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<s> The Winning of the Moon BY KRIS NEVILLE The enemy was friendly enough. Trouble was—their friendship was as dangerous as their hate! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning. Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans. Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision. Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown? Is Pinov, came the reply. Help? Nyet , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom? Is Pinov, came the reply. Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation. Boom! said Pinov happily. When? Boom—boom! said Pinov. Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English. He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over? No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems. Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on. In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more. Static? Nope. We'll get static on these things. A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly. Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face. Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now. I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin? Is Pinov. Help? Nyet. Pinov's still there, Major Winship said. Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to. I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said. Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in. Let's all— No. I've got to cool off. Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago. The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all. Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep. Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put. <doc-sep>He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, andthe temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper momentof pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped intothe illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second stepwhen the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated besidethe radio equipment. The ground moved again. Charlie! Charlie! I'm okay, Major Winship answered. Okay! Okay! It's— There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased. Hey, Les, how's it look? Capt. Wilkins asked. Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay? Okay, Major Winship said. We told them this might happen, he addedbitterly. There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding theirbreath. I guess it's over, said Major Winship, getting to his feet. Wait abit more, there may be an after-shock. He switched once again to theemergency channel. Is Pinov, came the supremely relaxed voice. Help? Major Winship whinnied in disgust. Nyet! he snarled. To the otherAmericans: Our comrades seem unconcerned. Tough. They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled andsnapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at eachother. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communicationscompletely. It then abated to something in excess of normal. Well, Lt. Chandler commented, even though we didn't build this thingto withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right. I guess I was just— Major Winship began. Oh, hell! We're losingpressure. Where's the markers? By the lug cabinet. Got 'em, Major Winship said a moment later. He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it awayand plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed asthough it were breathing and then it ruptured. Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply whichhad cut in automatically with the pressure drop. You guys wait. It'son your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it. He moved for the plastic sheeting. We've lost about three feet of calk out here, Capt. Lawler said. Ican see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate. Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. How's that? Not yet. I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It'ssprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads. There was a splatter of static. Damn! Major Winship said, they should have made these things moreflexible. Still coming out. Best I can do. Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowlyto slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on thefloor. Come on in, he said dryly. <doc-sep>With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of thefive hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cablestrailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The livingspace was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks juttingout from the walls about six feet from the floor. Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. Well,he said wryly, it doesn't smell as bad now. Oops, said Major Winship. Just a second. They're coming in. Heswitched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov. Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay? This is Major Winship. Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major? Little leak. You? Came through without damage. General Finogenov paused a moment. Whenno comment was forthcoming, he continued: Perhaps we built a bit morestrongly, Major. You did this deliberately, Major Winship said testily. No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I verymuch regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. Afterrepeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then tohave something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.Is there anything at all we can do? Just leave us alone, thank you, Major Winship said and cut off thecommunication. What'd they say? Capt. Wilkins asked. Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this. That's nice, Lt. Chandler said. I'll be damned surprised, Major Winship said, if they got anyseismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's getthis leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound? Larry, where's the inventory? Les has got it. Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted. Larry, Major Winship said, why don't you get Earth? Okay. Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended. Got the inventory sheet, Les? Right here. Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins hadenergized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leanedhis helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. We can'thear anything without any air. Major Winship looked at the microphone. Well, I'll just report and—He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. Yes, he said.That's right, isn't it. Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. Some days you don't mine atall, he said. Les, have you found it? It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here. Well, find it. Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. I saw it— Skip, help look. Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. Wehaven't got all day. A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. Here itis! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff. Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up. Marker showed it over here, Major Winship said, inching over to thewall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger. How does this stuff work? Capt. Lawler asked. They huddled over the instruction sheet. Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzleruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour beforeservice. Major Winship said dryly, Never mind. I notice it hardens on contactwith air. Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, Nowthat makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it? How do they possibly think—? Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference, Lt. Chandler said. Someair must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. Agorilla couldn't extrude it. How're the other ones? asked Major Winship. Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. Oh, they're allhard, too. Who was supposed to check? demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation. The only way you can check is to extrude it, Lt. Chandler said, andif it does extrude, you've ruined it. That's that, Major Winship said. There's nothing for it but to yellhelp. II Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. TheSoviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom ofa natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to thetip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angledleft and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way tripof approximately thirty exhausting minutes. Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.Wilkins stayed for company. I want a cigarette in the worst way, Capt. Wilkins said. So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unlesssomething else goes wrong. As long as they'll loan us the calking compound, Capt. Wilkins said. Yeah, yeah, Major Winship said. Let's eat. You got any concentrate? I'm empty. I'll load you, Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily. It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkinscursed twice during the operation. I'd hate to live in this thing forany period. I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians, MajorWinship said. I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky piecesof junk around. They ate. Really horrible stuff. Nutritious. After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, Now I'd like a cup ofhot tea. I'm cooled off. Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. What brought this on? I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've gotbetter than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better thantwelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there'sonly seven of them right now. That's living. They've been here six years longer, after all. Finogenov had a clay samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His ownoffice is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. Anda wooden desk. A wooden desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everythingbig and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less— They've got the power-plants for it. Do you think he did that deliberately? Major Winship asked. I thinkhe's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin'sbuilt to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don'tsuppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure gotthe jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me? You told me, Capt. Wilkins said. <doc-sep>After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, To hell with the Russianengineer. If you've got all that power.... That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.Like a little kid. Maybe they don't make aluminum desks. They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet isaluminum. You know they're just showing off. Let me wire you up, Capt. Wilkins said. We ought to report. That's going to take awhile. It's something to do while we wait. I guess we ought to. Major Winship came down from the bunk andsat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed theequipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. Heunearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exteriorplate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.Okay? Okay, Major Winship gestured. They roused Earth. This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, theAmerican moonbase. At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he wasnow on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change hisair bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. Hereached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet. This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship. Just a moment. Is everything all right? Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed. A-Okay, he said. Just a moment. What's wrong? came the worried question. In the background, he heardsomeone say, I think there's something wrong. Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in asavage grimace. Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to facethrough their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrouslylarge to the other. Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. Onearm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winshipcould no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effortwas not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry ininvoluntary realism. This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth. Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word Leak? Air, Major Winship said silently. Leak? Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive. <doc-sep>Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack. Oh. Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged thespeaker in again. ... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in! We're here, Major Winship said. All right? Are you all right? We're all right. A-Okay. Major Winship, mindful of the extent of hispotential audience, took a deep breath. Earlier this morning, theSoviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the ostensible purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means ofseismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spiteof American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulatedstresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face ofvigorous American protests. Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restrainingcables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle. These protests have proved well founded, Major Winship continued.Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on towithstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. Nopersonnel were injured and there was no equipment damage. Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle wasbeing inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winshipflicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation. However, he continued, we did experience a minor leak in the dome,which is presently being repaired. The Soviet Union, came the reply, has reported the disturbance andhas tendered their official apology. You want it? It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum hasdestroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately threeweeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, sothat, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain thenecessary replacement. The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gavethe conversation a tone of deliberation. A new voice came on. We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We willbe able to deliver replacements in about ten days. I will forward a coded report on the occurrence, Major Winship said. Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leakrepaired? The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out. He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back. Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from thetransmitter. Wow! said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. Fora moment there, I thought.... What? Capt. Wilkins asked with interest. I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenovto get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for aminute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in theworld listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see thenickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,that was rough. III Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. Itoccupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. Itwas a fifty-five gallon drum. The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. What is that ? asked MajorWinship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight. That, said Capt. Lawler, is the calking compound. You're kidding, said Capt. Wilkins. I am not kidding. Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk. Why didn't you just borrow a cupful? Major Winship said sarcastically. It's this way, Lt. Chandler said. They didn't have anything but55-gallon drums of it. Oh, my, said Capt. Wilkins. I suppose it's a steel drum. Thosethings must weigh.... Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong, Capt. Lawlersaid. He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quiteupset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad. He's too damned suspicious, Major Winship said. You know and I knowwhy they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at melike an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in tryingto prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will bepublished in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet! About this drum, Capt. Wilkins said. Well, like I said, it's this way, Lt. Chandler resumed. I told himwe needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mixup. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have tocombine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a littlescale— A little scale? asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome. That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale. Yeah, said Captain Lawler, and he looked at us with that mute,surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of littlescales. Well, anyway, Lt. Chandler continued, he told us just to mix up thewhole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff thatgoes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don'tneed. Somehow, that sounds like him, Major Winship said. He had five or six of them. Jesus! said Capt. Wilkins. That must be three thousand pounds ofcalking compound. Those people are insane. The question is, Capt. Lawler said, 'How are we going to mix it?'It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly. They thought over the problem for a while. That will be a man-sized job, Major Winship said. Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad, said Capt. Wilkins. If I tookthe compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... ifwe could.... <doc-sep>It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer. Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated. Now, Major Winship said, we can either bring the drum inside or takethe mixer out there. We're going to have to bring the drum in, Capt. Wilkins said. Well, said Capt. Lawler, that will make it nice and cozy. It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back andforth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table wasinterposing itself. Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. Damn these suits, he said. You've got it stuck between the bunk post. I know that. I don't think this is the way to do it, Major Winship said. Let'sback the drum out. Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid ofCapt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it overto Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkinscarried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. Itrested uneasily on the uneven surface. Now, let's go, said Major Winship. Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum betweenthe main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.It's not the weight, it's the mass, said Capt. Wilkins brightly. The hell it isn't the weight, said Lt. Chandler. That's heavy. With my reefer out, said Major Winship, I'm the one it's rough on.He shook perspiration out of his eyes. They should figure a way to geta mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you'veforgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes. It's the salt. Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets, Major Winship said.I've never sweat so much since basic. Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them? No! Major Winship snapped. <doc-sep>With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixingattachment. I feel crowded, he said. Cozy's the word. Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that! Sorry. At length the mixer was in operation in the drum. Works perfectly, said Capt. Wilkins proudly. Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English. You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the areathoroughly around the leak. With what? asked Major Winship. Sandpaper, I guess. With sandpaper? Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid intothe drum. We don't have any sandpaper. It's been a long day, Capt. Wilkins said. Mix it thoroughly, Lt. Chandler mused. I guess that means let it mixfor about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service injust a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe. I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air. No, Capt. Lawler said. It sets by some kind of chemical action.General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind ofplastic. Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak, MajorWinship said. Say, I— interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concernin his voice. This is a hell of a time for this to occur tome. I just wasn't thinking, before. You don't suppose it's aroom-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you? Larry, said Major Winship, I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curingepoxy resin from— Hey! exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. The mixer's stopped. He bent forwardand touched the drum. He jerked back. Ye Gods! that's hot! And it'sharder than a rock! It is an epoxy! Let's get out of here. Huh? Out! Out! Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense ofurgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red. Let's go! Capt. Wilkins said. He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and becametemporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainlyin the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with thenecessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into themfrom behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of armsand legs. At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.The table remained untouched. When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, Get to one side, it may go offlike shrapnel. They obeyed. What—what—what? Capt. Lawler stuttered. They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on theother. I'm going to try to look, Capt. Wilkins said. Let me go. Helumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteenfeet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind thetable, on a line of sight with the airlock. I can see it, he said. It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's fallingover to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is gettingred, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh. What? said Capt. Lawler. Watch out! There. There! Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incrediblybright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flamelashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. Thetable was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly. There went the air, Capt. Lawler commented. We got T-Trouble, said Lt. Chandler. <doc-sep></s>

On the surface of the moon, the American base (Freedom 19) is headed by Major Winship, with his three men, Captain Wilkins, Captain Lawler, and Lieutenant Chandler. The Soviets of Base Garagin are conducting a seismic test to learn more about the depths of the moon. The Americans protested it, as their base is not as strongly built, but the Russians went ahead anyway. With a language barrier and poor communication, the Americans don’t know when they are going to perform the test, so they stand outside in their suits waiting. After a few hours, a moonquake occurs, rippling through the surface. The quake caused a leak in their base, which Winship tries and fails to fix with a marker and a plastic sheet. He complains that the Russians did this on purpose, to try and force them off the moon, but they have three weeks of emergency air. They can try and fix it. They are unable to use the transmission since there is no air in the base. Winship orders his men to find the caulking solution, but it has hardened and dried out. He orders Lawler and Chandler to make the 60-minute-round-trip journey to Base Garagin to ask for help. Though Soviet General Finogenov denies it, Winship still wonders if this was intentional. Wilkins and Winship share a meal of gross nutrition tablets. Wilkins, the resident tech, hooks Winship up to the radio within his suit, so he can speak into the radio. With all the complicated wiring, Winship’s air supply is cut off, and he motions to Wilkins to fix it. Earth is on the line, but he tries to not make his problem known. After Wilkins fixes it, Winship informs them of their difficulties and is told that a replacement could arrive in 10 days and that the Russians formally apologized. Chandler and Lawler arrive with a 55-gallon barrel of caulking agent, along with another compound that must be mixed in. Displeased by the Russian’s excessiveness, the team figures out a way to successfully mix it. Wilkins creates an electric mixer, while the rest move the barrel inside the dome with great difficulty. They mix the barrel and quickly realize that it is a chemical epoxy, one that reacts to temperature. The heat of the mixer and the dome causes the epoxy to heat up drastically. The men escape to the airlock and watch as the barrel explodes, the fire it causes using up all their remaining oxygen.

<s> The Winning of the Moon BY KRIS NEVILLE The enemy was friendly enough. Trouble was—their friendship was as dangerous as their hate! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning. Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans. Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision. Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown? Is Pinov, came the reply. Help? Nyet , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom? Is Pinov, came the reply. Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation. Boom! said Pinov happily. When? Boom—boom! said Pinov. Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English. He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over? No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems. Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on. In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more. Static? Nope. We'll get static on these things. A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly. Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face. Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now. I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin? Is Pinov. Help? Nyet. Pinov's still there, Major Winship said. Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to. I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said. Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in. Let's all— No. I've got to cool off. Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago. The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all. Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep. Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put. <doc-sep>He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, andthe temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper momentof pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped intothe illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second stepwhen the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated besidethe radio equipment. The ground moved again. Charlie! Charlie! I'm okay, Major Winship answered. Okay! Okay! It's— There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased. Hey, Les, how's it look? Capt. Wilkins asked. Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay? Okay, Major Winship said. We told them this might happen, he addedbitterly. There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding theirbreath. I guess it's over, said Major Winship, getting to his feet. Wait abit more, there may be an after-shock. He switched once again to theemergency channel. Is Pinov, came the supremely relaxed voice. Help? Major Winship whinnied in disgust. Nyet! he snarled. To the otherAmericans: Our comrades seem unconcerned. Tough. They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled andsnapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at eachother. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communicationscompletely. It then abated to something in excess of normal. Well, Lt. Chandler commented, even though we didn't build this thingto withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right. I guess I was just— Major Winship began. Oh, hell! We're losingpressure. Where's the markers? By the lug cabinet. Got 'em, Major Winship said a moment later. He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it awayand plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed asthough it were breathing and then it ruptured. Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply whichhad cut in automatically with the pressure drop. You guys wait. It'son your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it. He moved for the plastic sheeting. We've lost about three feet of calk out here, Capt. Lawler said. Ican see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate. Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. How's that? Not yet. I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It'ssprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads. There was a splatter of static. Damn! Major Winship said, they should have made these things moreflexible. Still coming out. Best I can do. Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowlyto slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on thefloor. Come on in, he said dryly. <doc-sep>With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of thefive hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cablestrailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The livingspace was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks juttingout from the walls about six feet from the floor. Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. Well,he said wryly, it doesn't smell as bad now. Oops, said Major Winship. Just a second. They're coming in. Heswitched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov. Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay? This is Major Winship. Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major? Little leak. You? Came through without damage. General Finogenov paused a moment. Whenno comment was forthcoming, he continued: Perhaps we built a bit morestrongly, Major. You did this deliberately, Major Winship said testily. No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I verymuch regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. Afterrepeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then tohave something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.Is there anything at all we can do? Just leave us alone, thank you, Major Winship said and cut off thecommunication. What'd they say? Capt. Wilkins asked. Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this. That's nice, Lt. Chandler said. I'll be damned surprised, Major Winship said, if they got anyseismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's getthis leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound? Larry, where's the inventory? Les has got it. Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted. Larry, Major Winship said, why don't you get Earth? Okay. Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended. Got the inventory sheet, Les? Right here. Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins hadenergized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leanedhis helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. We can'thear anything without any air. Major Winship looked at the microphone. Well, I'll just report and—He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. Yes, he said.That's right, isn't it. Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. Some days you don't mine atall, he said. Les, have you found it? It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here. Well, find it. Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. I saw it— Skip, help look. Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. Wehaven't got all day. A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. Here itis! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff. Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up. Marker showed it over here, Major Winship said, inching over to thewall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger. How does this stuff work? Capt. Lawler asked. They huddled over the instruction sheet. Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzleruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour beforeservice. Major Winship said dryly, Never mind. I notice it hardens on contactwith air. Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, Nowthat makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it? How do they possibly think—? Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference, Lt. Chandler said. Someair must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. Agorilla couldn't extrude it. How're the other ones? asked Major Winship. Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. Oh, they're allhard, too. Who was supposed to check? demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation. The only way you can check is to extrude it, Lt. Chandler said, andif it does extrude, you've ruined it. That's that, Major Winship said. There's nothing for it but to yellhelp. II Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. TheSoviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom ofa natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to thetip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angledleft and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way tripof approximately thirty exhausting minutes. Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.Wilkins stayed for company. I want a cigarette in the worst way, Capt. Wilkins said. So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unlesssomething else goes wrong. As long as they'll loan us the calking compound, Capt. Wilkins said. Yeah, yeah, Major Winship said. Let's eat. You got any concentrate? I'm empty. I'll load you, Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily. It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkinscursed twice during the operation. I'd hate to live in this thing forany period. I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians, MajorWinship said. I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky piecesof junk around. They ate. Really horrible stuff. Nutritious. After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, Now I'd like a cup ofhot tea. I'm cooled off. Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. What brought this on? I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've gotbetter than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better thantwelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there'sonly seven of them right now. That's living. They've been here six years longer, after all. Finogenov had a clay samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His ownoffice is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. Anda wooden desk. A wooden desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everythingbig and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less— They've got the power-plants for it. Do you think he did that deliberately? Major Winship asked. I thinkhe's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin'sbuilt to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don'tsuppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure gotthe jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me? You told me, Capt. Wilkins said. <doc-sep>After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, To hell with the Russianengineer. If you've got all that power.... That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.Like a little kid. Maybe they don't make aluminum desks. They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet isaluminum. You know they're just showing off. Let me wire you up, Capt. Wilkins said. We ought to report. That's going to take awhile. It's something to do while we wait. I guess we ought to. Major Winship came down from the bunk andsat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed theequipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. Heunearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exteriorplate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.Okay? Okay, Major Winship gestured. They roused Earth. This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, theAmerican moonbase. At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he wasnow on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change hisair bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. Hereached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet. This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship. Just a moment. Is everything all right? Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed. A-Okay, he said. Just a moment. What's wrong? came the worried question. In the background, he heardsomeone say, I think there's something wrong. Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in asavage grimace. Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to facethrough their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrouslylarge to the other. Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. Onearm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winshipcould no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effortwas not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry ininvoluntary realism. This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth. Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word Leak? Air, Major Winship said silently. Leak? Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive. <doc-sep>Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack. Oh. Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged thespeaker in again. ... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in! We're here, Major Winship said. All right? Are you all right? We're all right. A-Okay. Major Winship, mindful of the extent of hispotential audience, took a deep breath. Earlier this morning, theSoviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the ostensible purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means ofseismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spiteof American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulatedstresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face ofvigorous American protests. Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restrainingcables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle. These protests have proved well founded, Major Winship continued.Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on towithstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. Nopersonnel were injured and there was no equipment damage. Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle wasbeing inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winshipflicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation. However, he continued, we did experience a minor leak in the dome,which is presently being repaired. The Soviet Union, came the reply, has reported the disturbance andhas tendered their official apology. You want it? It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum hasdestroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately threeweeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, sothat, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain thenecessary replacement. The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gavethe conversation a tone of deliberation. A new voice came on. We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We willbe able to deliver replacements in about ten days. I will forward a coded report on the occurrence, Major Winship said. Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leakrepaired? The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out. He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back. Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from thetransmitter. Wow! said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. Fora moment there, I thought.... What? Capt. Wilkins asked with interest. I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenovto get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for aminute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in theworld listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see thenickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,that was rough. III Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. Itoccupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. Itwas a fifty-five gallon drum. The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. What is that ? asked MajorWinship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight. That, said Capt. Lawler, is the calking compound. You're kidding, said Capt. Wilkins. I am not kidding. Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk. Why didn't you just borrow a cupful? Major Winship said sarcastically. It's this way, Lt. Chandler said. They didn't have anything but55-gallon drums of it. Oh, my, said Capt. Wilkins. I suppose it's a steel drum. Thosethings must weigh.... Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong, Capt. Lawlersaid. He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quiteupset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad. He's too damned suspicious, Major Winship said. You know and I knowwhy they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at melike an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in tryingto prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will bepublished in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet! About this drum, Capt. Wilkins said. Well, like I said, it's this way, Lt. Chandler resumed. I told himwe needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mixup. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have tocombine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a littlescale— A little scale? asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome. That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale. Yeah, said Captain Lawler, and he looked at us with that mute,surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of littlescales. Well, anyway, Lt. Chandler continued, he told us just to mix up thewhole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff thatgoes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don'tneed. Somehow, that sounds like him, Major Winship said. He had five or six of them. Jesus! said Capt. Wilkins. That must be three thousand pounds ofcalking compound. Those people are insane. The question is, Capt. Lawler said, 'How are we going to mix it?'It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly. They thought over the problem for a while. That will be a man-sized job, Major Winship said. Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad, said Capt. Wilkins. If I tookthe compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... ifwe could.... <doc-sep>It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer. Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated. Now, Major Winship said, we can either bring the drum inside or takethe mixer out there. We're going to have to bring the drum in, Capt. Wilkins said. Well, said Capt. Lawler, that will make it nice and cozy. It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back andforth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table wasinterposing itself. Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. Damn these suits, he said. You've got it stuck between the bunk post. I know that. I don't think this is the way to do it, Major Winship said. Let'sback the drum out. Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid ofCapt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it overto Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkinscarried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. Itrested uneasily on the uneven surface. Now, let's go, said Major Winship. Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum betweenthe main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.It's not the weight, it's the mass, said Capt. Wilkins brightly. The hell it isn't the weight, said Lt. Chandler. That's heavy. With my reefer out, said Major Winship, I'm the one it's rough on.He shook perspiration out of his eyes. They should figure a way to geta mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you'veforgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes. It's the salt. Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets, Major Winship said.I've never sweat so much since basic. Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them? No! Major Winship snapped. <doc-sep>With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixingattachment. I feel crowded, he said. Cozy's the word. Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that! Sorry. At length the mixer was in operation in the drum. Works perfectly, said Capt. Wilkins proudly. Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English. You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the areathoroughly around the leak. With what? asked Major Winship. Sandpaper, I guess. With sandpaper? Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid intothe drum. We don't have any sandpaper. It's been a long day, Capt. Wilkins said. Mix it thoroughly, Lt. Chandler mused. I guess that means let it mixfor about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service injust a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe. I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air. No, Capt. Lawler said. It sets by some kind of chemical action.General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind ofplastic. Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak, MajorWinship said. Say, I— interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concernin his voice. This is a hell of a time for this to occur tome. I just wasn't thinking, before. You don't suppose it's aroom-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you? Larry, said Major Winship, I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curingepoxy resin from— Hey! exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. The mixer's stopped. He bent forwardand touched the drum. He jerked back. Ye Gods! that's hot! And it'sharder than a rock! It is an epoxy! Let's get out of here. Huh? Out! Out! Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense ofurgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red. Let's go! Capt. Wilkins said. He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and becametemporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainlyin the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with thenecessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into themfrom behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of armsand legs. At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.The table remained untouched. When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, Get to one side, it may go offlike shrapnel. They obeyed. What—what—what? Capt. Lawler stuttered. They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on theother. I'm going to try to look, Capt. Wilkins said. Let me go. Helumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteenfeet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind thetable, on a line of sight with the airlock. I can see it, he said. It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's fallingover to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is gettingred, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh. What? said Capt. Lawler. Watch out! There. There! Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incrediblybright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flamelashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. Thetable was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly. There went the air, Capt. Lawler commented. We got T-Trouble, said Lt. Chandler. <doc-sep></s>

As can be seen from the beginning, Base Gagarin and the small group of Americans have a slightly contentious relationship. Even the title of the story, The Winning of the Moon, emphasizes the undercurrent of war and competition that informs the way they interact with each other. The story begins with potentially purposeful miscommunication between the Russians and the Americans. The Soviet base is running an underground seismic wave test, the likes of which could release after-shocks and tremors. Such a quake could damage the American dome, meager in comparison with Base Gagarin. The Soviets put Pinov on the line, who only speaks Russian. Without the ability to communicate, the Americans were stuck outside on the moon for hours, waiting to see if the seismic eruption could be seen or felt. Feeling like idiots, one goes inside, just as an aftershock causes a leak in their dome. They instantly blame the Russians, especially since the Americans protested such a test. This series of unfortunate events continues as the Americans quickly realize that their supplies are not able to fix the leak. They must ask the Russians for help, even after complaining to their home base about their actions. Base Gagarin is huge compared to the American dome. General Finogenov even has a wooden desk in his office, along with other earthly amenities that the Americans have been deprived of. The Russians have been on the moon for six years longer than the Americans, which could explain their extensive supplies. They give the Americans a 55-gallon mixture to fix the leak, however, the language barrier prevents them from realizing what kind of epoxy it is. This miscommunication leads to the barrel exploding and further destroying the American dome. It’s fair to say that it’s not smooth sailing on the moon.

