements, almost like a dream.He didn't say anything. The heat-blast in his white fingers did all thenecessary talking. It didn't say anything either, but Burnett knew whatlanguage it would use if it had to. Burnett swallowed hard. The body had looked funny. Too dead. Now heknew why. Involuntarily, Burnett moved forward. Lethla moved like apale spider, flicking his fragile arm to cover Burnett, the gun in itlike a dead cold star. Rice sucked in his breath. Burnett forced himself to take it easy. Fromthe corners of his eyes he saw Rice's expression go deep and tight,biting lines into his sharp face. Rice got it out, finally. How'd you do it? he demanded, bitterly.How'd you live in the void? It's impossible! A crazy thought came ramming down and exploded in Burnett's head. Younever catch up with the war! But what if the war catches up with you? What in hell would Lethla be wanting aboard a morgue ship? <doc-sep>Lethla half-crouched in the midst of the smell of death and thechugging of blood-pumps below. In the silence he reached up with quickfingers, tapped a tiny crystal stud upon the back of his head, and thehalves of a microscopically thin chrysalis parted transparently offof his face. He shucked it off, trailing air-tendrils that had beeninserted, hidden in the uniform, ending in thin globules of oxygen. He spoke. Triumph warmed his crystal-thin voice. That's how I did it,Earthman. Glassite! said Rice. A face-moulded mask of glassite! Lethla nodded. His milk-blue eyes dilated. Very marvelously pared toan unbreakable thickness of one-thirtieth of an inch; worn only on thehead. You have to look quickly to notice it, and, unfortunately, viewedas you saw it, outside the ship, floating in the void, not discernibleat all. Prickles of sweat appeared on Rice's face. He swore at the Venusian andthe Venusian laughed like some sort of stringed instrument, high andquick. Burnett laughed, too. Ironically. First time in years a man ever cameaboard the Constellation alive. It's a welcome change. Lethla showed his needle-like teeth. I thought it might be. Where'syour radio? Go find it! snapped Rice, hotly. I will. One hand, blue-veined, on the ladder-rungs, Lethla paused.I know you're weaponless; Purple Cross regulations. And this air-lockis safe. Don't move. Whispering, his naked feet padded white up theladder. Two long breaths later something crashed; metal and glass andcoils. The radio. Burnett put his shoulder blades against the wall-metal, looking at hisfeet. When he glanced up, Rice's fresh, animated face was spoiled bythe new bitterness in it. Lethla came down. Like a breath of air on the rungs. He smiled. That's better. Now. We can talk— Rice said it, slow: Interplanetary law declares it straight, Lethla! Get out! Only deadmen belong here. Lethla's gun grip tightened. More talk of that nature, and only deadmen there will be. He blinked. But first—we must rescue Kriere.... Kriere! Rice acted as if he had been hit in the jaw. Burnett moved his tongue back and forth on his lips silently, his eyeslidded, listening to the two of them as if they were a radio drama.Lethla's voice came next: Rather unfortunately, yes. He's still alive, heading toward Venusat an orbital velocity of two thousand m.p.h., wearing one of theseair-chrysali. Enough air for two more hours. Our flag ship was attackedunexpectedly yesterday near Mars. We were forced to take to thelife-boats, scattering, Kriere and I in one, the others sacrificingtheir lives to cover our escape. We were lucky. We got through theEarth cordon unseen. But luck can't last forever. We saw your morgue ship an hour ago. It's a long, long way to Venus.We were running out of fuel, food, water. Radio was broken. Capturewas certain. You were coming our way; we took the chance. We set asmall time-bomb to destroy the life-rocket, and cast off, wearing ourchrysali-helmets. It was the first time we had ever tried using them totrick anyone. We knew you wouldn't know we were alive until it was toolate and we controlled your ship. We knew you picked up all bodies forbrief exams, returning alien corpses to space later. Rice's voice was sullen. A set-up for you, huh? Traveling under theprotection of the Purple Cross you can get your damned All-Mighty safeto Venus. Lethla bowed slightly. Who would suspect a Morgue Rocket of providingsafe hiding for precious Venusian cargo? Precious is the word for you, brother! said Rice. Enough! Lethla moved his gun several inches. Accelerate toward Venus, mote-detectors wide open. Kriere must bepicked up— now! <doc-sep>Rice didn't move. Burnett moved first, feeling alive for the first timein years. Sure, said Sam, smiling. We'll pick him up. No tricks, said Lethla. Burnett scowled and smiled together. No tricks. You'll have Kriere onboard the Constellation in half an hour or I'm no coroner. Follow me up the ladder. Lethla danced up, turned, waved his gun. Come on. Burnett went up, quick. Almost as if he enjoyed doing Lethla a favor.Rice grumbled and cursed after him. On the way up, Burnett thought about it. About Lethla poised likea white feather at the top, holding death in his hand. You neverknew whose body would come in through the star-port next. Numberninety-eight was Lethla. Number ninety-nine would be Kriere. There were two shelves numbered and empty. They should be filled. Andwhat more proper than that Kriere and Lethla should fill them? But, hechewed his lip, that would need a bit of doing. And even then the cargowouldn't be full. Still one more body to get; one hundred. And younever knew who it would be. He came out of the quick thoughts when he looped his long leg overthe hole-rim, stepped up, faced Lethla in a cramped control room thatwas one glittering swirl of silver levers, audio-plates and visuals.Chronometers, clicking, told of the steady dropping toward the sun at aslow pace. Burnett set his teeth together, bone against bone. Help Kriere escape?See him safely to Venus, and then be freed? Sounded easy, wouldn't behard. Venusians weren't blind with malice. Rice and he could come outalive; if they cooperated. But there were a lot of warriors sleeping on a lot of numbered shelvesin the dim corridors of the long years. And their dead lips werestirring to life in Burnett's ears. Not so easily could they be ignored. You may never catch up with the war again. The last trip! Yes, this could be it. Capture Kriere and end the war. But whatridiculous fantasy was it made him believe he could actually do it? Two muscles moved on Burnett, one in each long cheek. The sag in hisbody vanished as he tautened his spine, flexed his lean-sinewed arms,wet thin lips. Now, where do you want this crate? he asked Lethla easily. Lethla exhaled softly. Cooperation. I like it. You're wise, Earthman. Very, said Burnett. He was thinking about three thousand eternal nights of young bodiesbeing ripped, slaughtered, flung to the vacuum tides. Ten years ofhating a job and hoping that some day there would be a last trip and itwould all be over. Burnett laughed through his nose. Controls moved under his fingers likefluid; loved, caressed, tended by his familiar touching. Looking ahead,he squinted. There's your Ruler now, Lethla. Doing somersaults. Looks dead. A goodtrick. Cut power! We don't want to burn him! <doc-sep>Burnett cut. Kriere's milky face floated dreamily into a visual-screen,eyes sealed, lips gaping, hands sagging, clutching emptily at the stars. We're about fifty miles from him, catching up. Burnett turned toLethla with an intent scowl. Funny. This was the first and the lasttime anybody would ever board the Constellation alive. His stomachwent flat, tautened with sudden weakening fear. If Kriere could be captured, that meant the end of the war, the endof shelves stacked with sleeping warriors, the end of this blindsearching. Kriere, then, had to be taken aboard. After that— Kriere, the All-Mighty. At whose behest all space had quivered likea smitten gong for part of a century. Kriere, revolving in his neat,water-blue uniform, emblems shining gold, heat-gun tucked in glossyjet holster. With Kriere aboard, chances of overcoming him would beeliminated. Now: Rice and Burnett against Lethla. Lethla favoredbecause of his gun. Kriere would make odds impossible. Something had to be done before Kriere came in. Lethla had to be yanked off guard. Shocked, bewildered,fooled—somehow. But—how? Burnett's jaw froze tight. He could feel a spot on his shoulder-bladewhere Lethla would send a bullet crashing into rib, sinew,artery—heart. There was a way. And there was a weapon. And the war would be over andthis would be the last trip. Sweat covered his palms in a nervous smear. Steady, Rice, he said, matter of factly. With the rockets cut, therewas too much silence, and his voice sounded guilty standing up alone inthe center of that silence. Take controls, Rice. I'll manipulate thestar-port. Burnett slipped from the control console. Rice replaced him grimly.Burnett strode to the next console of levers. That spot on his backkept aching like it was sear-branded X. For the place where the bulletsings and rips. And if you turn quick, catching it in the arm first,why— Kriere loomed bigger, a white spider delicately dancing on a web ofstars. His eyes flicked open behind the glassite sheath, and saw the Constellation . Kriere smiled. His hands came up. He knew he was aboutto be rescued. Burnett smiled right back at him. What Kriere didn't know was that hewas about to end a ten-years' war. There was only one way of drawing Lethla off guard, and it had to befast. Burnett jabbed a purple-topped stud. The star-port clashed open asit had done a thousand times before; but for the first time it was agood sound. And out of the star-port, at Sam Burnett's easily fingereddirections, slid the long claw-like mechanism that picked up bodiesfrom space. Lethla watched, intent and cold and quiet. The gun was cold and quiet,too. The claw glided toward Kriere without a sound, now, dream-like in itsslowness. It reached Kriere. Burnett inhaled a deep breath. The metal claw cuddled Kriere in its shiny palm. Lethla watched. He watched while Burnett exhaled, touched another lever and said: Youknow, Lethla, there's an old saying that only dead men come aboard the Constellation . I believe it. <doc-sep>And the claw closed as Burnett spoke, closed slowly and certainly, allaround Kriere, crushing him into a ridiculous posture of silence. Therewas blood running on the claw, and the only recognizable part was thehead, which was carefully preserved for identification. That was the only way to draw Lethla off guard. Burnett spun about and leaped. The horror on Lethla's face didn't go away as he fired his gun. Rice came in fighting, too, but not before something like a red-hotramrod stabbed Sam Burnett, catching him in the ribs, spinning him backlike a drunken idiot to fall in a corner. Fists made blunt flesh noises. Lethla went down, weaponless andscreaming. Rice kicked. After awhile Lethla quit screaming, and theroom swam around in Burnett's eyes, and he closed them tight andstarted laughing. He didn't finish laughing for maybe ten minutes. He heard the retrieverclaws come inside, and the star-port grind shut. Out of the red darkness, Rice's voice came and then he could see Rice'syoung face over him. Burnett groaned. Rice said, Sam, you shouldn't have done it. You shouldn't have, Sam. To hell with it. Burnett winced, and fought to keep his eyes open.Something wet and sticky covered his chest. I said this was my lasttrip and I meant it. One way or the other, I'd have quit! This is the hard way— Maybe. I dunno. Kind of nice to think of all those kids who'll neverhave to come aboard the Constellation , though, Rice. His voicetrailed off. You watch the shelves fill up and you never know who'llbe next. Who'd have thought, four days ago— Something happened to his tongue so it felt like hard ice blocking hismouth. He had a lot more words to say, but only time to get a few ofthem out: Rice? Yeah, Sam? We haven't got a full cargo, boy. Full enough for me, sir. But still not full. If we went back to Center Base without fillingthe shelves, it wouldn't be right. Look there—number ninety-eight isLethla—number ninety-nine is Kriere. Three thousand days of rollingthis rocket, and not once come back without a bunch of the kids whowant to sleep easy on the good green earth. Not right to be going backany way—but—the way—we used to— His voice got all full of fog. As thick as the fists of a dozenwarriors. Rice was going away from him. Rice was standing still, andBurnett was lying down, not moving, but somehow Rice was going away amillion miles. Ain't I one hell of a patriot, Rice? Then everything got dark except Rice's face. And that was starting todissolve. Ninety-eight: Lethla. Ninety-nine: Kriere. He could still see Rice standing over him for a long time, breathingout and in. Down under the tables the blood-pumps pulsed and pulsed,thick and slow. Rice looked down at Burnett and then at the empty shelfat the far end of the room, and then back at Burnett again. And then he said softly: One hundred. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting of the story?

The story begins on the morgue ship named Constellation. Sam Burnett is mentally exhausted standing in his white gown in the laboratory room of the ship. In the laboratory there are many shelves stacked upon each other, each numbered with a scarlet color. The shelves are meant to hold the 100 dead bodies that the ship is capable of storing. Once the shelves are filled, the ship is able to return back to New York. The lab is meant for performing the work of draining and preserving the dead bodies for them to then be stored. Sam leaves the laboratory at the request of Rice’s calls. After they realize that Lethla is alive, Lethla orders the two to go find Kriere. They head to the control room full of levers and audio and visual plates where Sam begins to maneuver the ship. It is in the control room that Sam dies on the ship.

What is the significance of the phrase “You can never catch up with war” in the story? [SEP] <s> Morgue Ship By RAY BRADBURY This was Burnett's last trip. Three more shelves to fill with space-slain warriors—and he would be among the living again. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He heard the star-port grind open, and the movement of the metal clawsgroping into space, and then the star-port closed. There was another dead man aboard the Constellation . Sam Burnett shook his long head, trying to think clearly. Pallid andquiet, three bodies lay on the cold transparent tables around him;machines stirred, revolved, hummed. He didn't see them. He didn't seeanything but a red haze over his mind. It blotted out the far wall ofthe laboratory where the shelves went up and down, numbered in scarlet,keeping the bodies of soldiers from all further harm. Burnett didn't move. He stood there in his rumpled white surgicalgown, staring at his fingers gloved in bone-white rubber; feeling alltight and wild inside himself. It went on for days. Moving the ship.Opening the star-port. Extending the retriever claw. Plucking some poorwarrior's body out of the void. He didn't like it any more. Ten years is too long to go back andforth from Earth to nowhere. You came out empty and you went backfull-cargoed with a lot of warriors who didn't laugh or talk or smoke,who just lay on their shelves, all one hundred of them, waiting for adecent burial. Number ninety-eight. Coming matter of fact and slow, Rice's voicefrom the ceiling radio hit Burnett. Number ninety-eight, Burnett repeated. Working on ninety-five,ninety-six and ninety-seven now. Blood-pumps, preservative, slightsurgery. Off a million miles away his voice was talking. It soundeddeep. It didn't belong to him anymore. Rice said: Boyohbody! Two more pick-ups and back to New York. Me for a ten-daydrunk! Burnett peeled the gloves off his huge, red, soft hands, slapped theminto a floor incinerator mouth. Back to Earth. Then spin around andshoot right out again in the trail of the war-rockets that blasted oneanother in galactic fury, to sidle up behind gutted wrecks of ships,salvaging any bodies still intact after the conflict. Two men. Rice and himself. Sharing a cozy morgue ship with a hundredother men who had forgotten, quite suddenly, however, to talk again. Ten years of it. Every hour of those ten years eating like maggotsinside, working out to the surface of Burnett's face, working under thehusk of his starved eyes and starved limbs. Starved for life. Starvedfor action. This would be his last trip, or he'd know the reason why! Sam! Burnett jerked. Rice's voice clipped through the drainage-preservativelab, bounded against glassite retorts, echoed from the refrigeratorshelves. Burnett stared at the tabled bodies as if they would leap tolife, even while preservative was being pumped into their veins. Sam! On the double! Up the rungs! Burnett closed his eyes and said a couple of words, firmly. Nothing wasworth running for any more. Another body. There had been one hundredthousand bodies preceding it. Nothing unusual about a body with bloodcooling in it. <doc-sep>Shaking his head, he walked unsteadily toward the rungs that gleamedup into the air-lock, control-room sector of the rocket. He climbedwithout making any noise on the rungs. He kept thinking the one thing he couldn't forget. You never catch up with the war. All the color is ahead of you. The drive of orange rocket traces acrossstars, the whamming of steel-nosed bombs into elusive targets, thetitanic explosions and breathless pursuits, the flags and the excitedglory are always a million miles ahead. He bit his teeth together. You never catch up with the war. You come along when space has settled back, when the vacuum has stoppedtrembling from unleashed forces between worlds. You come along in thedark quiet of death to find the wreckage plunging with all the fury ofits original acceleration in no particular direction. You can only seeit; you don't hear anything in space but your own heart kicking yourribs. You see bodies, each in its own terrific orbit, given impetus bygrinding collisions, tossed from mother ships and dancing head overfeet forever and forever with no goal. Bits of flesh in ruptured spacesuits, mouths open for air that had never been there in a hundredbillion centuries. And they kept dancing without music until youextended the retriever-claw and culled them into the air-lock. That was all the war-glory he got. Nothing but the stunned, shiveringsilence, the memory of rockets long gone, and the shelves filling upall too quickly with men who had once loved laughing. You wondered who all the men were; and who the next ones would be.After ten years you made yourself blind to them. You went around doingyour job with mechanical hands. But even a machine breaks down.... <doc-sep>Sam! Rice turned swiftly as Burnett dragged himself up the ladder.Red and warm, Rice's face hovered over the body of a sprawled enemyofficial. Take a look at this! Burnett caught his breath. His eyes narrowed. There was something wrongwith the body; his experienced glance knew that. He didn't know what itwas. Maybe it was because the body looked a little too dead. Burnett didn't say anything, but he climbed the rest of the way,stood quietly in the grey-metal air-lock. The enemy official was asdelicately made as a fine white spider. Eyelids, closed, were faintlyblue. The hair was thin silken strands of pale gold, waved and pressedclose to a veined skull. Where the thin-lipped mouth fell open acluster of needle-tipped teeth glittered. The fragile body was enclosedcompletely in milk-pale syntha-silk, a holstered gun at the middle. Burnett rubbed his jaw. Well? Rice exploded. His eyes were hot in his young, sharp-cut face, hot andblack. Good Lord, Sam, do you know who this is? Burnett scowled uneasily and said no. It's Lethla! Rice retorted. Burnett said, Lethla? And then: Oh, yes! Kriere's majordomo. Thatright? Don't say it calm, Sam. Say it big. Say it big! If Lethla is here inspace, then Kriere's not far away from him! Burnett shrugged. More bodies, more people, more war. What the hell.What the hell. He was tired. Talk about bodies and rulers to someoneelse. Rice grabbed him by the shoulders. Snap out of it, Sam. Think!Kriere—The All-Mighty—in our territory. His right hand man dead. Thatmeans Kriere was in an accident, too! Sam opened his thin lips and the words fell out all by themselves.Look, Rice, you're new at this game. I've been at it ever since theVenus-Earth mess started. It's been see-sawing back and forth since theday you played hookey in the tenth grade, and I've been in the thickof it. When there's nothing left but seared memories, I'll be prowlingthrough the void picking up warriors and taking them back to the goodgreen Earth. Grisly, yes, but it's routine. As for Kriere—if he's anywhere around, he's smart. Every precautionis taken to protect that one. But Lethla! His body must mean something! And if it does? Have we got guns aboard this morgue-ship? Are we abattle-cuiser to go against him? We'll radio for help? Yeah? If there's a warship within our radio range, seven hundredthousand miles, we'll get it. Unfortunately, the tide of battle hasswept out past Earth in a new war concerning Io. That's out, Rice. Rice stood about three inches below Sam Burnett's six-foot-one. Jawhard and determined, he stared at Sam, a funny light in his eyes. Hisfingers twitched all by themselves at his sides. His mouth twisted,You're one hell of a patriot, Sam Burnett! Burnett reached out with one long finger, tapped it quietly on Rice'sbarrel-chest. Haul a cargo of corpses for three thousand nights anddays and see how patriotic you feel. All those fine muscled ladsbloated and crushed by space pressures and heat-blasts. Fine lads whostart out smiling and get the smile burned off down to the bone— Burnett swallowed and didn't say anything more, but he closed his eyes.He stood there, smelling the death-odor in the hot air of the ship,hearing the chug-chug-chug of the blood pumps down below, and his ownheart waiting warm and heavy at the base of his throat. This is my last cargo, Rice. I can't take it any longer. And I don'tcare much how I go back to earth. This Venusian here—what's his name?Lethla. He's number ninety-eight. Shove me into shelf ninety-ninebeside him and get the hell home. That's how I feel! Rice was going to say something, but he didn't have time. Lethla was alive. He rose from the floor with slow, easy movements, almost like a dream.He didn't say anything. The heat-blast in his white fingers did all thenecessary talking. It didn't say anything either, but Burnett knew whatlanguage it would use if it had to. Burnett swallowed hard. The body had looked funny. Too dead. Now heknew why. Involuntarily, Burnett moved forward. Lethla moved like apale spider, flicking his fragile arm to cover Burnett, the gun in itlike a dead cold star. Rice sucked in his breath. Burnett forced himself to take it easy. Fromthe corners of his eyes he saw Rice's expression go deep and tight,biting lines into his sharp face. Rice got it out, finally. How'd you do it? he demanded, bitterly.How'd you live in the void? It's impossible! A crazy thought came ramming down and exploded in Burnett's head. Younever catch up with the war! But what if the war catches up with you? What in hell would Lethla be wanting aboard a morgue ship? <doc-sep>Lethla half-crouched in the midst of the smell of death and thechugging of blood-pumps below. In the silence he reached up with quickfingers, tapped a tiny crystal stud upon the back of his head, and thehalves of a microscopically thin chrysalis parted transparently offof his face. He shucked it off, trailing air-tendrils that had beeninserted, hidden in the uniform, ending in thin globules of oxygen. He spoke. Triumph warmed his crystal-thin voice. That's how I did it,Earthman. Glassite! said Rice. A face-moulded mask of glassite! Lethla nodded. His milk-blue eyes dilated. Very marvelously pared toan unbreakable thickness of one-thirtieth of an inch; worn only on thehead. You have to look quickly to notice it, and, unfortunately, viewedas you saw it, outside the ship, floating in the void, not discernibleat all. Prickles of sweat appeared on Rice's face. He swore at the Venusian andthe Venusian laughed like some sort of stringed instrument, high andquick. Burnett laughed, too. Ironically. First time in years a man ever cameaboard the Constellation alive. It's a welcome change. Lethla showed his needle-like teeth. I thought it might be. Where'syour radio? Go find it! snapped Rice, hotly. I will. One hand, blue-veined, on the ladder-rungs, Lethla paused.I know you're weaponless; Purple Cross regulations. And this air-lockis safe. Don't move. Whispering, his naked feet padded white up theladder. Two long breaths later something crashed; metal and glass andcoils. The radio. Burnett put his shoulder blades against the wall-metal, looking at hisfeet. When he glanced up, Rice's fresh, animated face was spoiled bythe new bitterness in it. Lethla came down. Like a breath of air on the rungs. He smiled. That's better. Now. We can talk— Rice said it, slow: Interplanetary law declares it straight, Lethla! Get out! Only deadmen belong here. Lethla's gun grip tightened. More talk of that nature, and only deadmen there will be. He blinked. But first—we must rescue Kriere.... Kriere! Rice acted as if he had been hit in the jaw. Burnett moved his tongue back and forth on his lips silently, his eyeslidded, listening to the two of them as if they were a radio drama.Lethla's voice came next: Rather unfortunately, yes. He's still alive, heading toward Venusat an orbital velocity of two thousand m.p.h., wearing one of theseair-chrysali. Enough air for two more hours. Our flag ship was attackedunexpectedly yesterday near Mars. We were forced to take to thelife-boats, scattering, Kriere and I in one, the others sacrificingtheir lives to cover our escape. We were lucky. We got through theEarth cordon unseen. But luck can't last forever. We saw your morgue ship an hour ago. It's a long, long way to Venus.We were running out of fuel, food, water. Radio was broken. Capturewas certain. You were coming our way; we took the chance. We set asmall time-bomb to destroy the life-rocket, and cast off, wearing ourchrysali-helmets. It was the first time we had ever tried using them totrick anyone. We knew you wouldn't know we were alive until it was toolate and we controlled your ship. We knew you picked up all bodies forbrief exams, returning alien corpses to space later. Rice's voice was sullen. A set-up for you, huh? Traveling under theprotection of the Purple Cross you can get your damned All-Mighty safeto Venus. Lethla bowed slightly. Who would suspect a Morgue Rocket of providingsafe hiding for precious Venusian cargo? Precious is the word for you, brother! said Rice. Enough! Lethla moved his gun several inches. Accelerate toward Venus, mote-detectors wide open. Kriere must bepicked up— now! <doc-sep>Rice didn't move. Burnett moved first, feeling alive for the first timein years. Sure, said Sam, smiling. We'll pick him up. No tricks, said Lethla. Burnett scowled and smiled together. No tricks. You'll have Kriere onboard the Constellation in half an hour or I'm no coroner. Follow me up the ladder. Lethla danced up, turned, waved his gun. Come on. Burnett went up, quick. Almost as if he enjoyed doing Lethla a favor.Rice grumbled and cursed after him. On the way up, Burnett thought about it. About Lethla poised likea white feather at the top, holding death in his hand. You neverknew whose body would come in through the star-port next. Numberninety-eight was Lethla. Number ninety-nine would be Kriere. There were two shelves numbered and empty. They should be filled. Andwhat more proper than that Kriere and Lethla should fill them? But, hechewed his lip, that would need a bit of doing. And even then the cargowouldn't be full. Still one more body to get; one hundred. And younever knew who it would be. He came out of the quick thoughts when he looped his long leg overthe hole-rim, stepped up, faced Lethla in a cramped control room thatwas one glittering swirl of silver levers, audio-plates and visuals.Chronometers, clicking, told of the steady dropping toward the sun at aslow pace. Burnett set his teeth together, bone against bone. Help Kriere escape?See him safely to Venus, and then be freed? Sounded easy, wouldn't behard. Venusians weren't blind with malice. Rice and he could come outalive; if they cooperated. But there were a lot of warriors sleeping on a lot of numbered shelvesin the dim corridors of the long years. And their dead lips werestirring to life in Burnett's ears. Not so easily could they be ignored. You may never catch up with the war again. The last trip! Yes, this could be it. Capture Kriere and end the war. But whatridiculous fantasy was it made him believe he could actually do it? Two muscles moved on Burnett, one in each long cheek. The sag in hisbody vanished as he tautened his spine, flexed his lean-sinewed arms,wet thin lips. Now, where do you want this crate? he asked Lethla easily. Lethla exhaled softly. Cooperation. I like it. You're wise, Earthman. Very, said Burnett. He was thinking about three thousand eternal nights of young bodiesbeing ripped, slaughtered, flung to the vacuum tides. Ten years ofhating a job and hoping that some day there would be a last trip and itwould all be over. Burnett laughed through his nose. Controls moved under his fingers likefluid; loved, caressed, tended by his familiar touching. Looking ahead,he squinted. There's your Ruler now, Lethla. Doing somersaults. Looks dead. A goodtrick. Cut power! We don't want to burn him! <doc-sep>Burnett cut. Kriere's milky face floated dreamily into a visual-screen,eyes sealed, lips gaping, hands sagging, clutching emptily at the stars. We're about fifty miles from him, catching up. Burnett turned toLethla with an intent scowl. Funny. This was the first and the lasttime anybody would ever board the Constellation alive. His stomachwent flat, tautened with sudden weakening fear. If Kriere could be captured, that meant the end of the war, the endof shelves stacked with sleeping warriors, the end of this blindsearching. Kriere, then, had to be taken aboard. After that— Kriere, the All-Mighty. At whose behest all space had quivered likea smitten gong for part of a century. Kriere, revolving in his neat,water-blue uniform, emblems shining gold, heat-gun tucked in glossyjet holster. With Kriere aboard, chances of overcoming him would beeliminated. Now: Rice and Burnett against Lethla. Lethla favoredbecause of his gun. Kriere would make odds impossible. Something had to be done before Kriere came in. Lethla had to be yanked off guard. Shocked, bewildered,fooled—somehow. But—how? Burnett's jaw froze tight. He could feel a spot on his shoulder-bladewhere Lethla would send a bullet crashing into rib, sinew,artery—heart. There was a way. And there was a weapon. And the war would be over andthis would be the last trip. Sweat covered his palms in a nervous smear. Steady, Rice, he said, matter of factly. With the rockets cut, therewas too much silence, and his voice sounded guilty standing up alone inthe center of that silence. Take controls, Rice. I'll manipulate thestar-port. Burnett slipped from the control console. Rice replaced him grimly.Burnett strode to the next console of levers. That spot on his backkept aching like it was sear-branded X. For the place where the bulletsings and rips. And if you turn quick, catching it in the arm first,why— Kriere loomed bigger, a white spider delicately dancing on a web ofstars. His eyes flicked open behind the glassite sheath, and saw the Constellation . Kriere smiled. His hands came up. He knew he was aboutto be rescued. Burnett smiled right back at him. What Kriere didn't know was that hewas about to end a ten-years' war. There was only one way of drawing Lethla off guard, and it had to befast. Burnett jabbed a purple-topped stud. The star-port clashed open asit had done a thousand times before; but for the first time it was agood sound. And out of the star-port, at Sam Burnett's easily fingereddirections, slid the long claw-like mechanism that picked up bodiesfrom space. Lethla watched, intent and cold and quiet. The gun was cold and quiet,too. The claw glided toward Kriere without a sound, now, dream-like in itsslowness. It reached Kriere. Burnett inhaled a deep breath. The metal claw cuddled Kriere in its shiny palm. Lethla watched. He watched while Burnett exhaled, touched another lever and said: Youknow, Lethla, there's an old saying that only dead men come aboard the Constellation . I believe it. <doc-sep>And the claw closed as Burnett spoke, closed slowly and certainly, allaround Kriere, crushing him into a ridiculous posture of silence. Therewas blood running on the claw, and the only recognizable part was thehead, which was carefully preserved for identification. That was the only way to draw Lethla off guard. Burnett spun about and leaped. The horror on Lethla's face didn't go away as he fired his gun. Rice came in fighting, too, but not before something like a red-hotramrod stabbed Sam Burnett, catching him in the ribs, spinning him backlike a drunken idiot to fall in a corner. Fists made blunt flesh noises. Lethla went down, weaponless andscreaming. Rice kicked. After awhile Lethla quit screaming, and theroom swam around in Burnett's eyes, and he closed them tight andstarted laughing. He didn't finish laughing for maybe ten minutes. He heard the retrieverclaws come inside, and the star-port grind shut. Out of the red darkness, Rice's voice came and then he could see Rice'syoung face over him. Burnett groaned. Rice said, Sam, you shouldn't have done it. You shouldn't have, Sam. To hell with it. Burnett winced, and fought to keep his eyes open.Something wet and sticky covered his chest. I said this was my lasttrip and I meant it. One way or the other, I'd have quit! This is the hard way— Maybe. I dunno. Kind of nice to think of all those kids who'll neverhave to come aboard the Constellation , though, Rice. His voicetrailed off. You watch the shelves fill up and you never know who'llbe next. Who'd have thought, four days ago— Something happened to his tongue so it felt like hard ice blocking hismouth. He had a lot more words to say, but only time to get a few ofthem out: Rice? Yeah, Sam? We haven't got a full cargo, boy. Full enough for me, sir. But still not full. If we went back to Center Base without fillingthe shelves, it wouldn't be right. Look there—number ninety-eight isLethla—number ninety-nine is Kriere. Three thousand days of rollingthis rocket, and not once come back without a bunch of the kids whowant to sleep easy on the good green earth. Not right to be going backany way—but—the way—we used to— His voice got all full of fog. As thick as the fists of a dozenwarriors. Rice was going away from him. Rice was standing still, andBurnett was lying down, not moving, but somehow Rice was going away amillion miles. Ain't I one hell of a patriot, Rice? Then everything got dark except Rice's face. And that was starting todissolve. Ninety-eight: Lethla. Ninety-nine: Kriere. He could still see Rice standing over him for a long time, breathingout and in. Down under the tables the blood-pumps pulsed and pulsed,thick and slow. Rice looked down at Burnett and then at the empty shelfat the far end of the room, and then back at Burnett again. And then he said softly: One hundred. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the phrase “You can never catch up with war” in the story?

At the beginning of the story, Sam Burnett makes note of the phrase to dictate the endless feeling that he associates with the conflict. He suggests that there is always going to be more bodies no matter how long or how many he retrieves. Even as victory may seem near, there is always another obstacle to face and the war never truly ends. During the middle of the story, Burnett questions whether it is possible for war to catch up on someone. He and Rice work on a non-combative ship and yet have found themselves thrust into a pivotal moment in the conflict that should theoretically not have ever involved them. Sam sticks to his conviction that one can still not catch up with war. While Sam is taking the ship towards Kriere, he thinks about whether he should fully comply with Lethla and Kriere or not to comply with their orders. He realizes that the situation as convoluted as it was, meant that he had unintentionally caught up with the war. That it was a rare and singular opportunity. While one may not be able to purposefully catch up with war, because war is unable to be controlled or predicted, it is possible for one’s path to cross with war. That presents an opportunity to greatly influence the war.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> LEX By W. T. HAGGERT Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Nothing in the world could be happier and mere serene than a man who loves his work—but what happens when it loves him back? Keep your nerve, Peter Manners told himself; it's only a job. But nervehas to rest on a sturdier foundation than cash reserves just above zeroand eviction if he came away from this interview still unemployed.Clay, at the Association of Professional Engineers, who had set up theappointment, hadn't eased Peter's nervousness by admitting, I don'tknow what in hell he's looking for. He's turned down every man we'vesent him. The interview was at three. Fifteen minutes to go. Coming early wouldbetray overeagerness. Peter stood in front of the Lex Industries plantand studied it to kill time. Plain, featureless concrete walls, notlarge for a manufacturing plant—it took a scant minute to exhaust itssightseeing potential. If he walked around the building, he could, ifhe ambled, come back to the front entrance just before three. He turned the corner, stopped, frowned, wondering what there was aboutthe building that seemed so puzzling. It could not have been plainer,more ordinary. It was in fact, he only gradually realized, so plain andordinary that it was like no other building he had ever seen. There had been windows at the front. There were none at the side, andnone at the rear. Then how were the working areas lit? He looked forthe electric service lines and found them at one of the rear corners.They jolted him. The distribution transformers were ten times as largeas they should have been for a plant this size. Something else was wrong. Peter looked for minutes before he found outwhat it was. Factories usually have large side doorways for employeeschanging shifts. This building had one small office entrance facing thestreet, and the only other door was at the loading bay—big enough tohandle employee traffic, but four feet above the ground. Without anystairs, it could be used only by trucks backing up to it. Maybe theemployees' entrance was on the third side. It wasn't. <doc-sep>Staring back at the last blank wall, Peter suddenly remembered the timehe had set out to kill. He looked at his watch and gasped. At a run,set to straight-arm the door, he almost fell on his face. The door hadopened by itself. He stopped and looked for a photo-electric eye, buta soft voice said through a loudspeaker in the anteroom wall: Mr.Manners? What? he panted. Who—? You are Mr. Manners? the voice asked. He nodded, then realized he had to answer aloud if there was amicrophone around; but the soft voice said: Follow the open doors downthe hall. Mr. Lexington is expecting you. Thanks, Peter said, and a door at one side of the anteroom swung openfor him. He went through it with his composure slipping still further from hisgrip. This was no way to go into an interview, but doors kept openingbefore and shutting after him, until only one was left, and the last ofhis calm was blasted away by a bellow from within. Don't stand out there like a jackass! Either come in or go away! Peter found himself leaping obediently toward the doorway. He stoppedjust short of it, took a deep breath and huffed it out, took another,all the while thinking, Hold on now; you're in no shape for aninterview—and it's not your fault—this whole setup is geared tounnerve you: the kindergarten kid called in to see the principal. He let another bellow bounce off him as he blew out the second breath,straightened his jacket and tie, and walked in as an engineer applyingfor a position should. Mr. Lexington? he said. I'm Peter Manners. The Association— Sit down, said the man at the desk. Let's look you over. He was a huge man behind an even huger desk. Peter took a chair infront of the desk and let himself be inspected. It wasn't comfortable.He did some looking over of his own to ease the tension. The room was more than merely large, carpeted throughout witha high-pile, rich, sound-deadening rug. The oversized desk andmassive leather chairs, heavy patterned drapes, ornately framedpaintings—by God, even a glass-brick manteled fireplace and bowls withflowers!—made him feel as if he had walked down a hospital corridorinto Hollywood's idea of an office. His eyes eventually had to move to Lexington, and they were dauntedfor another instant. This was a citadel of a man—great girders offrame supporting buttresses of muscle—with a vaulting head anddrawbridge chin and a steel gaze that defied any attempt to storm it. But then Peter came out of his momentary flinch, and there was an ageto the man, about 65, and he saw the muscles had turned to fat, thecomplexion ashen, the eyes set deep as though retreating from pain, andthis was a citadel of a man, yes, but beginning to crumble. What can you do? asked Lexington abruptly. <doc-sep>Peter started, opened his mouth to answer, closed it again. He'd beenjolted too often in too short a time to be stampeded into blurting areply that would cost him this job. Good, said Lexington. Only a fool would try to answer that. Do youhave any knowledge of medicine? Not enough to matter, Peter said, stung by the compliment. I don't mean how to bandage a cut or splint a broken arm. I meanthings like cell structure, neural communication—the basics of howwe live. I'm applying for a job as engineer. I know. Are you interested in the basics of how we live? Peter looked for a hidden trap, found none. Of course. Isn't everyone? Less than you think, Lexington said. It's the preconceived notionsthey're interested in protecting. At least I won't have to beat themout of you. Thanks, said Peter, and waited for the next fast ball. How long have you been out of school? Only two years. But you knew that from the Association— No practical experience to speak of? Some, said Peter, stung again, this time not by a compliment. AfterI got my degree, I went East for a post-graduate training program withan electrical manufacturer. I got quite a bit of experience there. Thecompany— Stockpiled you, Lexington said. Peter blinked. Sir? Stockpiled you! How much did they pay you? Not very much, but we were getting the training instead of wages. Did that come out of the pamphlets they gave you? Did what come out— That guff about receiving training instead of wages! said Lexington.Any company that really wants bright trainees will compete for themwith money—cold, hard cash, not platitudes. Maybe you saw a few oftheir products being made, maybe you didn't. But you're a lot weaker incalculus than when you left school, and in a dozen other subjects too,aren't you? Well, nothing we did on the course involved higher mathematics, Peteradmitted cautiously, and I suppose I could use a refresher course incalculus. Just as I said—they stockpiled you, instead of using you as anengineer. They hired you at a cut wage and taught you things that wouldbe useful only in their own company, while in the meantime you weregetting weaker in the subjects you'd paid to learn. Or are you one ofthese birds that had the shot paid for him? I worked my way through, said Peter stiffly. If you'd stayed with them five years, do you think you'd be able toget a job with someone else? Peter considered his answer carefully. Every man the Association hadsent had been turned away. That meant bluffs didn't work. Neither, he'dseen for himself, did allowing himself to be intimidated. I hadn't thought about it, he said. I suppose it wouldn't have beeneasy. Impossible, you mean. You wouldn't know a single thing except theirprocedures, their catalogue numbers, their way of doing things. Andyou'd have forgotten so much of your engineering training, you'd bescared to take on an engineer's job, for fear you'd be asked to dosomething you'd forgotten how to do. At that point, they could take youout of the stockpile, put you in just about any job they wanted, atany wage you'd stand for, and they'd have an indentured worker with adegree—but not the price tag. You see that now? <doc-sep>It made Peter feel he had been suckered, but he had decided to playthis straight all the way. He nodded. Why'd you leave? Lexington pursued, unrelenting. I finished the course and the increase they offered on a permanentbasis wasn't enough, so I went elsewhere— With your head full of this nonsense about a shortage of engineers. Peter swallowed. I thought it would be easier to get a job than it hasbeen, yes. They start the talk about a shortage and then they keep it going. Why?So youngsters will take up engineering thinking they'll wind up among ahighly paid minority. You did, didn't you? Yes, sir. And so did all the others there with you, at school and in thisstockpiling outfit? That's right. Well, said Lexington unexpectedly, there is a shortage! And thestockpiles are the ones who made it, and who keep it going! And thehell of it is that they can't stop—when one does it, they all haveto, or their costs get out of line and they can't compete. What's thesolution? I don't know, Peter said. Lexington leaned back. That's quite a lot of admissions you've made.What makes you think you're qualified for the job I'm offering? You said you wanted an engineer. And I've just proved you're less of an engineer than when you leftschool. I have, haven't I? All right, you have, Peter said angrily. And now you're wondering why I don't get somebody fresh out of school.Right? Peter straightened up and met the old man's challenging gaze. That andwhether you're giving me a hard time just for the hell of it. Well, am I? Lexington demanded. Looking at him squarely, seeing the intensity of the pain-drawn eyes,Peter had the startling feeling that Lexington was rooting for him!No, you're not. Then what am I after? Suppose you tell me. So suddenly that it was almost like a collapse, the tension went outof the old man's face and shoulders. He nodded with inexpressibletiredness. Good again. The man I want doesn't exist. He has tobe made—the same as I was. You qualify, so far. You've lost yourillusions, but haven't had time yet to replace them with dogma orcynicism or bitterness. You saw immediately that fake humilityor cockiness wouldn't get you anywhere here, and you were right.Those were the important things. The background data I got from theAssociation on you counted, of course, but only if you were teachable.I think you are. Am I right? At least I can face knowing how much I don't know, said Peter, ifthat answers the question. It does. Partly. What did you notice about this plant? In precis form, Peter listed his observations: the absence of windowsat sides and rear, the unusual amount of power, the automatic doors,the lack of employees' entrances. Very good, said Lexington. Most people only notice the automaticdoors. Anything else? Yes, Peter said. You're the only person I've seen in the building. I'm the only one there is. Peter stared his disbelief. Automated plants were nothing new, butthey all had their limitations. Either they dealt with exactly similarproducts or things that could be handled on a flow basis, like oil orwater-soluble chemicals. Even these had no more to do than process thegoods. Come on, said Lexington, getting massively to his feet. I'll showyou. <doc-sep>The office door opened, and Peter found himself being led down theantiseptic corridor to another door which had opened, giving access tothe manufacturing area. As they moved along, between rows of seeminglydisorganized machinery, Peter noticed that the factory lights highoverhead followed their progress, turning themselves on in advanceof their coming, and going out after they had passed, keeping a poolof illumination only in the immediate area they occupied. Soon theyreached a large door which Peter recognized as the inside of the truckloading door he had seen from outside. Lexington paused here. This is the bay used by the trucks arrivingwith raw materials, he said. They back up to this door, and a setof automatic jacks outside lines up the trailer body with the doorexactly. Then the door opens and the truck is unloaded by thesematerials handling machines. Peter didn't see him touch anything, but as he spoke, three glisteningmachines, apparently self-powered, rolled noiselessly up to the door information and stopped there, apparently waiting to be inspected. They gave Peter the creeps. Simple square boxes, set on casters, withtwo arms each mounted on the sides might have looked similar. The arms,fashioned much like human arms, hung at the sides, not limply, but in arelaxed position that somehow indicated readiness. Lexington went over to one of them and patted it lovingly. Really,these machines are only an extension of one large machine. The wholeplant, as a matter of fact, is controlled from one point and is reallya single unit. These materials handlers, or manipulators, were aboutthe toughest things in the place to design. But they're tremendouslyuseful. You'll see a lot of them around. Lexington was about to leave the side of the machine when abruptly oneof the arms rose to the handkerchief in his breast pocket and daintilytugged it into a more attractive position. It took only a split second,and before Lexington could react, all three machines were moving awayto attend to mysterious duties of their own. Peter tore his eyes away from them in time to see the look offrustrated embarrassment that crossed Lexington's face, only to bereplaced by one of anger. He said nothing, however, and led Peter toa large bay where racks of steel plate, bar forms, nuts, bolts, andother materials were stored. After unloading a truck, the machines check the shipment, report anyshortages or overages, and store the materials here, he said, thetrace of anger not yet gone from his voice. When an order is received,it's translated into the catalogue numbers used internally within theplant, and machines like the ones you just saw withdraw the necessarymaterials from stock, make the component parts, assemble them, andpackage the finished goods for shipment. Simultaneously, an order issent to the billing section to bill the customer, and an order issent to our trucker to come and pick the shipment up. Meanwhile, ifthe withdrawal of the materials required has depleted our stock, thepurchasing section is instructed to order more raw materials. I'll takeyou through the manufacturing and assembly sections right now, butthey're too noisy for me to explain what's going on while we're there. <doc-sep>Peter followed numbly as Lexington led him through a maze of machines,each one seemingly intent on cutting, bending, welding, grindingor carrying some bit of metal, or just standing idle, waiting forsomething to do. The two-armed manipulators Peter had just seen wereeverywhere, scuttling from machine to machine, apparently with anexact knowledge of what they were doing and the most efficient way ofdoing it. He wondered what would happen if one of them tried to use the sameaisle they were using. He pictured a futile attempt to escape theonrushing wheels, saw himself clambering out of the path of thespeeding vehicle just in time to fall into the jaws of the punch pressthat was laboring beside him at the moment. Nervously, he looked for anexit, but his apprehension was unnecessary. The machines seemed to knowwhere they were and avoided the two men, or stopped to wait for them togo by. Back in the office section of the building, Lexington indicated a smallroom where a typewriter could be heard clattering away. Standardbusiness machines, operated by the central control mechanism. Inthat room, he said, as the door swung open and Peter saw that thetypewriter was actually a sort of teletype, with no one before thekeyboard, incoming mail is sorted and inquiries are replied to. Inthis one over here, purchase orders are prepared, and across the hallthere's a very similar rig set up in conjunction with an automaticbookkeeper to keep track of the pennies and to bill the customers. Then all you do is read the incoming mail and maintain the machinery?asked Peter, trying to shake off the feeling of open amazement thathad engulfed him. I don't even do those things, except for a few letters that come inevery week that—it doesn't want to deal with by itself. The shock of what he had just seen was showing plainly on Peter's facewhen they walked back into Lexington's office and sat down. Lexingtonlooked at him for quite a while without saying anything, his facesagging and pale. Peter didn't trust himself to speak, and let thesilence remain unbroken. Finally Lexington spoke. I know it's hard to believe, but there it is. Hard to believe? said Peter. I almost can't. The trade journals runarticles about factories like this one, but planned for ten, maybetwenty years in the future. Damn fools! exclaimed Lexington, getting part of his breath back.They could have had it years ago, if they'd been willing to drop theiridiotic notions about specialization. Lexington mopped his forehead with a large white handkerchief.Apparently the walk through the factory had tired him considerably,although it hadn't been strenuous. <doc-sep>He leaned back in his chair and began to talk in a low voice completelyin contrast with the overbearing manner he had used upon Peter'sarrival. You know what we make, of course. Yes, sir. Conduit fittings. And a lot of other electrical products, too. I started out in thisbusiness twenty years ago, using orthodox techniques. I never gotthrough university. I took a couple of years of an arts course, andgot so interested in biology that I didn't study anything else.They bounced me out of the course, and I re-entered in engineering,determined not to make the same mistake again. But I did. I got tooabsorbed in those parts of the course that had to do with electricaltheory and lost the rest as a result. The same thing happened when Itried commerce, with accounting, so I gave up and started working forone of my competitors. It wasn't too long before I saw that the onlyway I could get ahead was to open up on my own. Lexington sank deeper in his chair and stared at the ceiling as hespoke. I put myself in hock to the eyeballs, which wasn't easy,because I had just got married, and started off in a very small way.After three years, I had a fairly decent little business going, and Isuppose it would have grown just like any other business, except fora strike that came along and put me right back where I started. Mywife, whom I'm afraid I had neglected for the sake of the business,was killed in a car accident about then, and rightly or wrongly, thatmade me angrier with the union than anything else. If the union hadn'tmade things so tough for me from the beginning, I'd have had more timeto spend with my wife before her death. As things turned out—well, Iremember looking down at her coffin and thinking that I hardly knew thegirl. For the next few years, I concentrated on getting rid of as manyemployees as I could, by replacing them with automatic machines. I'ddesign the control circuits myself, in many cases wire the things upmyself, always concentrating on replacing men with machines. But itwasn't very successful. I found that the more automatic I made myplant, the lower my costs went. The lower my costs went, the morebusiness I got, and the more I had to expand. Lexington scowled. I got sick of it. I decided to try developing onemulti-purpose control circuit that would control everything, fromordering the raw materials to shipping the finished goods. As I toldyou, I had taken quite an interest in biology when I was in school,and from studies of nerve tissue in particular, plus my electricalknowledge, I had a few ideas on how to do it. It took me three years,but I began to see that I could develop circuitry that could remember,compare, detect similarities, and so on. Not the way they do it today,of course. To do what I wanted to do with these big clumsy magneticdrums, tapes, and what-not, you'd need a building the size of MountEverest. But I found that I could let organic chemistry do most of thework for me. By creating the proper compounds, with their molecules arranged inpredetermined matrixes, I found I could duplicate electrical circuitryin units so tiny that my biggest problem was getting into and out ofthe logic units with conventional wiring. I finally beat that the sameway they solved the problem of translating a picture on a screen intoelectrical signals, developed equipment to scan the units cyclically,and once I'd done that, the battle was over. I built this building and incorporated it as a separate company, tocompete with my first outfit. In the beginning, I had it rigged up todo only the manual work that you saw being done a few minutes ago inthe back of this place. I figured that the best thing for me to dowould be to turn the job of selling my stuff over to jobbers, leavingme free to do nothing except receive orders, punch the cataloguenumbers into the control console, do the billing, and collect themoney. What happened to your original company? Peter asked. <doc-sep>Lexington smiled. Well, automated as it was, it couldn't compete withthis plant. It gave me great pleasure, three years after this onestarted working, to see my old company go belly up. This company boughtthe old firm's equipment for next to nothing and I wound up with all myassets, but only one employee—me. I thought everything would be rosy from that point on, but itwasn't. I found that I couldn't keep up with the mail unless I workedimpossible hours. I added a couple of new pieces of equipment to thecontrol section. One was simply a huge memory bank. The other wasa comparator circuit. A complicated one, but a comparator circuitnevertheless. Here I was working on instinct more than anything. Ifigured that if I interconnected these circuits in such a way thatthey could sense everything that went on in the plant, and compare oneaction with another, by and by the unit would be able to see patterns. Then, through the existing command output, I figured these new unitswould be able to control the plant, continuing the various patterns ofactivity that I'd already established. Here Lexington frowned. It didn't work worth a damn! It just sat thereand did nothing. I couldn't understand it for the longest time, andthen I realized what the trouble was. I put a kicker circuit into it, asort of voltage-bias network. I reset the equipment so that while itwas still under instructions to receive orders and produce goods, itsprime purpose was to activate the kicker. The kicker, however, couldonly be activated by me, manually. Lastly, I set up one of the earlyTV pickups over the mail slitter and allowed every letter I received,every order, to be fed into the memory banks. That did it. I—I don't understand, stammered Peter. Simple! Whenever I was pleased that things were going smoothly, Ipressed the kicker button. The machine had one purpose, so far as itslogic circuits were concerned. Its object was to get me to press thatbutton. Every day I'd press it at the same time, unless things weren'tgoing well. If there had been trouble in the shop, I'd press it late,or maybe not at all. If all the orders were out on schedule, or aheadof time, I'd press it ahead of time, or maybe twice in the same day.Pretty soon the machine got the idea. I'll never forget the day I picked up an incoming order form from oneof the western jobbers, and found that the keyboard was locked when Itried to punch it into the control console. It completely baffled meat first. Then, while I was tracing out the circuits to see if I coulddiscover what was holding the keyboard lock in, I noticed that theorder was already entered on the in-progress list. I was a long timeconvincing myself that it had really happened, but there was no otherexplanation. The machine had realized that whenever one of those forms came in, Icopied the list of goods from it onto the in-progress list through theconsole keyboard, thus activating the producing mechanisms in the backof the plant. The machine had done it for me this time, then locked thekeyboard so I couldn't enter the order twice. I think I held down thekicker button for a full five minutes that day. This kicker button, Peter said tentatively, it's like the pleasurecenter in an animal's brain, isn't it? <doc-sep>When Lexington beamed, Peter felt a surge of relief. Talking with thisman was like walking a tightrope. A word too much or a word too littlemight mean the difference between getting the job or losing it. Exactly! whispered Lexington, in an almost conspiratorial tone. Ihad altered the circuitry of the machine so that it tried to giveme pleasure—because by doing so, its own pleasure circuit would beactivated. Things went fast from then on. Once I realized that the machinewas learning, I put TV monitors all over the place, so the machinecould watch everything that was going on. After a short while I hadto increase the memory bank, and later I increased it again, but therewards were worth it. Soon, by watching what I did, and then by doingit for me next time it had to be done, the machine had learned to doalmost everything, and I had time to sit back and count my winnings. At this point the door opened, and a small self-propelled cart wheeledsilently into the room. Stopping in front of Peter, it waited until hehad taken a small plate laden with two or three cakes off its surface.Then the soft, evenly modulated voice he had heard before asked, Howdo you like your coffee? Cream, sugar, both or black? Peter looked for the speaker in the side of the cart, saw nothing, andreplied, feeling slightly silly as he did so, Black, please. A square hole appeared in the top of the cart, like the elevator holein an aircraft carrier's deck. When the section of the cart's surfacerose again, a fine china cup containing steaming black coffee restedon it. Peter took it and sipped it, as he supposed he was expected todo, while the cart proceeded over to Lexington's desk. Once there, itstopped again, and another cup of coffee rose to its surface. Lexington took the coffee from the top of the car, obviously angryabout something. Silently, he waited until the cart had left theoffice, then snapped, Look at those bloody cups! Peter looked at his, which was eggshell thin, fluted with carving andornately covered with gold leaf. They look very expensive, he said. Not only expensive, but stupid and impractical! exploded Lexington.They only hold half a cup, they'll break at a touch, every one has tobe matched with its own saucer, and if you use them for any length oftime, the gold leaf comes off! Peter searched for a comment, found none that fitted this odd outburst,so he kept silent. <doc-sep>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself. Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring. It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated. It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in. You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do. It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled. It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed. The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Peter Manners is awaiting his job interview at Lex Industries. He is very nervous but also has to worry about still being unemployed with barely any money saved. Since he is fifteen minutes early, he decides to look around the manufacturing plant. Peter then goes to his interview, and a voice from a loudspeaker directs him down to the hall where Mr. Lexington is waiting. He goes in through the multiple doors, where Mr. Lexington greets him roughly and looks over his qualifications. The other man begins asking Peter questions, to which Peter responds but is confused about how they have any relation to his job application. Mr. Lexington tells Peter that he has been stockpiled at his last company, given skills that will only ever help that specific company and nowhere else. Mr. Lexington then tells Peter that he had just proven that he has fewer skills than when he was in school, but he is pleased by Peter’s performance in the interview so far nonetheless. He tells Peter that he is the only person in the building and makes Peter follow him. They go through the machinery, and they reach the inside of a loading truck. Mr. Lexington explains that this area is where raw materials are delivered and that he has small machines, part of a bigger machine, all working together to operate the factory. They go to the office section of the building, where there is a small typewriter working. A central control mechanism operates everything, and Mr. Lexington does not even have to deal with much mail at all each week. Mr. Lexington explains his own history working as an engineer and how he spent most of his time developing his machinery. Peter is amazed by all of the machinery, and he continues to discuss machine parts such as the kicker button with Mr. Lexington. Just as they keep talking, the door opens, and a self-propelled cart asks if he would like cream and sugar with his coffee. Mr. Lexington is angry about the cup, and he insults them as being impractical. He also further clarifies that Lex Industries is named after his wife Alexis’ nickname. The company continues to earn a lot of money, and he also does not need to monitor progress constantly. Mr. Lexington also mentions that when he was extremely pleased with progress one day, he went to the kicker button and found it removed. He asked the machine what was going on, and the machine sent him a long message detailing how it was aware of when he was pleased with the progress made and had relieved him of the burden of having to press it every time.

Who is Mr. Lexington, and what traits does he demonstrate? [SEP] <s> LEX By W. T. HAGGERT Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Nothing in the world could be happier and mere serene than a man who loves his work—but what happens when it loves him back? Keep your nerve, Peter Manners told himself; it's only a job. But nervehas to rest on a sturdier foundation than cash reserves just above zeroand eviction if he came away from this interview still unemployed.Clay, at the Association of Professional Engineers, who had set up theappointment, hadn't eased Peter's nervousness by admitting, I don'tknow what in hell he's looking for. He's turned down every man we'vesent him. The interview was at three. Fifteen minutes to go. Coming early wouldbetray overeagerness. Peter stood in front of the Lex Industries plantand studied it to kill time. Plain, featureless concrete walls, notlarge for a manufacturing plant—it took a scant minute to exhaust itssightseeing potential. If he walked around the building, he could, ifhe ambled, come back to the front entrance just before three. He turned the corner, stopped, frowned, wondering what there was aboutthe building that seemed so puzzling. It could not have been plainer,more ordinary. It was in fact, he only gradually realized, so plain andordinary that it was like no other building he had ever seen. There had been windows at the front. There were none at the side, andnone at the rear. Then how were the working areas lit? He looked forthe electric service lines and found them at one of the rear corners.They jolted him. The distribution transformers were ten times as largeas they should have been for a plant this size. Something else was wrong. Peter looked for minutes before he found outwhat it was. Factories usually have large side doorways for employeeschanging shifts. This building had one small office entrance facing thestreet, and the only other door was at the loading bay—big enough tohandle employee traffic, but four feet above the ground. Without anystairs, it could be used only by trucks backing up to it. Maybe theemployees' entrance was on the third side. It wasn't. <doc-sep>Staring back at the last blank wall, Peter suddenly remembered the timehe had set out to kill. He looked at his watch and gasped. At a run,set to straight-arm the door, he almost fell on his face. The door hadopened by itself. He stopped and looked for a photo-electric eye, buta soft voice said through a loudspeaker in the anteroom wall: Mr.Manners? What? he panted. Who—? You are Mr. Manners? the voice asked. He nodded, then realized he had to answer aloud if there was amicrophone around; but the soft voice said: Follow the open doors downthe hall. Mr. Lexington is expecting you. Thanks, Peter said, and a door at one side of the anteroom swung openfor him. He went through it with his composure slipping still further from hisgrip. This was no way to go into an interview, but doors kept openingbefore and shutting after him, until only one was left, and the last ofhis calm was blasted away by a bellow from within. Don't stand out there like a jackass! Either come in or go away! Peter found himself leaping obediently toward the doorway. He stoppedjust short of it, took a deep breath and huffed it out, took another,all the while thinking, Hold on now; you're in no shape for aninterview—and it's not your fault—this whole setup is geared tounnerve you: the kindergarten kid called in to see the principal. He let another bellow bounce off him as he blew out the second breath,straightened his jacket and tie, and walked in as an engineer applyingfor a position should. Mr. Lexington? he said. I'm Peter Manners. The Association— Sit down, said the man at the desk. Let's look you over. He was a huge man behind an even huger desk. Peter took a chair infront of the desk and let himself be inspected. It wasn't comfortable.He did some looking over of his own to ease the tension. The room was more than merely large, carpeted throughout witha high-pile, rich, sound-deadening rug. The oversized desk andmassive leather chairs, heavy patterned drapes, ornately framedpaintings—by God, even a glass-brick manteled fireplace and bowls withflowers!—made him feel as if he had walked down a hospital corridorinto Hollywood's idea of an office. His eyes eventually had to move to Lexington, and they were dauntedfor another instant. This was a citadel of a man—great girders offrame supporting buttresses of muscle—with a vaulting head anddrawbridge chin and a steel gaze that defied any attempt to storm it. But then Peter came out of his momentary flinch, and there was an ageto the man, about 65, and he saw the muscles had turned to fat, thecomplexion ashen, the eyes set deep as though retreating from pain, andthis was a citadel of a man, yes, but beginning to crumble. What can you do? asked Lexington abruptly. <doc-sep>Peter started, opened his mouth to answer, closed it again. He'd beenjolted too often in too short a time to be stampeded into blurting areply that would cost him this job. Good, said Lexington. Only a fool would try to answer that. Do youhave any knowledge of medicine? Not enough to matter, Peter said, stung by the compliment. I don't mean how to bandage a cut or splint a broken arm. I meanthings like cell structure, neural communication—the basics of howwe live. I'm applying for a job as engineer. I know. Are you interested in the basics of how we live? Peter looked for a hidden trap, found none. Of course. Isn't everyone? Less than you think, Lexington said. It's the preconceived notionsthey're interested in protecting. At least I won't have to beat themout of you. Thanks, said Peter, and waited for the next fast ball. How long have you been out of school? Only two years. But you knew that from the Association— No practical experience to speak of? Some, said Peter, stung again, this time not by a compliment. AfterI got my degree, I went East for a post-graduate training program withan electrical manufacturer. I got quite a bit of experience there. Thecompany— Stockpiled you, Lexington said. Peter blinked. Sir? Stockpiled you! How much did they pay you? Not very much, but we were getting the training instead of wages. Did that come out of the pamphlets they gave you? Did what come out— That guff about receiving training instead of wages! said Lexington.Any company that really wants bright trainees will compete for themwith money—cold, hard cash, not platitudes. Maybe you saw a few oftheir products being made, maybe you didn't. But you're a lot weaker incalculus than when you left school, and in a dozen other subjects too,aren't you? Well, nothing we did on the course involved higher mathematics, Peteradmitted cautiously, and I suppose I could use a refresher course incalculus. Just as I said—they stockpiled you, instead of using you as anengineer. They hired you at a cut wage and taught you things that wouldbe useful only in their own company, while in the meantime you weregetting weaker in the subjects you'd paid to learn. Or are you one ofthese birds that had the shot paid for him? I worked my way through, said Peter stiffly. If you'd stayed with them five years, do you think you'd be able toget a job with someone else? Peter considered his answer carefully. Every man the Association hadsent had been turned away. That meant bluffs didn't work. Neither, he'dseen for himself, did allowing himself to be intimidated. I hadn't thought about it, he said. I suppose it wouldn't have beeneasy. Impossible, you mean. You wouldn't know a single thing except theirprocedures, their catalogue numbers, their way of doing things. Andyou'd have forgotten so much of your engineering training, you'd bescared to take on an engineer's job, for fear you'd be asked to dosomething you'd forgotten how to do. At that point, they could take youout of the stockpile, put you in just about any job they wanted, atany wage you'd stand for, and they'd have an indentured worker with adegree—but not the price tag. You see that now? <doc-sep>It made Peter feel he had been suckered, but he had decided to playthis straight all the way. He nodded. Why'd you leave? Lexington pursued, unrelenting. I finished the course and the increase they offered on a permanentbasis wasn't enough, so I went elsewhere— With your head full of this nonsense about a shortage of engineers. Peter swallowed. I thought it would be easier to get a job than it hasbeen, yes. They start the talk about a shortage and then they keep it going. Why?So youngsters will take up engineering thinking they'll wind up among ahighly paid minority. You did, didn't you? Yes, sir. And so did all the others there with you, at school and in thisstockpiling outfit? That's right. Well, said Lexington unexpectedly, there is a shortage! And thestockpiles are the ones who made it, and who keep it going! And thehell of it is that they can't stop—when one does it, they all haveto, or their costs get out of line and they can't compete. What's thesolution? I don't know, Peter said. Lexington leaned back. That's quite a lot of admissions you've made.What makes you think you're qualified for the job I'm offering? You said you wanted an engineer. And I've just proved you're less of an engineer than when you leftschool. I have, haven't I? All right, you have, Peter said angrily. And now you're wondering why I don't get somebody fresh out of school.Right? Peter straightened up and met the old man's challenging gaze. That andwhether you're giving me a hard time just for the hell of it. Well, am I? Lexington demanded. Looking at him squarely, seeing the intensity of the pain-drawn eyes,Peter had the startling feeling that Lexington was rooting for him!No, you're not. Then what am I after? Suppose you tell me. So suddenly that it was almost like a collapse, the tension went outof the old man's face and shoulders. He nodded with inexpressibletiredness. Good again. The man I want doesn't exist. He has tobe made—the same as I was. You qualify, so far. You've lost yourillusions, but haven't had time yet to replace them with dogma orcynicism or bitterness. You saw immediately that fake humilityor cockiness wouldn't get you anywhere here, and you were right.Those were the important things. The background data I got from theAssociation on you counted, of course, but only if you were teachable.I think you are. Am I right? At least I can face knowing how much I don't know, said Peter, ifthat answers the question. It does. Partly. What did you notice about this plant? In precis form, Peter listed his observations: the absence of windowsat sides and rear, the unusual amount of power, the automatic doors,the lack of employees' entrances. Very good, said Lexington. Most people only notice the automaticdoors. Anything else? Yes, Peter said. You're the only person I've seen in the building. I'm the only one there is. Peter stared his disbelief. Automated plants were nothing new, butthey all had their limitations. Either they dealt with exactly similarproducts or things that could be handled on a flow basis, like oil orwater-soluble chemicals. Even these had no more to do than process thegoods. Come on, said Lexington, getting massively to his feet. I'll showyou. <doc-sep>The office door opened, and Peter found himself being led down theantiseptic corridor to another door which had opened, giving access tothe manufacturing area. As they moved along, between rows of seeminglydisorganized machinery, Peter noticed that the factory lights highoverhead followed their progress, turning themselves on in advanceof their coming, and going out after they had passed, keeping a poolof illumination only in the immediate area they occupied. Soon theyreached a large door which Peter recognized as the inside of the truckloading door he had seen from outside. Lexington paused here. This is the bay used by the trucks arrivingwith raw materials, he said. They back up to this door, and a setof automatic jacks outside lines up the trailer body with the doorexactly. Then the door opens and the truck is unloaded by thesematerials handling machines. Peter didn't see him touch anything, but as he spoke, three glisteningmachines, apparently self-powered, rolled noiselessly up to the door information and stopped there, apparently waiting to be inspected. They gave Peter the creeps. Simple square boxes, set on casters, withtwo arms each mounted on the sides might have looked similar. The arms,fashioned much like human arms, hung at the sides, not limply, but in arelaxed position that somehow indicated readiness. Lexington went over to one of them and patted it lovingly. Really,these machines are only an extension of one large machine. The wholeplant, as a matter of fact, is controlled from one point and is reallya single unit. These materials handlers, or manipulators, were aboutthe toughest things in the place to design. But they're tremendouslyuseful. You'll see a lot of them around. Lexington was about to leave the side of the machine when abruptly oneof the arms rose to the handkerchief in his breast pocket and daintilytugged it into a more attractive position. It took only a split second,and before Lexington could react, all three machines were moving awayto attend to mysterious duties of their own. Peter tore his eyes away from them in time to see the look offrustrated embarrassment that crossed Lexington's face, only to bereplaced by one of anger. He said nothing, however, and led Peter toa large bay where racks of steel plate, bar forms, nuts, bolts, andother materials were stored. After unloading a truck, the machines check the shipment, report anyshortages or overages, and store the materials here, he said, thetrace of anger not yet gone from his voice. When an order is received,it's translated into the catalogue numbers used internally within theplant, and machines like the ones you just saw withdraw the necessarymaterials from stock, make the component parts, assemble them, andpackage the finished goods for shipment. Simultaneously, an order issent to the billing section to bill the customer, and an order issent to our trucker to come and pick the shipment up. Meanwhile, ifthe withdrawal of the materials required has depleted our stock, thepurchasing section is instructed to order more raw materials. I'll takeyou through the manufacturing and assembly sections right now, butthey're too noisy for me to explain what's going on while we're there. <doc-sep>Peter followed numbly as Lexington led him through a maze of machines,each one seemingly intent on cutting, bending, welding, grindingor carrying some bit of metal, or just standing idle, waiting forsomething to do. The two-armed manipulators Peter had just seen wereeverywhere, scuttling from machine to machine, apparently with anexact knowledge of what they were doing and the most efficient way ofdoing it. He wondered what would happen if one of them tried to use the sameaisle they were using. He pictured a futile attempt to escape theonrushing wheels, saw himself clambering out of the path of thespeeding vehicle just in time to fall into the jaws of the punch pressthat was laboring beside him at the moment. Nervously, he looked for anexit, but his apprehension was unnecessary. The machines seemed to knowwhere they were and avoided the two men, or stopped to wait for them togo by. Back in the office section of the building, Lexington indicated a smallroom where a typewriter could be heard clattering away. Standardbusiness machines, operated by the central control mechanism. Inthat room, he said, as the door swung open and Peter saw that thetypewriter was actually a sort of teletype, with no one before thekeyboard, incoming mail is sorted and inquiries are replied to. Inthis one over here, purchase orders are prepared, and across the hallthere's a very similar rig set up in conjunction with an automaticbookkeeper to keep track of the pennies and to bill the customers. Then all you do is read the incoming mail and maintain the machinery?asked Peter, trying to shake off the feeling of open amazement thathad engulfed him. I don't even do those things, except for a few letters that come inevery week that—it doesn't want to deal with by itself. The shock of what he had just seen was showing plainly on Peter's facewhen they walked back into Lexington's office and sat down. Lexingtonlooked at him for quite a while without saying anything, his facesagging and pale. Peter didn't trust himself to speak, and let thesilence remain unbroken. Finally Lexington spoke. I know it's hard to believe, but there it is. Hard to believe? said Peter. I almost can't. The trade journals runarticles about factories like this one, but planned for ten, maybetwenty years in the future. Damn fools! exclaimed Lexington, getting part of his breath back.They could have had it years ago, if they'd been willing to drop theiridiotic notions about specialization. Lexington mopped his forehead with a large white handkerchief.Apparently the walk through the factory had tired him considerably,although it hadn't been strenuous. <doc-sep>He leaned back in his chair and began to talk in a low voice completelyin contrast with the overbearing manner he had used upon Peter'sarrival. You know what we make, of course. Yes, sir. Conduit fittings. And a lot of other electrical products, too. I started out in thisbusiness twenty years ago, using orthodox techniques. I never gotthrough university. I took a couple of years of an arts course, andgot so interested in biology that I didn't study anything else.They bounced me out of the course, and I re-entered in engineering,determined not to make the same mistake again. But I did. I got tooabsorbed in those parts of the course that had to do with electricaltheory and lost the rest as a result. The same thing happened when Itried commerce, with accounting, so I gave up and started working forone of my competitors. It wasn't too long before I saw that the onlyway I could get ahead was to open up on my own. Lexington sank deeper in his chair and stared at the ceiling as hespoke. I put myself in hock to the eyeballs, which wasn't easy,because I had just got married, and started off in a very small way.After three years, I had a fairly decent little business going, and Isuppose it would have grown just like any other business, except fora strike that came along and put me right back where I started. Mywife, whom I'm afraid I had neglected for the sake of the business,was killed in a car accident about then, and rightly or wrongly, thatmade me angrier with the union than anything else. If the union hadn'tmade things so tough for me from the beginning, I'd have had more timeto spend with my wife before her death. As things turned out—well, Iremember looking down at her coffin and thinking that I hardly knew thegirl. For the next few years, I concentrated on getting rid of as manyemployees as I could, by replacing them with automatic machines. I'ddesign the control circuits myself, in many cases wire the things upmyself, always concentrating on replacing men with machines. But itwasn't very successful. I found that the more automatic I made myplant, the lower my costs went. The lower my costs went, the morebusiness I got, and the more I had to expand. Lexington scowled. I got sick of it. I decided to try developing onemulti-purpose control circuit that would control everything, fromordering the raw materials to shipping the finished goods. As I toldyou, I had taken quite an interest in biology when I was in school,and from studies of nerve tissue in particular, plus my electricalknowledge, I had a few ideas on how to do it. It took me three years,but I began to see that I could develop circuitry that could remember,compare, detect similarities, and so on. Not the way they do it today,of course. To do what I wanted to do with these big clumsy magneticdrums, tapes, and what-not, you'd need a building the size of MountEverest. But I found that I could let organic chemistry do most of thework for me. By creating the proper compounds, with their molecules arranged inpredetermined matrixes, I found I could duplicate electrical circuitryin units so tiny that my biggest problem was getting into and out ofthe logic units with conventional wiring. I finally beat that the sameway they solved the problem of translating a picture on a screen intoelectrical signals, developed equipment to scan the units cyclically,and once I'd done that, the battle was over. I built this building and incorporated it as a separate company, tocompete with my first outfit. In the beginning, I had it rigged up todo only the manual work that you saw being done a few minutes ago inthe back of this place. I figured that the best thing for me to dowould be to turn the job of selling my stuff over to jobbers, leavingme free to do nothing except receive orders, punch the cataloguenumbers into the control console, do the billing, and collect themoney. What happened to your original company? Peter asked. <doc-sep>Lexington smiled. Well, automated as it was, it couldn't compete withthis plant. It gave me great pleasure, three years after this onestarted working, to see my old company go belly up. This company boughtthe old firm's equipment for next to nothing and I wound up with all myassets, but only one employee—me. I thought everything would be rosy from that point on, but itwasn't. I found that I couldn't keep up with the mail unless I workedimpossible hours. I added a couple of new pieces of equipment to thecontrol section. One was simply a huge memory bank. The other wasa comparator circuit. A complicated one, but a comparator circuitnevertheless. Here I was working on instinct more than anything. Ifigured that if I interconnected these circuits in such a way thatthey could sense everything that went on in the plant, and compare oneaction with another, by and by the unit would be able to see patterns. Then, through the existing command output, I figured these new unitswould be able to control the plant, continuing the various patterns ofactivity that I'd already established. Here Lexington frowned. It didn't work worth a damn! It just sat thereand did nothing. I couldn't understand it for the longest time, andthen I realized what the trouble was. I put a kicker circuit into it, asort of voltage-bias network. I reset the equipment so that while itwas still under instructions to receive orders and produce goods, itsprime purpose was to activate the kicker. The kicker, however, couldonly be activated by me, manually. Lastly, I set up one of the earlyTV pickups over the mail slitter and allowed every letter I received,every order, to be fed into the memory banks. That did it. I—I don't understand, stammered Peter. Simple! Whenever I was pleased that things were going smoothly, Ipressed the kicker button. The machine had one purpose, so far as itslogic circuits were concerned. Its object was to get me to press thatbutton. Every day I'd press it at the same time, unless things weren'tgoing well. If there had been trouble in the shop, I'd press it late,or maybe not at all. If all the orders were out on schedule, or aheadof time, I'd press it ahead of time, or maybe twice in the same day.Pretty soon the machine got the idea. I'll never forget the day I picked up an incoming order form from oneof the western jobbers, and found that the keyboard was locked when Itried to punch it into the control console. It completely baffled meat first. Then, while I was tracing out the circuits to see if I coulddiscover what was holding the keyboard lock in, I noticed that theorder was already entered on the in-progress list. I was a long timeconvincing myself that it had really happened, but there was no otherexplanation. The machine had realized that whenever one of those forms came in, Icopied the list of goods from it onto the in-progress list through theconsole keyboard, thus activating the producing mechanisms in the backof the plant. The machine had done it for me this time, then locked thekeyboard so I couldn't enter the order twice. I think I held down thekicker button for a full five minutes that day. This kicker button, Peter said tentatively, it's like the pleasurecenter in an animal's brain, isn't it? <doc-sep>When Lexington beamed, Peter felt a surge of relief. Talking with thisman was like walking a tightrope. A word too much or a word too littlemight mean the difference between getting the job or losing it. Exactly! whispered Lexington, in an almost conspiratorial tone. Ihad altered the circuitry of the machine so that it tried to giveme pleasure—because by doing so, its own pleasure circuit would beactivated. Things went fast from then on. Once I realized that the machinewas learning, I put TV monitors all over the place, so the machinecould watch everything that was going on. After a short while I hadto increase the memory bank, and later I increased it again, but therewards were worth it. Soon, by watching what I did, and then by doingit for me next time it had to be done, the machine had learned to doalmost everything, and I had time to sit back and count my winnings. At this point the door opened, and a small self-propelled cart wheeledsilently into the room. Stopping in front of Peter, it waited until hehad taken a small plate laden with two or three cakes off its surface.Then the soft, evenly modulated voice he had heard before asked, Howdo you like your coffee? Cream, sugar, both or black? Peter looked for the speaker in the side of the cart, saw nothing, andreplied, feeling slightly silly as he did so, Black, please. A square hole appeared in the top of the cart, like the elevator holein an aircraft carrier's deck. When the section of the cart's surfacerose again, a fine china cup containing steaming black coffee restedon it. Peter took it and sipped it, as he supposed he was expected todo, while the cart proceeded over to Lexington's desk. Once there, itstopped again, and another cup of coffee rose to its surface. Lexington took the coffee from the top of the car, obviously angryabout something. Silently, he waited until the cart had left theoffice, then snapped, Look at those bloody cups! Peter looked at his, which was eggshell thin, fluted with carving andornately covered with gold leaf. They look very expensive, he said. Not only expensive, but stupid and impractical! exploded Lexington.They only hold half a cup, they'll break at a touch, every one has tobe matched with its own saucer, and if you use them for any length oftime, the gold leaf comes off! Peter searched for a comment, found none that fitted this odd outburst,so he kept silent. <doc-sep>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself. Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring. It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated. It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in. You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do. It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled. It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed. The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Mr. Lexington, and what traits does he demonstrate?

Mr. Lexington is the owner of Lex Industries. He is the only person in the manufacturing plant. He is an eccentric but genius man who is surrounded by his machinery. Lexington started his business twenty years ago, and he never went through university despite having many interests. He gave up arts and biology, later re-entering through engineering. He also went through many stages, including commerce, accounting, and even working for a competitor. Lexington is especially interested in machine parts, which led him to begin firing employees and replacing them with automatic machines. His wife died in a car accident earlier, so he focused all of his attention on the machinery. By creating the central control system, he could give up his old company and build this new one. Although he is very rough towards Peter, he is also somewhat sympathetic to Peter’s past experiences and skills. He is very proud of his machinery and does not hesitate to show all of it to Peter.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> LEX By W. T. HAGGERT Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Nothing in the world could be happier and mere serene than a man who loves his work—but what happens when it loves him back? Keep your nerve, Peter Manners told himself; it's only a job. But nervehas to rest on a sturdier foundation than cash reserves just above zeroand eviction if he came away from this interview still unemployed.Clay, at the Association of Professional Engineers, who had set up theappointment, hadn't eased Peter's nervousness by admitting, I don'tknow what in hell he's looking for. He's turned down every man we'vesent him. The interview was at three. Fifteen minutes to go. Coming early wouldbetray overeagerness. Peter stood in front of the Lex Industries plantand studied it to kill time. Plain, featureless concrete walls, notlarge for a manufacturing plant—it took a scant minute to exhaust itssightseeing potential. If he walked around the building, he could, ifhe ambled, come back to the front entrance just before three. He turned the corner, stopped, frowned, wondering what there was aboutthe building that seemed so puzzling. It could not have been plainer,more ordinary. It was in fact, he only gradually realized, so plain andordinary that it was like no other building he had ever seen. There had been windows at the front. There were none at the side, andnone at the rear. Then how were the working areas lit? He looked forthe electric service lines and found them at one of the rear corners.They jolted him. The distribution transformers were ten times as largeas they should have been for a plant this size. Something else was wrong. Peter looked for minutes before he found outwhat it was. Factories usually have large side doorways for employeeschanging shifts. This building had one small office entrance facing thestreet, and the only other door was at the loading bay—big enough tohandle employee traffic, but four feet above the ground. Without anystairs, it could be used only by trucks backing up to it. Maybe theemployees' entrance was on the third side. It wasn't. <doc-sep>Staring back at the last blank wall, Peter suddenly remembered the timehe had set out to kill. He looked at his watch and gasped. At a run,set to straight-arm the door, he almost fell on his face. The door hadopened by itself. He stopped and looked for a photo-electric eye, buta soft voice said through a loudspeaker in the anteroom wall: Mr.Manners? What? he panted. Who—? You are Mr. Manners? the voice asked. He nodded, then realized he had to answer aloud if there was amicrophone around; but the soft voice said: Follow the open doors downthe hall. Mr. Lexington is expecting you. Thanks, Peter said, and a door at one side of the anteroom swung openfor him. He went through it with his composure slipping still further from hisgrip. This was no way to go into an interview, but doors kept openingbefore and shutting after him, until only one was left, and the last ofhis calm was blasted away by a bellow from within. Don't stand out there like a jackass! Either come in or go away! Peter found himself leaping obediently toward the doorway. He stoppedjust short of it, took a deep breath and huffed it out, took another,all the while thinking, Hold on now; you're in no shape for aninterview—and it's not your fault—this whole setup is geared tounnerve you: the kindergarten kid called in to see the principal. He let another bellow bounce off him as he blew out the second breath,straightened his jacket and tie, and walked in as an engineer applyingfor a position should. Mr. Lexington? he said. I'm Peter Manners. The Association— Sit down, said the man at the desk. Let's look you over. He was a huge man behind an even huger desk. Peter took a chair infront of the desk and let himself be inspected. It wasn't comfortable.He did some looking over of his own to ease the tension. The room was more than merely large, carpeted throughout witha high-pile, rich, sound-deadening rug. The oversized desk andmassive leather chairs, heavy patterned drapes, ornately framedpaintings—by God, even a glass-brick manteled fireplace and bowls withflowers!—made him feel as if he had walked down a hospital corridorinto Hollywood's idea of an office. His eyes eventually had to move to Lexington, and they were dauntedfor another instant. This was a citadel of a man—great girders offrame supporting buttresses of muscle—with a vaulting head anddrawbridge chin and a steel gaze that defied any attempt to storm it. But then Peter came out of his momentary flinch, and there was an ageto the man, about 65, and he saw the muscles had turned to fat, thecomplexion ashen, the eyes set deep as though retreating from pain, andthis was a citadel of a man, yes, but beginning to crumble. What can you do? asked Lexington abruptly. <doc-sep>Peter started, opened his mouth to answer, closed it again. He'd beenjolted too often in too short a time to be stampeded into blurting areply that would cost him this job. Good, said Lexington. Only a fool would try to answer that. Do youhave any knowledge of medicine? Not enough to matter, Peter said, stung by the compliment. I don't mean how to bandage a cut or splint a broken arm. I meanthings like cell structure, neural communication—the basics of howwe live. I'm applying for a job as engineer. I know. Are you interested in the basics of how we live? Peter looked for a hidden trap, found none. Of course. Isn't everyone? Less than you think, Lexington said. It's the preconceived notionsthey're interested in protecting. At least I won't have to beat themout of you. Thanks, said Peter, and waited for the next fast ball. How long have you been out of school? Only two years. But you knew that from the Association— No practical experience to speak of? Some, said Peter, stung again, this time not by a compliment. AfterI got my degree, I went East for a post-graduate training program withan electrical manufacturer. I got quite a bit of experience there. Thecompany— Stockpiled you, Lexington said. Peter blinked. Sir? Stockpiled you! How much did they pay you? Not very much, but we were getting the training instead of wages. Did that come out of the pamphlets they gave you? Did what come out— That guff about receiving training instead of wages! said Lexington.Any company that really wants bright trainees will compete for themwith money—cold, hard cash, not platitudes. Maybe you saw a few oftheir products being made, maybe you didn't. But you're a lot weaker incalculus than when you left school, and in a dozen other subjects too,aren't you? Well, nothing we did on the course involved higher mathematics, Peteradmitted cautiously, and I suppose I could use a refresher course incalculus. Just as I said—they stockpiled you, instead of using you as anengineer. They hired you at a cut wage and taught you things that wouldbe useful only in their own company, while in the meantime you weregetting weaker in the subjects you'd paid to learn. Or are you one ofthese birds that had the shot paid for him? I worked my way through, said Peter stiffly. If you'd stayed with them five years, do you think you'd be able toget a job with someone else? Peter considered his answer carefully. Every man the Association hadsent had been turned away. That meant bluffs didn't work. Neither, he'dseen for himself, did allowing himself to be intimidated. I hadn't thought about it, he said. I suppose it wouldn't have beeneasy. Impossible, you mean. You wouldn't know a single thing except theirprocedures, their catalogue numbers, their way of doing things. Andyou'd have forgotten so much of your engineering training, you'd bescared to take on an engineer's job, for fear you'd be asked to dosomething you'd forgotten how to do. At that point, they could take youout of the stockpile, put you in just about any job they wanted, atany wage you'd stand for, and they'd have an indentured worker with adegree—but not the price tag. You see that now? <doc-sep>It made Peter feel he had been suckered, but he had decided to playthis straight all the way. He nodded. Why'd you leave? Lexington pursued, unrelenting. I finished the course and the increase they offered on a permanentbasis wasn't enough, so I went elsewhere— With your head full of this nonsense about a shortage of engineers. Peter swallowed. I thought it would be easier to get a job than it hasbeen, yes. They start the talk about a shortage and then they keep it going. Why?So youngsters will take up engineering thinking they'll wind up among ahighly paid minority. You did, didn't you? Yes, sir. And so did all the others there with you, at school and in thisstockpiling outfit? That's right. Well, said Lexington unexpectedly, there is a shortage! And thestockpiles are the ones who made it, and who keep it going! And thehell of it is that they can't stop—when one does it, they all haveto, or their costs get out of line and they can't compete. What's thesolution? I don't know, Peter said. Lexington leaned back. That's quite a lot of admissions you've made.What makes you think you're qualified for the job I'm offering? You said you wanted an engineer. And I've just proved you're less of an engineer than when you leftschool. I have, haven't I? All right, you have, Peter said angrily. And now you're wondering why I don't get somebody fresh out of school.Right? Peter straightened up and met the old man's challenging gaze. That andwhether you're giving me a hard time just for the hell of it. Well, am I? Lexington demanded. Looking at him squarely, seeing the intensity of the pain-drawn eyes,Peter had the startling feeling that Lexington was rooting for him!No, you're not. Then what am I after? Suppose you tell me. So suddenly that it was almost like a collapse, the tension went outof the old man's face and shoulders. He nodded with inexpressibletiredness. Good again. The man I want doesn't exist. He has tobe made—the same as I was. You qualify, so far. You've lost yourillusions, but haven't had time yet to replace them with dogma orcynicism or bitterness. You saw immediately that fake humilityor cockiness wouldn't get you anywhere here, and you were right.Those were the important things. The background data I got from theAssociation on you counted, of course, but only if you were teachable.I think you are. Am I right? At least I can face knowing how much I don't know, said Peter, ifthat answers the question. It does. Partly. What did you notice about this plant? In precis form, Peter listed his observations: the absence of windowsat sides and rear, the unusual amount of power, the automatic doors,the lack of employees' entrances. Very good, said Lexington. Most people only notice the automaticdoors. Anything else? Yes, Peter said. You're the only person I've seen in the building. I'm the only one there is. Peter stared his disbelief. Automated plants were nothing new, butthey all had their limitations. Either they dealt with exactly similarproducts or things that could be handled on a flow basis, like oil orwater-soluble chemicals. Even these had no more to do than process thegoods. Come on, said Lexington, getting massively to his feet. I'll showyou. <doc-sep>The office door opened, and Peter found himself being led down theantiseptic corridor to another door which had opened, giving access tothe manufacturing area. As they moved along, between rows of seeminglydisorganized machinery, Peter noticed that the factory lights highoverhead followed their progress, turning themselves on in advanceof their coming, and going out after they had passed, keeping a poolof illumination only in the immediate area they occupied. Soon theyreached a large door which Peter recognized as the inside of the truckloading door he had seen from outside. Lexington paused here. This is the bay used by the trucks arrivingwith raw materials, he said. They back up to this door, and a setof automatic jacks outside lines up the trailer body with the doorexactly. Then the door opens and the truck is unloaded by thesematerials handling machines. Peter didn't see him touch anything, but as he spoke, three glisteningmachines, apparently self-powered, rolled noiselessly up to the door information and stopped there, apparently waiting to be inspected. They gave Peter the creeps. Simple square boxes, set on casters, withtwo arms each mounted on the sides might have looked similar. The arms,fashioned much like human arms, hung at the sides, not limply, but in arelaxed position that somehow indicated readiness. Lexington went over to one of them and patted it lovingly. Really,these machines are only an extension of one large machine. The wholeplant, as a matter of fact, is controlled from one point and is reallya single unit. These materials handlers, or manipulators, were aboutthe toughest things in the place to design. But they're tremendouslyuseful. You'll see a lot of them around. Lexington was about to leave the side of the machine when abruptly oneof the arms rose to the handkerchief in his breast pocket and daintilytugged it into a more attractive position. It took only a split second,and before Lexington could react, all three machines were moving awayto attend to mysterious duties of their own. Peter tore his eyes away from them in time to see the look offrustrated embarrassment that crossed Lexington's face, only to bereplaced by one of anger. He said nothing, however, and led Peter toa large bay where racks of steel plate, bar forms, nuts, bolts, andother materials were stored. After unloading a truck, the machines check the shipment, report anyshortages or overages, and store the materials here, he said, thetrace of anger not yet gone from his voice. When an order is received,it's translated into the catalogue numbers used internally within theplant, and machines like the ones you just saw withdraw the necessarymaterials from stock, make the component parts, assemble them, andpackage the finished goods for shipment. Simultaneously, an order issent to the billing section to bill the customer, and an order issent to our trucker to come and pick the shipment up. Meanwhile, ifthe withdrawal of the materials required has depleted our stock, thepurchasing section is instructed to order more raw materials. I'll takeyou through the manufacturing and assembly sections right now, butthey're too noisy for me to explain what's going on while we're there. <doc-sep>Peter followed numbly as Lexington led him through a maze of machines,each one seemingly intent on cutting, bending, welding, grindingor carrying some bit of metal, or just standing idle, waiting forsomething to do. The two-armed manipulators Peter had just seen wereeverywhere, scuttling from machine to machine, apparently with anexact knowledge of what they were doing and the most efficient way ofdoing it. He wondered what would happen if one of them tried to use the sameaisle they were using. He pictured a futile attempt to escape theonrushing wheels, saw himself clambering out of the path of thespeeding vehicle just in time to fall into the jaws of the punch pressthat was laboring beside him at the moment. Nervously, he looked for anexit, but his apprehension was unnecessary. The machines seemed to knowwhere they were and avoided the two men, or stopped to wait for them togo by. Back in the office section of the building, Lexington indicated a smallroom where a typewriter could be heard clattering away. Standardbusiness machines, operated by the central control mechanism. Inthat room, he said, as the door swung open and Peter saw that thetypewriter was actually a sort of teletype, with no one before thekeyboard, incoming mail is sorted and inquiries are replied to. Inthis one over here, purchase orders are prepared, and across the hallthere's a very similar rig set up in conjunction with an automaticbookkeeper to keep track of the pennies and to bill the customers. Then all you do is read the incoming mail and maintain the machinery?asked Peter, trying to shake off the feeling of open amazement thathad engulfed him. I don't even do those things, except for a few letters that come inevery week that—it doesn't want to deal with by itself. The shock of what he had just seen was showing plainly on Peter's facewhen they walked back into Lexington's office and sat down. Lexingtonlooked at him for quite a while without saying anything, his facesagging and pale. Peter didn't trust himself to speak, and let thesilence remain unbroken. Finally Lexington spoke. I know it's hard to believe, but there it is. Hard to believe? said Peter. I almost can't. The trade journals runarticles about factories like this one, but planned for ten, maybetwenty years in the future. Damn fools! exclaimed Lexington, getting part of his breath back.They could have had it years ago, if they'd been willing to drop theiridiotic notions about specialization. Lexington mopped his forehead with a large white handkerchief.Apparently the walk through the factory had tired him considerably,although it hadn't been strenuous. <doc-sep>He leaned back in his chair and began to talk in a low voice completelyin contrast with the overbearing manner he had used upon Peter'sarrival. You know what we make, of course. Yes, sir. Conduit fittings. And a lot of other electrical products, too. I started out in thisbusiness twenty years ago, using orthodox techniques. I never gotthrough university. I took a couple of years of an arts course, andgot so interested in biology that I didn't study anything else.They bounced me out of the course, and I re-entered in engineering,determined not to make the same mistake again. But I did. I got tooabsorbed in those parts of the course that had to do with electricaltheory and lost the rest as a result. The same thing happened when Itried commerce, with accounting, so I gave up and started working forone of my competitors. It wasn't too long before I saw that the onlyway I could get ahead was to open up on my own. Lexington sank deeper in his chair and stared at the ceiling as hespoke. I put myself in hock to the eyeballs, which wasn't easy,because I had just got married, and started off in a very small way.After three years, I had a fairly decent little business going, and Isuppose it would have grown just like any other business, except fora strike that came along and put me right back where I started. Mywife, whom I'm afraid I had neglected for the sake of the business,was killed in a car accident about then, and rightly or wrongly, thatmade me angrier with the union than anything else. If the union hadn'tmade things so tough for me from the beginning, I'd have had more timeto spend with my wife before her death. As things turned out—well, Iremember looking down at her coffin and thinking that I hardly knew thegirl. For the next few years, I concentrated on getting rid of as manyemployees as I could, by replacing them with automatic machines. I'ddesign the control circuits myself, in many cases wire the things upmyself, always concentrating on replacing men with machines. But itwasn't very successful. I found that the more automatic I made myplant, the lower my costs went. The lower my costs went, the morebusiness I got, and the more I had to expand. Lexington scowled. I got sick of it. I decided to try developing onemulti-purpose control circuit that would control everything, fromordering the raw materials to shipping the finished goods. As I toldyou, I had taken quite an interest in biology when I was in school,and from studies of nerve tissue in particular, plus my electricalknowledge, I had a few ideas on how to do it. It took me three years,but I began to see that I could develop circuitry that could remember,compare, detect similarities, and so on. Not the way they do it today,of course. To do what I wanted to do with these big clumsy magneticdrums, tapes, and what-not, you'd need a building the size of MountEverest. But I found that I could let organic chemistry do most of thework for me. By creating the proper compounds, with their molecules arranged inpredetermined matrixes, I found I could duplicate electrical circuitryin units so tiny that my biggest problem was getting into and out ofthe logic units with conventional wiring. I finally beat that the sameway they solved the problem of translating a picture on a screen intoelectrical signals, developed equipment to scan the units cyclically,and once I'd done that, the battle was over. I built this building and incorporated it as a separate company, tocompete with my first outfit. In the beginning, I had it rigged up todo only the manual work that you saw being done a few minutes ago inthe back of this place. I figured that the best thing for me to dowould be to turn the job of selling my stuff over to jobbers, leavingme free to do nothing except receive orders, punch the cataloguenumbers into the control console, do the billing, and collect themoney. What happened to your original company? Peter asked. <doc-sep>Lexington smiled. Well, automated as it was, it couldn't compete withthis plant. It gave me great pleasure, three years after this onestarted working, to see my old company go belly up. This company boughtthe old firm's equipment for next to nothing and I wound up with all myassets, but only one employee—me. I thought everything would be rosy from that point on, but itwasn't. I found that I couldn't keep up with the mail unless I workedimpossible hours. I added a couple of new pieces of equipment to thecontrol section. One was simply a huge memory bank. The other wasa comparator circuit. A complicated one, but a comparator circuitnevertheless. Here I was working on instinct more than anything. Ifigured that if I interconnected these circuits in such a way thatthey could sense everything that went on in the plant, and compare oneaction with another, by and by the unit would be able to see patterns. Then, through the existing command output, I figured these new unitswould be able to control the plant, continuing the various patterns ofactivity that I'd already established. Here Lexington frowned. It didn't work worth a damn! It just sat thereand did nothing. I couldn't understand it for the longest time, andthen I realized what the trouble was. I put a kicker circuit into it, asort of voltage-bias network. I reset the equipment so that while itwas still under instructions to receive orders and produce goods, itsprime purpose was to activate the kicker. The kicker, however, couldonly be activated by me, manually. Lastly, I set up one of the earlyTV pickups over the mail slitter and allowed every letter I received,every order, to be fed into the memory banks. That did it. I—I don't understand, stammered Peter. Simple! Whenever I was pleased that things were going smoothly, Ipressed the kicker button. The machine had one purpose, so far as itslogic circuits were concerned. Its object was to get me to press thatbutton. Every day I'd press it at the same time, unless things weren'tgoing well. If there had been trouble in the shop, I'd press it late,or maybe not at all. If all the orders were out on schedule, or aheadof time, I'd press it ahead of time, or maybe twice in the same day.Pretty soon the machine got the idea. I'll never forget the day I picked up an incoming order form from oneof the western jobbers, and found that the keyboard was locked when Itried to punch it into the control console. It completely baffled meat first. Then, while I was tracing out the circuits to see if I coulddiscover what was holding the keyboard lock in, I noticed that theorder was already entered on the in-progress list. I was a long timeconvincing myself that it had really happened, but there was no otherexplanation. The machine had realized that whenever one of those forms came in, Icopied the list of goods from it onto the in-progress list through theconsole keyboard, thus activating the producing mechanisms in the backof the plant. The machine had done it for me this time, then locked thekeyboard so I couldn't enter the order twice. I think I held down thekicker button for a full five minutes that day. This kicker button, Peter said tentatively, it's like the pleasurecenter in an animal's brain, isn't it? <doc-sep>When Lexington beamed, Peter felt a surge of relief. Talking with thisman was like walking a tightrope. A word too much or a word too littlemight mean the difference between getting the job or losing it. Exactly! whispered Lexington, in an almost conspiratorial tone. Ihad altered the circuitry of the machine so that it tried to giveme pleasure—because by doing so, its own pleasure circuit would beactivated. Things went fast from then on. Once I realized that the machinewas learning, I put TV monitors all over the place, so the machinecould watch everything that was going on. After a short while I hadto increase the memory bank, and later I increased it again, but therewards were worth it. Soon, by watching what I did, and then by doingit for me next time it had to be done, the machine had learned to doalmost everything, and I had time to sit back and count my winnings. At this point the door opened, and a small self-propelled cart wheeledsilently into the room. Stopping in front of Peter, it waited until hehad taken a small plate laden with two or three cakes off its surface.Then the soft, evenly modulated voice he had heard before asked, Howdo you like your coffee? Cream, sugar, both or black? Peter looked for the speaker in the side of the cart, saw nothing, andreplied, feeling slightly silly as he did so, Black, please. A square hole appeared in the top of the cart, like the elevator holein an aircraft carrier's deck. When the section of the cart's surfacerose again, a fine china cup containing steaming black coffee restedon it. Peter took it and sipped it, as he supposed he was expected todo, while the cart proceeded over to Lexington's desk. Once there, itstopped again, and another cup of coffee rose to its surface. Lexington took the coffee from the top of the car, obviously angryabout something. Silently, he waited until the cart had left theoffice, then snapped, Look at those bloody cups! Peter looked at his, which was eggshell thin, fluted with carving andornately covered with gold leaf. They look very expensive, he said. Not only expensive, but stupid and impractical! exploded Lexington.They only hold half a cup, they'll break at a touch, every one has tobe matched with its own saucer, and if you use them for any length oftime, the gold leaf comes off! Peter searched for a comment, found none that fitted this odd outburst,so he kept silent. <doc-sep>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself. Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring. It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated. It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in. You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do. It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled. It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed. The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The story is set at Lex Industries. The manufacturing plant has no employee doors, and there are no windows on the side and rear of the building. Peter goes through the many doors to reach the office. The office has a huge desk, a chair behind the desk, and a chair in front of it. The office also is also carpeted by a sound-deadening rug, massive leather chairs, framed paintings, expensive drapes, and even a glass-brick mantel fireplace. The plant is filled with machinery of all kinds, and there are factory lights that constantly shine on the machines that do work. There are many types of machines too, such as ones that look like a pair of hands and even a typewriter.

Describe the significance of the machinery throughout the story. [SEP] <s> LEX By W. T. HAGGERT Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Nothing in the world could be happier and mere serene than a man who loves his work—but what happens when it loves him back? Keep your nerve, Peter Manners told himself; it's only a job. But nervehas to rest on a sturdier foundation than cash reserves just above zeroand eviction if he came away from this interview still unemployed.Clay, at the Association of Professional Engineers, who had set up theappointment, hadn't eased Peter's nervousness by admitting, I don'tknow what in hell he's looking for. He's turned down every man we'vesent him. The interview was at three. Fifteen minutes to go. Coming early wouldbetray overeagerness. Peter stood in front of the Lex Industries plantand studied it to kill time. Plain, featureless concrete walls, notlarge for a manufacturing plant—it took a scant minute to exhaust itssightseeing potential. If he walked around the building, he could, ifhe ambled, come back to the front entrance just before three. He turned the corner, stopped, frowned, wondering what there was aboutthe building that seemed so puzzling. It could not have been plainer,more ordinary. It was in fact, he only gradually realized, so plain andordinary that it was like no other building he had ever seen. There had been windows at the front. There were none at the side, andnone at the rear. Then how were the working areas lit? He looked forthe electric service lines and found them at one of the rear corners.They jolted him. The distribution transformers were ten times as largeas they should have been for a plant this size. Something else was wrong. Peter looked for minutes before he found outwhat it was. Factories usually have large side doorways for employeeschanging shifts. This building had one small office entrance facing thestreet, and the only other door was at the loading bay—big enough tohandle employee traffic, but four feet above the ground. Without anystairs, it could be used only by trucks backing up to it. Maybe theemployees' entrance was on the third side. It wasn't. <doc-sep>Staring back at the last blank wall, Peter suddenly remembered the timehe had set out to kill. He looked at his watch and gasped. At a run,set to straight-arm the door, he almost fell on his face. The door hadopened by itself. He stopped and looked for a photo-electric eye, buta soft voice said through a loudspeaker in the anteroom wall: Mr.Manners? What? he panted. Who—? You are Mr. Manners? the voice asked. He nodded, then realized he had to answer aloud if there was amicrophone around; but the soft voice said: Follow the open doors downthe hall. Mr. Lexington is expecting you. Thanks, Peter said, and a door at one side of the anteroom swung openfor him. He went through it with his composure slipping still further from hisgrip. This was no way to go into an interview, but doors kept openingbefore and shutting after him, until only one was left, and the last ofhis calm was blasted away by a bellow from within. Don't stand out there like a jackass! Either come in or go away! Peter found himself leaping obediently toward the doorway. He stoppedjust short of it, took a deep breath and huffed it out, took another,all the while thinking, Hold on now; you're in no shape for aninterview—and it's not your fault—this whole setup is geared tounnerve you: the kindergarten kid called in to see the principal. He let another bellow bounce off him as he blew out the second breath,straightened his jacket and tie, and walked in as an engineer applyingfor a position should. Mr. Lexington? he said. I'm Peter Manners. The Association— Sit down, said the man at the desk. Let's look you over. He was a huge man behind an even huger desk. Peter took a chair infront of the desk and let himself be inspected. It wasn't comfortable.He did some looking over of his own to ease the tension. The room was more than merely large, carpeted throughout witha high-pile, rich, sound-deadening rug. The oversized desk andmassive leather chairs, heavy patterned drapes, ornately framedpaintings—by God, even a glass-brick manteled fireplace and bowls withflowers!—made him feel as if he had walked down a hospital corridorinto Hollywood's idea of an office. His eyes eventually had to move to Lexington, and they were dauntedfor another instant. This was a citadel of a man—great girders offrame supporting buttresses of muscle—with a vaulting head anddrawbridge chin and a steel gaze that defied any attempt to storm it. But then Peter came out of his momentary flinch, and there was an ageto the man, about 65, and he saw the muscles had turned to fat, thecomplexion ashen, the eyes set deep as though retreating from pain, andthis was a citadel of a man, yes, but beginning to crumble. What can you do? asked Lexington abruptly. <doc-sep>Peter started, opened his mouth to answer, closed it again. He'd beenjolted too often in too short a time to be stampeded into blurting areply that would cost him this job. Good, said Lexington. Only a fool would try to answer that. Do youhave any knowledge of medicine? Not enough to matter, Peter said, stung by the compliment. I don't mean how to bandage a cut or splint a broken arm. I meanthings like cell structure, neural communication—the basics of howwe live. I'm applying for a job as engineer. I know. Are you interested in the basics of how we live? Peter looked for a hidden trap, found none. Of course. Isn't everyone? Less than you think, Lexington said. It's the preconceived notionsthey're interested in protecting. At least I won't have to beat themout of you. Thanks, said Peter, and waited for the next fast ball. How long have you been out of school? Only two years. But you knew that from the Association— No practical experience to speak of? Some, said Peter, stung again, this time not by a compliment. AfterI got my degree, I went East for a post-graduate training program withan electrical manufacturer. I got quite a bit of experience there. Thecompany— Stockpiled you, Lexington said. Peter blinked. Sir? Stockpiled you! How much did they pay you? Not very much, but we were getting the training instead of wages. Did that come out of the pamphlets they gave you? Did what come out— That guff about receiving training instead of wages! said Lexington.Any company that really wants bright trainees will compete for themwith money—cold, hard cash, not platitudes. Maybe you saw a few oftheir products being made, maybe you didn't. But you're a lot weaker incalculus than when you left school, and in a dozen other subjects too,aren't you? Well, nothing we did on the course involved higher mathematics, Peteradmitted cautiously, and I suppose I could use a refresher course incalculus. Just as I said—they stockpiled you, instead of using you as anengineer. They hired you at a cut wage and taught you things that wouldbe useful only in their own company, while in the meantime you weregetting weaker in the subjects you'd paid to learn. Or are you one ofthese birds that had the shot paid for him? I worked my way through, said Peter stiffly. If you'd stayed with them five years, do you think you'd be able toget a job with someone else? Peter considered his answer carefully. Every man the Association hadsent had been turned away. That meant bluffs didn't work. Neither, he'dseen for himself, did allowing himself to be intimidated. I hadn't thought about it, he said. I suppose it wouldn't have beeneasy. Impossible, you mean. You wouldn't know a single thing except theirprocedures, their catalogue numbers, their way of doing things. Andyou'd have forgotten so much of your engineering training, you'd bescared to take on an engineer's job, for fear you'd be asked to dosomething you'd forgotten how to do. At that point, they could take youout of the stockpile, put you in just about any job they wanted, atany wage you'd stand for, and they'd have an indentured worker with adegree—but not the price tag. You see that now? <doc-sep>It made Peter feel he had been suckered, but he had decided to playthis straight all the way. He nodded. Why'd you leave? Lexington pursued, unrelenting. I finished the course and the increase they offered on a permanentbasis wasn't enough, so I went elsewhere— With your head full of this nonsense about a shortage of engineers. Peter swallowed. I thought it would be easier to get a job than it hasbeen, yes. They start the talk about a shortage and then they keep it going. Why?So youngsters will take up engineering thinking they'll wind up among ahighly paid minority. You did, didn't you? Yes, sir. And so did all the others there with you, at school and in thisstockpiling outfit? That's right. Well, said Lexington unexpectedly, there is a shortage! And thestockpiles are the ones who made it, and who keep it going! And thehell of it is that they can't stop—when one does it, they all haveto, or their costs get out of line and they can't compete. What's thesolution? I don't know, Peter said. Lexington leaned back. That's quite a lot of admissions you've made.What makes you think you're qualified for the job I'm offering? You said you wanted an engineer. And I've just proved you're less of an engineer than when you leftschool. I have, haven't I? All right, you have, Peter said angrily. And now you're wondering why I don't get somebody fresh out of school.Right? Peter straightened up and met the old man's challenging gaze. That andwhether you're giving me a hard time just for the hell of it. Well, am I? Lexington demanded. Looking at him squarely, seeing the intensity of the pain-drawn eyes,Peter had the startling feeling that Lexington was rooting for him!No, you're not. Then what am I after? Suppose you tell me. So suddenly that it was almost like a collapse, the tension went outof the old man's face and shoulders. He nodded with inexpressibletiredness. Good again. The man I want doesn't exist. He has tobe made—the same as I was. You qualify, so far. You've lost yourillusions, but haven't had time yet to replace them with dogma orcynicism or bitterness. You saw immediately that fake humilityor cockiness wouldn't get you anywhere here, and you were right.Those were the important things. The background data I got from theAssociation on you counted, of course, but only if you were teachable.I think you are. Am I right? At least I can face knowing how much I don't know, said Peter, ifthat answers the question. It does. Partly. What did you notice about this plant? In precis form, Peter listed his observations: the absence of windowsat sides and rear, the unusual amount of power, the automatic doors,the lack of employees' entrances. Very good, said Lexington. Most people only notice the automaticdoors. Anything else? Yes, Peter said. You're the only person I've seen in the building. I'm the only one there is. Peter stared his disbelief. Automated plants were nothing new, butthey all had their limitations. Either they dealt with exactly similarproducts or things that could be handled on a flow basis, like oil orwater-soluble chemicals. Even these had no more to do than process thegoods. Come on, said Lexington, getting massively to his feet. I'll showyou. <doc-sep>The office door opened, and Peter found himself being led down theantiseptic corridor to another door which had opened, giving access tothe manufacturing area. As they moved along, between rows of seeminglydisorganized machinery, Peter noticed that the factory lights highoverhead followed their progress, turning themselves on in advanceof their coming, and going out after they had passed, keeping a poolof illumination only in the immediate area they occupied. Soon theyreached a large door which Peter recognized as the inside of the truckloading door he had seen from outside. Lexington paused here. This is the bay used by the trucks arrivingwith raw materials, he said. They back up to this door, and a setof automatic jacks outside lines up the trailer body with the doorexactly. Then the door opens and the truck is unloaded by thesematerials handling machines. Peter didn't see him touch anything, but as he spoke, three glisteningmachines, apparently self-powered, rolled noiselessly up to the door information and stopped there, apparently waiting to be inspected. They gave Peter the creeps. Simple square boxes, set on casters, withtwo arms each mounted on the sides might have looked similar. The arms,fashioned much like human arms, hung at the sides, not limply, but in arelaxed position that somehow indicated readiness. Lexington went over to one of them and patted it lovingly. Really,these machines are only an extension of one large machine. The wholeplant, as a matter of fact, is controlled from one point and is reallya single unit. These materials handlers, or manipulators, were aboutthe toughest things in the place to design. But they're tremendouslyuseful. You'll see a lot of them around. Lexington was about to leave the side of the machine when abruptly oneof the arms rose to the handkerchief in his breast pocket and daintilytugged it into a more attractive position. It took only a split second,and before Lexington could react, all three machines were moving awayto attend to mysterious duties of their own. Peter tore his eyes away from them in time to see the look offrustrated embarrassment that crossed Lexington's face, only to bereplaced by one of anger. He said nothing, however, and led Peter toa large bay where racks of steel plate, bar forms, nuts, bolts, andother materials were stored. After unloading a truck, the machines check the shipment, report anyshortages or overages, and store the materials here, he said, thetrace of anger not yet gone from his voice. When an order is received,it's translated into the catalogue numbers used internally within theplant, and machines like the ones you just saw withdraw the necessarymaterials from stock, make the component parts, assemble them, andpackage the finished goods for shipment. Simultaneously, an order issent to the billing section to bill the customer, and an order issent to our trucker to come and pick the shipment up. Meanwhile, ifthe withdrawal of the materials required has depleted our stock, thepurchasing section is instructed to order more raw materials. I'll takeyou through the manufacturing and assembly sections right now, butthey're too noisy for me to explain what's going on while we're there. <doc-sep>Peter followed numbly as Lexington led him through a maze of machines,each one seemingly intent on cutting, bending, welding, grindingor carrying some bit of metal, or just standing idle, waiting forsomething to do. The two-armed manipulators Peter had just seen wereeverywhere, scuttling from machine to machine, apparently with anexact knowledge of what they were doing and the most efficient way ofdoing it. He wondered what would happen if one of them tried to use the sameaisle they were using. He pictured a futile attempt to escape theonrushing wheels, saw himself clambering out of the path of thespeeding vehicle just in time to fall into the jaws of the punch pressthat was laboring beside him at the moment. Nervously, he looked for anexit, but his apprehension was unnecessary. The machines seemed to knowwhere they were and avoided the two men, or stopped to wait for them togo by. Back in the office section of the building, Lexington indicated a smallroom where a typewriter could be heard clattering away. Standardbusiness machines, operated by the central control mechanism. Inthat room, he said, as the door swung open and Peter saw that thetypewriter was actually a sort of teletype, with no one before thekeyboard, incoming mail is sorted and inquiries are replied to. Inthis one over here, purchase orders are prepared, and across the hallthere's a very similar rig set up in conjunction with an automaticbookkeeper to keep track of the pennies and to bill the customers. Then all you do is read the incoming mail and maintain the machinery?asked Peter, trying to shake off the feeling of open amazement thathad engulfed him. I don't even do those things, except for a few letters that come inevery week that—it doesn't want to deal with by itself. The shock of what he had just seen was showing plainly on Peter's facewhen they walked back into Lexington's office and sat down. Lexingtonlooked at him for quite a while without saying anything, his facesagging and pale. Peter didn't trust himself to speak, and let thesilence remain unbroken. Finally Lexington spoke. I know it's hard to believe, but there it is. Hard to believe? said Peter. I almost can't. The trade journals runarticles about factories like this one, but planned for ten, maybetwenty years in the future. Damn fools! exclaimed Lexington, getting part of his breath back.They could have had it years ago, if they'd been willing to drop theiridiotic notions about specialization. Lexington mopped his forehead with a large white handkerchief.Apparently the walk through the factory had tired him considerably,although it hadn't been strenuous. <doc-sep>He leaned back in his chair and began to talk in a low voice completelyin contrast with the overbearing manner he had used upon Peter'sarrival. You know what we make, of course. Yes, sir. Conduit fittings. And a lot of other electrical products, too. I started out in thisbusiness twenty years ago, using orthodox techniques. I never gotthrough university. I took a couple of years of an arts course, andgot so interested in biology that I didn't study anything else.They bounced me out of the course, and I re-entered in engineering,determined not to make the same mistake again. But I did. I got tooabsorbed in those parts of the course that had to do with electricaltheory and lost the rest as a result. The same thing happened when Itried commerce, with accounting, so I gave up and started working forone of my competitors. It wasn't too long before I saw that the onlyway I could get ahead was to open up on my own. Lexington sank deeper in his chair and stared at the ceiling as hespoke. I put myself in hock to the eyeballs, which wasn't easy,because I had just got married, and started off in a very small way.After three years, I had a fairly decent little business going, and Isuppose it would have grown just like any other business, except fora strike that came along and put me right back where I started. Mywife, whom I'm afraid I had neglected for the sake of the business,was killed in a car accident about then, and rightly or wrongly, thatmade me angrier with the union than anything else. If the union hadn'tmade things so tough for me from the beginning, I'd have had more timeto spend with my wife before her death. As things turned out—well, Iremember looking down at her coffin and thinking that I hardly knew thegirl. For the next few years, I concentrated on getting rid of as manyemployees as I could, by replacing them with automatic machines. I'ddesign the control circuits myself, in many cases wire the things upmyself, always concentrating on replacing men with machines. But itwasn't very successful. I found that the more automatic I made myplant, the lower my costs went. The lower my costs went, the morebusiness I got, and the more I had to expand. Lexington scowled. I got sick of it. I decided to try developing onemulti-purpose control circuit that would control everything, fromordering the raw materials to shipping the finished goods. As I toldyou, I had taken quite an interest in biology when I was in school,and from studies of nerve tissue in particular, plus my electricalknowledge, I had a few ideas on how to do it. It took me three years,but I began to see that I could develop circuitry that could remember,compare, detect similarities, and so on. Not the way they do it today,of course. To do what I wanted to do with these big clumsy magneticdrums, tapes, and what-not, you'd need a building the size of MountEverest. But I found that I could let organic chemistry do most of thework for me. By creating the proper compounds, with their molecules arranged inpredetermined matrixes, I found I could duplicate electrical circuitryin units so tiny that my biggest problem was getting into and out ofthe logic units with conventional wiring. I finally beat that the sameway they solved the problem of translating a picture on a screen intoelectrical signals, developed equipment to scan the units cyclically,and once I'd done that, the battle was over. I built this building and incorporated it as a separate company, tocompete with my first outfit. In the beginning, I had it rigged up todo only the manual work that you saw being done a few minutes ago inthe back of this place. I figured that the best thing for me to dowould be to turn the job of selling my stuff over to jobbers, leavingme free to do nothing except receive orders, punch the cataloguenumbers into the control console, do the billing, and collect themoney. What happened to your original company? Peter asked. <doc-sep>Lexington smiled. Well, automated as it was, it couldn't compete withthis plant. It gave me great pleasure, three years after this onestarted working, to see my old company go belly up. This company boughtthe old firm's equipment for next to nothing and I wound up with all myassets, but only one employee—me. I thought everything would be rosy from that point on, but itwasn't. I found that I couldn't keep up with the mail unless I workedimpossible hours. I added a couple of new pieces of equipment to thecontrol section. One was simply a huge memory bank. The other wasa comparator circuit. A complicated one, but a comparator circuitnevertheless. Here I was working on instinct more than anything. Ifigured that if I interconnected these circuits in such a way thatthey could sense everything that went on in the plant, and compare oneaction with another, by and by the unit would be able to see patterns. Then, through the existing command output, I figured these new unitswould be able to control the plant, continuing the various patterns ofactivity that I'd already established. Here Lexington frowned. It didn't work worth a damn! It just sat thereand did nothing. I couldn't understand it for the longest time, andthen I realized what the trouble was. I put a kicker circuit into it, asort of voltage-bias network. I reset the equipment so that while itwas still under instructions to receive orders and produce goods, itsprime purpose was to activate the kicker. The kicker, however, couldonly be activated by me, manually. Lastly, I set up one of the earlyTV pickups over the mail slitter and allowed every letter I received,every order, to be fed into the memory banks. That did it. I—I don't understand, stammered Peter. Simple! Whenever I was pleased that things were going smoothly, Ipressed the kicker button. The machine had one purpose, so far as itslogic circuits were concerned. Its object was to get me to press thatbutton. Every day I'd press it at the same time, unless things weren'tgoing well. If there had been trouble in the shop, I'd press it late,or maybe not at all. If all the orders were out on schedule, or aheadof time, I'd press it ahead of time, or maybe twice in the same day.Pretty soon the machine got the idea. I'll never forget the day I picked up an incoming order form from oneof the western jobbers, and found that the keyboard was locked when Itried to punch it into the control console. It completely baffled meat first. Then, while I was tracing out the circuits to see if I coulddiscover what was holding the keyboard lock in, I noticed that theorder was already entered on the in-progress list. I was a long timeconvincing myself that it had really happened, but there was no otherexplanation. The machine had realized that whenever one of those forms came in, Icopied the list of goods from it onto the in-progress list through theconsole keyboard, thus activating the producing mechanisms in the backof the plant. The machine had done it for me this time, then locked thekeyboard so I couldn't enter the order twice. I think I held down thekicker button for a full five minutes that day. This kicker button, Peter said tentatively, it's like the pleasurecenter in an animal's brain, isn't it? <doc-sep>When Lexington beamed, Peter felt a surge of relief. Talking with thisman was like walking a tightrope. A word too much or a word too littlemight mean the difference between getting the job or losing it. Exactly! whispered Lexington, in an almost conspiratorial tone. Ihad altered the circuitry of the machine so that it tried to giveme pleasure—because by doing so, its own pleasure circuit would beactivated. Things went fast from then on. Once I realized that the machinewas learning, I put TV monitors all over the place, so the machinecould watch everything that was going on. After a short while I hadto increase the memory bank, and later I increased it again, but therewards were worth it. Soon, by watching what I did, and then by doingit for me next time it had to be done, the machine had learned to doalmost everything, and I had time to sit back and count my winnings. At this point the door opened, and a small self-propelled cart wheeledsilently into the room. Stopping in front of Peter, it waited until hehad taken a small plate laden with two or three cakes off its surface.Then the soft, evenly modulated voice he had heard before asked, Howdo you like your coffee? Cream, sugar, both or black? Peter looked for the speaker in the side of the cart, saw nothing, andreplied, feeling slightly silly as he did so, Black, please. A square hole appeared in the top of the cart, like the elevator holein an aircraft carrier's deck. When the section of the cart's surfacerose again, a fine china cup containing steaming black coffee restedon it. Peter took it and sipped it, as he supposed he was expected todo, while the cart proceeded over to Lexington's desk. Once there, itstopped again, and another cup of coffee rose to its surface. Lexington took the coffee from the top of the car, obviously angryabout something. Silently, he waited until the cart had left theoffice, then snapped, Look at those bloody cups! Peter looked at his, which was eggshell thin, fluted with carving andornately covered with gold leaf. They look very expensive, he said. Not only expensive, but stupid and impractical! exploded Lexington.They only hold half a cup, they'll break at a touch, every one has tobe matched with its own saucer, and if you use them for any length oftime, the gold leaf comes off! Peter searched for a comment, found none that fitted this odd outburst,so he kept silent. <doc-sep>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself. Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring. It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated. It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in. You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do. It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled. It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed. The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the significance of the machinery throughout the story.

The machinery is what keeps Lex Industries running and for Mr. Lexington to earn astronomical amounts of money continuously. It replaces the need for human workers and saves much of the costs that would have had to be distributed to workers. It is also the lifeline of Mr. Lexington’s work and the breakthrough of his research career. Peter considers the machinery to be ideas that are planned for ten to twenty years into the future. This makes the machinery even more impressive. The fact that an entire business can be operated with the central control system makes it even more significant in helping Mr. Lexington get ahead of his competitors.

What is the relationship between Mr. Lexington and Peter? [SEP] <s> LEX By W. T. HAGGERT Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Nothing in the world could be happier and mere serene than a man who loves his work—but what happens when it loves him back? Keep your nerve, Peter Manners told himself; it's only a job. But nervehas to rest on a sturdier foundation than cash reserves just above zeroand eviction if he came away from this interview still unemployed.Clay, at the Association of Professional Engineers, who had set up theappointment, hadn't eased Peter's nervousness by admitting, I don'tknow what in hell he's looking for. He's turned down every man we'vesent him. The interview was at three. Fifteen minutes to go. Coming early wouldbetray overeagerness. Peter stood in front of the Lex Industries plantand studied it to kill time. Plain, featureless concrete walls, notlarge for a manufacturing plant—it took a scant minute to exhaust itssightseeing potential. If he walked around the building, he could, ifhe ambled, come back to the front entrance just before three. He turned the corner, stopped, frowned, wondering what there was aboutthe building that seemed so puzzling. It could not have been plainer,more ordinary. It was in fact, he only gradually realized, so plain andordinary that it was like no other building he had ever seen. There had been windows at the front. There were none at the side, andnone at the rear. Then how were the working areas lit? He looked forthe electric service lines and found them at one of the rear corners.They jolted him. The distribution transformers were ten times as largeas they should have been for a plant this size. Something else was wrong. Peter looked for minutes before he found outwhat it was. Factories usually have large side doorways for employeeschanging shifts. This building had one small office entrance facing thestreet, and the only other door was at the loading bay—big enough tohandle employee traffic, but four feet above the ground. Without anystairs, it could be used only by trucks backing up to it. Maybe theemployees' entrance was on the third side. It wasn't. <doc-sep>Staring back at the last blank wall, Peter suddenly remembered the timehe had set out to kill. He looked at his watch and gasped. At a run,set to straight-arm the door, he almost fell on his face. The door hadopened by itself. He stopped and looked for a photo-electric eye, buta soft voice said through a loudspeaker in the anteroom wall: Mr.Manners? What? he panted. Who—? You are Mr. Manners? the voice asked. He nodded, then realized he had to answer aloud if there was amicrophone around; but the soft voice said: Follow the open doors downthe hall. Mr. Lexington is expecting you. Thanks, Peter said, and a door at one side of the anteroom swung openfor him. He went through it with his composure slipping still further from hisgrip. This was no way to go into an interview, but doors kept openingbefore and shutting after him, until only one was left, and the last ofhis calm was blasted away by a bellow from within. Don't stand out there like a jackass! Either come in or go away! Peter found himself leaping obediently toward the doorway. He stoppedjust short of it, took a deep breath and huffed it out, took another,all the while thinking, Hold on now; you're in no shape for aninterview—and it's not your fault—this whole setup is geared tounnerve you: the kindergarten kid called in to see the principal. He let another bellow bounce off him as he blew out the second breath,straightened his jacket and tie, and walked in as an engineer applyingfor a position should. Mr. Lexington? he said. I'm Peter Manners. The Association— Sit down, said the man at the desk. Let's look you over. He was a huge man behind an even huger desk. Peter took a chair infront of the desk and let himself be inspected. It wasn't comfortable.He did some looking over of his own to ease the tension. The room was more than merely large, carpeted throughout witha high-pile, rich, sound-deadening rug. The oversized desk andmassive leather chairs, heavy patterned drapes, ornately framedpaintings—by God, even a glass-brick manteled fireplace and bowls withflowers!—made him feel as if he had walked down a hospital corridorinto Hollywood's idea of an office. His eyes eventually had to move to Lexington, and they were dauntedfor another instant. This was a citadel of a man—great girders offrame supporting buttresses of muscle—with a vaulting head anddrawbridge chin and a steel gaze that defied any attempt to storm it. But then Peter came out of his momentary flinch, and there was an ageto the man, about 65, and he saw the muscles had turned to fat, thecomplexion ashen, the eyes set deep as though retreating from pain, andthis was a citadel of a man, yes, but beginning to crumble. What can you do? asked Lexington abruptly. <doc-sep>Peter started, opened his mouth to answer, closed it again. He'd beenjolted too often in too short a time to be stampeded into blurting areply that would cost him this job. Good, said Lexington. Only a fool would try to answer that. Do youhave any knowledge of medicine? Not enough to matter, Peter said, stung by the compliment. I don't mean how to bandage a cut or splint a broken arm. I meanthings like cell structure, neural communication—the basics of howwe live. I'm applying for a job as engineer. I know. Are you interested in the basics of how we live? Peter looked for a hidden trap, found none. Of course. Isn't everyone? Less than you think, Lexington said. It's the preconceived notionsthey're interested in protecting. At least I won't have to beat themout of you. Thanks, said Peter, and waited for the next fast ball. How long have you been out of school? Only two years. But you knew that from the Association— No practical experience to speak of? Some, said Peter, stung again, this time not by a compliment. AfterI got my degree, I went East for a post-graduate training program withan electrical manufacturer. I got quite a bit of experience there. Thecompany— Stockpiled you, Lexington said. Peter blinked. Sir? Stockpiled you! How much did they pay you? Not very much, but we were getting the training instead of wages. Did that come out of the pamphlets they gave you? Did what come out— That guff about receiving training instead of wages! said Lexington.Any company that really wants bright trainees will compete for themwith money—cold, hard cash, not platitudes. Maybe you saw a few oftheir products being made, maybe you didn't. But you're a lot weaker incalculus than when you left school, and in a dozen other subjects too,aren't you? Well, nothing we did on the course involved higher mathematics, Peteradmitted cautiously, and I suppose I could use a refresher course incalculus. Just as I said—they stockpiled you, instead of using you as anengineer. They hired you at a cut wage and taught you things that wouldbe useful only in their own company, while in the meantime you weregetting weaker in the subjects you'd paid to learn. Or are you one ofthese birds that had the shot paid for him? I worked my way through, said Peter stiffly. If you'd stayed with them five years, do you think you'd be able toget a job with someone else? Peter considered his answer carefully. Every man the Association hadsent had been turned away. That meant bluffs didn't work. Neither, he'dseen for himself, did allowing himself to be intimidated. I hadn't thought about it, he said. I suppose it wouldn't have beeneasy. Impossible, you mean. You wouldn't know a single thing except theirprocedures, their catalogue numbers, their way of doing things. Andyou'd have forgotten so much of your engineering training, you'd bescared to take on an engineer's job, for fear you'd be asked to dosomething you'd forgotten how to do. At that point, they could take youout of the stockpile, put you in just about any job they wanted, atany wage you'd stand for, and they'd have an indentured worker with adegree—but not the price tag. You see that now? <doc-sep>It made Peter feel he had been suckered, but he had decided to playthis straight all the way. He nodded. Why'd you leave? Lexington pursued, unrelenting. I finished the course and the increase they offered on a permanentbasis wasn't enough, so I went elsewhere— With your head full of this nonsense about a shortage of engineers. Peter swallowed. I thought it would be easier to get a job than it hasbeen, yes. They start the talk about a shortage and then they keep it going. Why?So youngsters will take up engineering thinking they'll wind up among ahighly paid minority. You did, didn't you? Yes, sir. And so did all the others there with you, at school and in thisstockpiling outfit? That's right. Well, said Lexington unexpectedly, there is a shortage! And thestockpiles are the ones who made it, and who keep it going! And thehell of it is that they can't stop—when one does it, they all haveto, or their costs get out of line and they can't compete. What's thesolution? I don't know, Peter said. Lexington leaned back. That's quite a lot of admissions you've made.What makes you think you're qualified for the job I'm offering? You said you wanted an engineer. And I've just proved you're less of an engineer than when you leftschool. I have, haven't I? All right, you have, Peter said angrily. And now you're wondering why I don't get somebody fresh out of school.Right? Peter straightened up and met the old man's challenging gaze. That andwhether you're giving me a hard time just for the hell of it. Well, am I? Lexington demanded. Looking at him squarely, seeing the intensity of the pain-drawn eyes,Peter had the startling feeling that Lexington was rooting for him!No, you're not. Then what am I after? Suppose you tell me. So suddenly that it was almost like a collapse, the tension went outof the old man's face and shoulders. He nodded with inexpressibletiredness. Good again. The man I want doesn't exist. He has tobe made—the same as I was. You qualify, so far. You've lost yourillusions, but haven't had time yet to replace them with dogma orcynicism or bitterness. You saw immediately that fake humilityor cockiness wouldn't get you anywhere here, and you were right.Those were the important things. The background data I got from theAssociation on you counted, of course, but only if you were teachable.I think you are. Am I right? At least I can face knowing how much I don't know, said Peter, ifthat answers the question. It does. Partly. What did you notice about this plant? In precis form, Peter listed his observations: the absence of windowsat sides and rear, the unusual amount of power, the automatic doors,the lack of employees' entrances. Very good, said Lexington. Most people only notice the automaticdoors. Anything else? Yes, Peter said. You're the only person I've seen in the building. I'm the only one there is. Peter stared his disbelief. Automated plants were nothing new, butthey all had their limitations. Either they dealt with exactly similarproducts or things that could be handled on a flow basis, like oil orwater-soluble chemicals. Even these had no more to do than process thegoods. Come on, said Lexington, getting massively to his feet. I'll showyou. <doc-sep>The office door opened, and Peter found himself being led down theantiseptic corridor to another door which had opened, giving access tothe manufacturing area. As they moved along, between rows of seeminglydisorganized machinery, Peter noticed that the factory lights highoverhead followed their progress, turning themselves on in advanceof their coming, and going out after they had passed, keeping a poolof illumination only in the immediate area they occupied. Soon theyreached a large door which Peter recognized as the inside of the truckloading door he had seen from outside. Lexington paused here. This is the bay used by the trucks arrivingwith raw materials, he said. They back up to this door, and a setof automatic jacks outside lines up the trailer body with the doorexactly. Then the door opens and the truck is unloaded by thesematerials handling machines. Peter didn't see him touch anything, but as he spoke, three glisteningmachines, apparently self-powered, rolled noiselessly up to the door information and stopped there, apparently waiting to be inspected. They gave Peter the creeps. Simple square boxes, set on casters, withtwo arms each mounted on the sides might have looked similar. The arms,fashioned much like human arms, hung at the sides, not limply, but in arelaxed position that somehow indicated readiness. Lexington went over to one of them and patted it lovingly. Really,these machines are only an extension of one large machine. The wholeplant, as a matter of fact, is controlled from one point and is reallya single unit. These materials handlers, or manipulators, were aboutthe toughest things in the place to design. But they're tremendouslyuseful. You'll see a lot of them around. Lexington was about to leave the side of the machine when abruptly oneof the arms rose to the handkerchief in his breast pocket and daintilytugged it into a more attractive position. It took only a split second,and before Lexington could react, all three machines were moving awayto attend to mysterious duties of their own. Peter tore his eyes away from them in time to see the look offrustrated embarrassment that crossed Lexington's face, only to bereplaced by one of anger. He said nothing, however, and led Peter toa large bay where racks of steel plate, bar forms, nuts, bolts, andother materials were stored. After unloading a truck, the machines check the shipment, report anyshortages or overages, and store the materials here, he said, thetrace of anger not yet gone from his voice. When an order is received,it's translated into the catalogue numbers used internally within theplant, and machines like the ones you just saw withdraw the necessarymaterials from stock, make the component parts, assemble them, andpackage the finished goods for shipment. Simultaneously, an order issent to the billing section to bill the customer, and an order issent to our trucker to come and pick the shipment up. Meanwhile, ifthe withdrawal of the materials required has depleted our stock, thepurchasing section is instructed to order more raw materials. I'll takeyou through the manufacturing and assembly sections right now, butthey're too noisy for me to explain what's going on while we're there. <doc-sep>Peter followed numbly as Lexington led him through a maze of machines,each one seemingly intent on cutting, bending, welding, grindingor carrying some bit of metal, or just standing idle, waiting forsomething to do. The two-armed manipulators Peter had just seen wereeverywhere, scuttling from machine to machine, apparently with anexact knowledge of what they were doing and the most efficient way ofdoing it. He wondered what would happen if one of them tried to use the sameaisle they were using. He pictured a futile attempt to escape theonrushing wheels, saw himself clambering out of the path of thespeeding vehicle just in time to fall into the jaws of the punch pressthat was laboring beside him at the moment. Nervously, he looked for anexit, but his apprehension was unnecessary. The machines seemed to knowwhere they were and avoided the two men, or stopped to wait for them togo by. Back in the office section of the building, Lexington indicated a smallroom where a typewriter could be heard clattering away. Standardbusiness machines, operated by the central control mechanism. Inthat room, he said, as the door swung open and Peter saw that thetypewriter was actually a sort of teletype, with no one before thekeyboard, incoming mail is sorted and inquiries are replied to. Inthis one over here, purchase orders are prepared, and across the hallthere's a very similar rig set up in conjunction with an automaticbookkeeper to keep track of the pennies and to bill the customers. Then all you do is read the incoming mail and maintain the machinery?asked Peter, trying to shake off the feeling of open amazement thathad engulfed him. I don't even do those things, except for a few letters that come inevery week that—it doesn't want to deal with by itself. The shock of what he had just seen was showing plainly on Peter's facewhen they walked back into Lexington's office and sat down. Lexingtonlooked at him for quite a while without saying anything, his facesagging and pale. Peter didn't trust himself to speak, and let thesilence remain unbroken. Finally Lexington spoke. I know it's hard to believe, but there it is. Hard to believe? said Peter. I almost can't. The trade journals runarticles about factories like this one, but planned for ten, maybetwenty years in the future. Damn fools! exclaimed Lexington, getting part of his breath back.They could have had it years ago, if they'd been willing to drop theiridiotic notions about specialization. Lexington mopped his forehead with a large white handkerchief.Apparently the walk through the factory had tired him considerably,although it hadn't been strenuous. <doc-sep>He leaned back in his chair and began to talk in a low voice completelyin contrast with the overbearing manner he had used upon Peter'sarrival. You know what we make, of course. Yes, sir. Conduit fittings. And a lot of other electrical products, too. I started out in thisbusiness twenty years ago, using orthodox techniques. I never gotthrough university. I took a couple of years of an arts course, andgot so interested in biology that I didn't study anything else.They bounced me out of the course, and I re-entered in engineering,determined not to make the same mistake again. But I did. I got tooabsorbed in those parts of the course that had to do with electricaltheory and lost the rest as a result. The same thing happened when Itried commerce, with accounting, so I gave up and started working forone of my competitors. It wasn't too long before I saw that the onlyway I could get ahead was to open up on my own. Lexington sank deeper in his chair and stared at the ceiling as hespoke. I put myself in hock to the eyeballs, which wasn't easy,because I had just got married, and started off in a very small way.After three years, I had a fairly decent little business going, and Isuppose it would have grown just like any other business, except fora strike that came along and put me right back where I started. Mywife, whom I'm afraid I had neglected for the sake of the business,was killed in a car accident about then, and rightly or wrongly, thatmade me angrier with the union than anything else. If the union hadn'tmade things so tough for me from the beginning, I'd have had more timeto spend with my wife before her death. As things turned out—well, Iremember looking down at her coffin and thinking that I hardly knew thegirl. For the next few years, I concentrated on getting rid of as manyemployees as I could, by replacing them with automatic machines. I'ddesign the control circuits myself, in many cases wire the things upmyself, always concentrating on replacing men with machines. But itwasn't very successful. I found that the more automatic I made myplant, the lower my costs went. The lower my costs went, the morebusiness I got, and the more I had to expand. Lexington scowled. I got sick of it. I decided to try developing onemulti-purpose control circuit that would control everything, fromordering the raw materials to shipping the finished goods. As I toldyou, I had taken quite an interest in biology when I was in school,and from studies of nerve tissue in particular, plus my electricalknowledge, I had a few ideas on how to do it. It took me three years,but I began to see that I could develop circuitry that could remember,compare, detect similarities, and so on. Not the way they do it today,of course. To do what I wanted to do with these big clumsy magneticdrums, tapes, and what-not, you'd need a building the size of MountEverest. But I found that I could let organic chemistry do most of thework for me. By creating the proper compounds, with their molecules arranged inpredetermined matrixes, I found I could duplicate electrical circuitryin units so tiny that my biggest problem was getting into and out ofthe logic units with conventional wiring. I finally beat that the sameway they solved the problem of translating a picture on a screen intoelectrical signals, developed equipment to scan the units cyclically,and once I'd done that, the battle was over. I built this building and incorporated it as a separate company, tocompete with my first outfit. In the beginning, I had it rigged up todo only the manual work that you saw being done a few minutes ago inthe back of this place. I figured that the best thing for me to dowould be to turn the job of selling my stuff over to jobbers, leavingme free to do nothing except receive orders, punch the cataloguenumbers into the control console, do the billing, and collect themoney. What happened to your original company? Peter asked. <doc-sep>Lexington smiled. Well, automated as it was, it couldn't compete withthis plant. It gave me great pleasure, three years after this onestarted working, to see my old company go belly up. This company boughtthe old firm's equipment for next to nothing and I wound up with all myassets, but only one employee—me. I thought everything would be rosy from that point on, but itwasn't. I found that I couldn't keep up with the mail unless I workedimpossible hours. I added a couple of new pieces of equipment to thecontrol section. One was simply a huge memory bank. The other wasa comparator circuit. A complicated one, but a comparator circuitnevertheless. Here I was working on instinct more than anything. Ifigured that if I interconnected these circuits in such a way thatthey could sense everything that went on in the plant, and compare oneaction with another, by and by the unit would be able to see patterns. Then, through the existing command output, I figured these new unitswould be able to control the plant, continuing the various patterns ofactivity that I'd already established. Here Lexington frowned. It didn't work worth a damn! It just sat thereand did nothing. I couldn't understand it for the longest time, andthen I realized what the trouble was. I put a kicker circuit into it, asort of voltage-bias network. I reset the equipment so that while itwas still under instructions to receive orders and produce goods, itsprime purpose was to activate the kicker. The kicker, however, couldonly be activated by me, manually. Lastly, I set up one of the earlyTV pickups over the mail slitter and allowed every letter I received,every order, to be fed into the memory banks. That did it. I—I don't understand, stammered Peter. Simple! Whenever I was pleased that things were going smoothly, Ipressed the kicker button. The machine had one purpose, so far as itslogic circuits were concerned. Its object was to get me to press thatbutton. Every day I'd press it at the same time, unless things weren'tgoing well. If there had been trouble in the shop, I'd press it late,or maybe not at all. If all the orders were out on schedule, or aheadof time, I'd press it ahead of time, or maybe twice in the same day.Pretty soon the machine got the idea. I'll never forget the day I picked up an incoming order form from oneof the western jobbers, and found that the keyboard was locked when Itried to punch it into the control console. It completely baffled meat first. Then, while I was tracing out the circuits to see if I coulddiscover what was holding the keyboard lock in, I noticed that theorder was already entered on the in-progress list. I was a long timeconvincing myself that it had really happened, but there was no otherexplanation. The machine had realized that whenever one of those forms came in, Icopied the list of goods from it onto the in-progress list through theconsole keyboard, thus activating the producing mechanisms in the backof the plant. The machine had done it for me this time, then locked thekeyboard so I couldn't enter the order twice. I think I held down thekicker button for a full five minutes that day. This kicker button, Peter said tentatively, it's like the pleasurecenter in an animal's brain, isn't it? <doc-sep>When Lexington beamed, Peter felt a surge of relief. Talking with thisman was like walking a tightrope. A word too much or a word too littlemight mean the difference between getting the job or losing it. Exactly! whispered Lexington, in an almost conspiratorial tone. Ihad altered the circuitry of the machine so that it tried to giveme pleasure—because by doing so, its own pleasure circuit would beactivated. Things went fast from then on. Once I realized that the machinewas learning, I put TV monitors all over the place, so the machinecould watch everything that was going on. After a short while I hadto increase the memory bank, and later I increased it again, but therewards were worth it. Soon, by watching what I did, and then by doingit for me next time it had to be done, the machine had learned to doalmost everything, and I had time to sit back and count my winnings. At this point the door opened, and a small self-propelled cart wheeledsilently into the room. Stopping in front of Peter, it waited until hehad taken a small plate laden with two or three cakes off its surface.Then the soft, evenly modulated voice he had heard before asked, Howdo you like your coffee? Cream, sugar, both or black? Peter looked for the speaker in the side of the cart, saw nothing, andreplied, feeling slightly silly as he did so, Black, please. A square hole appeared in the top of the cart, like the elevator holein an aircraft carrier's deck. When the section of the cart's surfacerose again, a fine china cup containing steaming black coffee restedon it. Peter took it and sipped it, as he supposed he was expected todo, while the cart proceeded over to Lexington's desk. Once there, itstopped again, and another cup of coffee rose to its surface. Lexington took the coffee from the top of the car, obviously angryabout something. Silently, he waited until the cart had left theoffice, then snapped, Look at those bloody cups! Peter looked at his, which was eggshell thin, fluted with carving andornately covered with gold leaf. They look very expensive, he said. Not only expensive, but stupid and impractical! exploded Lexington.They only hold half a cup, they'll break at a touch, every one has tobe matched with its own saucer, and if you use them for any length oftime, the gold leaf comes off! Peter searched for a comment, found none that fitted this odd outburst,so he kept silent. <doc-sep>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself. Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring. It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated. It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in. You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do. It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled. It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed. The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Mr. Lexington and Peter?

Peter first meets Mr. Lexington at his interview. He finds the other man strange from the seemingly random questions that he asks. Mr. Lexington, however, becomes more interested in Peter when he is satisfied with the responses given. While the two of them are not close, Mr. Lexington does not dismiss him on the spot and instead takes him to tour the entire factory. He also elaborates on his life story to Peter, and he does have a certain degree of trust for the other man. On the other hand, Peter is very impressed by Mr. Lexington’s work and becomes more interested in how he has accomplished all of this in the time since he first began working on his business.