<s> The Winning of the Moon BY KRIS NEVILLE The enemy was friendly enough. Trouble was—their friendship was as dangerous as their hate! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning. Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans. Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision. Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown? Is Pinov, came the reply. Help? Nyet , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom? Is Pinov, came the reply. Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation. Boom! said Pinov happily. When? Boom—boom! said Pinov. Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English. He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over? No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems. Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on. In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more. Static? Nope. We'll get static on these things. A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly. Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face. Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now. I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin? Is Pinov. Help? Nyet. Pinov's still there, Major Winship said. Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to. I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said. Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in. Let's all— No. I've got to cool off. Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago. The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all. Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep. Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put. <doc-sep>He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, andthe temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper momentof pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped intothe illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second stepwhen the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated besidethe radio equipment. The ground moved again. Charlie! Charlie! I'm okay, Major Winship answered. Okay! Okay! It's— There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased. Hey, Les, how's it look? Capt. Wilkins asked. Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay? Okay, Major Winship said. We told them this might happen, he addedbitterly. There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding theirbreath. I guess it's over, said Major Winship, getting to his feet. Wait abit more, there may be an after-shock. He switched once again to theemergency channel. Is Pinov, came the supremely relaxed voice. Help? Major Winship whinnied in disgust. Nyet! he snarled. To the otherAmericans: Our comrades seem unconcerned. Tough. They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled andsnapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at eachother. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communicationscompletely. It then abated to something in excess of normal. Well, Lt. Chandler commented, even though we didn't build this thingto withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right. I guess I was just— Major Winship began. Oh, hell! We're losingpressure. Where's the markers? By the lug cabinet. Got 'em, Major Winship said a moment later. He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it awayand plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed asthough it were breathing and then it ruptured. Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply whichhad cut in automatically with the pressure drop. You guys wait. It'son your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it. He moved for the plastic sheeting. We've lost about three feet of calk out here, Capt. Lawler said. Ican see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate. Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. How's that? Not yet. I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It'ssprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads. There was a splatter of static. Damn! Major Winship said, they should have made these things moreflexible. Still coming out. Best I can do. Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowlyto slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on thefloor. Come on in, he said dryly. <doc-sep>With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of thefive hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cablestrailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The livingspace was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks juttingout from the walls about six feet from the floor. Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. Well,he said wryly, it doesn't smell as bad now. Oops, said Major Winship. Just a second. They're coming in. Heswitched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov. Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay? This is Major Winship. Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major? Little leak. You? Came through without damage. General Finogenov paused a moment. Whenno comment was forthcoming, he continued: Perhaps we built a bit morestrongly, Major. You did this deliberately, Major Winship said testily. No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I verymuch regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. Afterrepeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then tohave something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.Is there anything at all we can do? Just leave us alone, thank you, Major Winship said and cut off thecommunication. What'd they say? Capt. Wilkins asked. Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this. That's nice, Lt. Chandler said. I'll be damned surprised, Major Winship said, if they got anyseismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's getthis leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound? Larry, where's the inventory? Les has got it. Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted. Larry, Major Winship said, why don't you get Earth? Okay. Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended. Got the inventory sheet, Les? Right here. Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins hadenergized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leanedhis helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. We can'thear anything without any air. Major Winship looked at the microphone. Well, I'll just report and—He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. Yes, he said.That's right, isn't it. Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. Some days you don't mine atall, he said. Les, have you found it? It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here. Well, find it. Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. I saw it— Skip, help look. Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. Wehaven't got all day. A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. Here itis! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff. Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up. Marker showed it over here, Major Winship said, inching over to thewall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger. How does this stuff work? Capt. Lawler asked. They huddled over the instruction sheet. Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzleruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour beforeservice. Major Winship said dryly, Never mind. I notice it hardens on contactwith air. Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, Nowthat makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it? How do they possibly think—? Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference, Lt. Chandler said. Someair must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. Agorilla couldn't extrude it. How're the other ones? asked Major Winship. Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. Oh, they're allhard, too. Who was supposed to check? demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation. The only way you can check is to extrude it, Lt. Chandler said, andif it does extrude, you've ruined it. That's that, Major Winship said. There's nothing for it but to yellhelp. II Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. TheSoviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom ofa natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to thetip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angledleft and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way tripof approximately thirty exhausting minutes. Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.Wilkins stayed for company. I want a cigarette in the worst way, Capt. Wilkins said. So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unlesssomething else goes wrong. As long as they'll loan us the calking compound, Capt. Wilkins said. Yeah, yeah, Major Winship said. Let's eat. You got any concentrate? I'm empty. I'll load you, Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily. It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkinscursed twice during the operation. I'd hate to live in this thing forany period. I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians, MajorWinship said. I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky piecesof junk around. They ate. Really horrible stuff. Nutritious. After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, Now I'd like a cup ofhot tea. I'm cooled off. Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. What brought this on? I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've gotbetter than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better thantwelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there'sonly seven of them right now. That's living. They've been here six years longer, after all. Finogenov had a clay samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His ownoffice is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. Anda wooden desk. A wooden desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everythingbig and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less— They've got the power-plants for it. Do you think he did that deliberately? Major Winship asked. I thinkhe's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin'sbuilt to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don'tsuppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure gotthe jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me? You told me, Capt. Wilkins said. <doc-sep>After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, To hell with the Russianengineer. If you've got all that power.... That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.Like a little kid. Maybe they don't make aluminum desks. They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet isaluminum. You know they're just showing off. Let me wire you up, Capt. Wilkins said. We ought to report. That's going to take awhile. It's something to do while we wait. I guess we ought to. Major Winship came down from the bunk andsat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed theequipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. Heunearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exteriorplate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.Okay? Okay, Major Winship gestured. They roused Earth. This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, theAmerican moonbase. At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he wasnow on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change hisair bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. Hereached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet. This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship. Just a moment. Is everything all right? Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed. A-Okay, he said. Just a moment. What's wrong? came the worried question. In the background, he heardsomeone say, I think there's something wrong. Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in asavage grimace. Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to facethrough their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrouslylarge to the other. Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. Onearm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winshipcould no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effortwas not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry ininvoluntary realism. This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth. Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word Leak? Air, Major Winship said silently. Leak? Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive. <doc-sep>Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack. Oh. Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged thespeaker in again. ... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in! We're here, Major Winship said. All right? Are you all right? We're all right. A-Okay. Major Winship, mindful of the extent of hispotential audience, took a deep breath. Earlier this morning, theSoviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the ostensible purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means ofseismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spiteof American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulatedstresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face ofvigorous American protests. Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restrainingcables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle. These protests have proved well founded, Major Winship continued.Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on towithstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. Nopersonnel were injured and there was no equipment damage. Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle wasbeing inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winshipflicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation. However, he continued, we did experience a minor leak in the dome,which is presently being repaired. The Soviet Union, came the reply, has reported the disturbance andhas tendered their official apology. You want it? It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum hasdestroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately threeweeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, sothat, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain thenecessary replacement. The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gavethe conversation a tone of deliberation. A new voice came on. We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We willbe able to deliver replacements in about ten days. I will forward a coded report on the occurrence, Major Winship said. Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leakrepaired? The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out. He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back. Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from thetransmitter. Wow! said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. Fora moment there, I thought.... What? Capt. Wilkins asked with interest. I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenovto get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for aminute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in theworld listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see thenickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,that was rough. III Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. Itoccupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. Itwas a fifty-five gallon drum. The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. What is that ? asked MajorWinship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight. That, said Capt. Lawler, is the calking compound. You're kidding, said Capt. Wilkins. I am not kidding. Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk. Why didn't you just borrow a cupful? Major Winship said sarcastically. It's this way, Lt. Chandler said. They didn't have anything but55-gallon drums of it. Oh, my, said Capt. Wilkins. I suppose it's a steel drum. Thosethings must weigh.... Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong, Capt. Lawlersaid. He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quiteupset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad. He's too damned suspicious, Major Winship said. You know and I knowwhy they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at melike an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in tryingto prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will bepublished in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet! About this drum, Capt. Wilkins said. Well, like I said, it's this way, Lt. Chandler resumed. I told himwe needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mixup. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have tocombine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a littlescale— A little scale? asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome. That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale. Yeah, said Captain Lawler, and he looked at us with that mute,surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of littlescales. Well, anyway, Lt. Chandler continued, he told us just to mix up thewhole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff thatgoes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don'tneed. Somehow, that sounds like him, Major Winship said. He had five or six of them. Jesus! said Capt. Wilkins. That must be three thousand pounds ofcalking compound. Those people are insane. The question is, Capt. Lawler said, 'How are we going to mix it?'It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly. They thought over the problem for a while. That will be a man-sized job, Major Winship said. Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad, said Capt. Wilkins. If I tookthe compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... ifwe could.... <doc-sep>It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer. Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated. Now, Major Winship said, we can either bring the drum inside or takethe mixer out there. We're going to have to bring the drum in, Capt. Wilkins said. Well, said Capt. Lawler, that will make it nice and cozy. It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back andforth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table wasinterposing itself. Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. Damn these suits, he said. You've got it stuck between the bunk post. I know that. I don't think this is the way to do it, Major Winship said. Let'sback the drum out. Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid ofCapt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it overto Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkinscarried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. Itrested uneasily on the uneven surface. Now, let's go, said Major Winship. Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum betweenthe main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.It's not the weight, it's the mass, said Capt. Wilkins brightly. The hell it isn't the weight, said Lt. Chandler. That's heavy. With my reefer out, said Major Winship, I'm the one it's rough on.He shook perspiration out of his eyes. They should figure a way to geta mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you'veforgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes. It's the salt. Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets, Major Winship said.I've never sweat so much since basic. Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them? No! Major Winship snapped. <doc-sep>With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixingattachment. I feel crowded, he said. Cozy's the word. Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that! Sorry. At length the mixer was in operation in the drum. Works perfectly, said Capt. Wilkins proudly. Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English. You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the areathoroughly around the leak. With what? asked Major Winship. Sandpaper, I guess. With sandpaper? Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid intothe drum. We don't have any sandpaper. It's been a long day, Capt. Wilkins said. Mix it thoroughly, Lt. Chandler mused. I guess that means let it mixfor about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service injust a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe. I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air. No, Capt. Lawler said. It sets by some kind of chemical action.General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind ofplastic. Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak, MajorWinship said. Say, I— interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concernin his voice. This is a hell of a time for this to occur tome. I just wasn't thinking, before. You don't suppose it's aroom-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you? Larry, said Major Winship, I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curingepoxy resin from— Hey! exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. The mixer's stopped. He bent forwardand touched the drum. He jerked back. Ye Gods! that's hot! And it'sharder than a rock! It is an epoxy! Let's get out of here. Huh? Out! Out! Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense ofurgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red. Let's go! Capt. Wilkins said. He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and becametemporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainlyin the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with thenecessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into themfrom behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of armsand legs. At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.The table remained untouched. When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, Get to one side, it may go offlike shrapnel. They obeyed. What—what—what? Capt. Lawler stuttered. They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on theother. I'm going to try to look, Capt. Wilkins said. Let me go. Helumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteenfeet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind thetable, on a line of sight with the airlock. I can see it, he said. It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's fallingover to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is gettingred, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh. What? said Capt. Lawler. Watch out! There. There! Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incrediblybright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flamelashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. Thetable was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly. There went the air, Capt. Lawler commented. We got T-Trouble, said Lt. Chandler. <doc-sep></s>

The Winning of the Moon by Kris Neville takes place on the moon, although exactly what moon is never specified. The moon itself has a fairly uneven surface, especially after the moonquake rips through its bases. Most of the story takes place inside of the American base, a mere 500 square feet. It is cramped inside, filled to the brim with equipment, tools, and supplies necessary for the moon. The American men slept on bunks that rose up from the floor. Cables hung from the ceiling and snaked across the walls, bringing energy into the dome using solar power. The base itself is in the shape of a dome with an airlock leading to the outside. The Russian base, Base Gagarin, is incredibly different. They’ve got three buildings that make up the base, the biggest of which is 3,000 square feet. With luxuries like wooden furniture, fresh lemons from Earth, and nutmeg, the Soviet base has everything the Americans lacked.

<s> The Winning of the Moon BY KRIS NEVILLE The enemy was friendly enough. Trouble was—their friendship was as dangerous as their hate! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning. Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans. Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision. Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown? Is Pinov, came the reply. Help? Nyet , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom? Is Pinov, came the reply. Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation. Boom! said Pinov happily. When? Boom—boom! said Pinov. Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English. He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over? No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems. Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on. In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more. Static? Nope. We'll get static on these things. A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly. Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face. Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now. I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin? Is Pinov. Help? Nyet. Pinov's still there, Major Winship said. Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to. I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said. Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in. Let's all— No. I've got to cool off. Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago. The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all. Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep. Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put. <doc-sep>He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, andthe temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper momentof pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped intothe illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second stepwhen the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated besidethe radio equipment. The ground moved again. Charlie! Charlie! I'm okay, Major Winship answered. Okay! Okay! It's— There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased. Hey, Les, how's it look? Capt. Wilkins asked. Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay? Okay, Major Winship said. We told them this might happen, he addedbitterly. There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding theirbreath. I guess it's over, said Major Winship, getting to his feet. Wait abit more, there may be an after-shock. He switched once again to theemergency channel. Is Pinov, came the supremely relaxed voice. Help? Major Winship whinnied in disgust. Nyet! he snarled. To the otherAmericans: Our comrades seem unconcerned. Tough. They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled andsnapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at eachother. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communicationscompletely. It then abated to something in excess of normal. Well, Lt. Chandler commented, even though we didn't build this thingto withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right. I guess I was just— Major Winship began. Oh, hell! We're losingpressure. Where's the markers? By the lug cabinet. Got 'em, Major Winship said a moment later. He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it awayand plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed asthough it were breathing and then it ruptured. Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply whichhad cut in automatically with the pressure drop. You guys wait. It'son your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it. He moved for the plastic sheeting. We've lost about three feet of calk out here, Capt. Lawler said. Ican see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate. Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. How's that? Not yet. I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It'ssprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads. There was a splatter of static. Damn! Major Winship said, they should have made these things moreflexible. Still coming out. Best I can do. Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowlyto slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on thefloor. Come on in, he said dryly. <doc-sep>With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of thefive hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cablestrailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The livingspace was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks juttingout from the walls about six feet from the floor. Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. Well,he said wryly, it doesn't smell as bad now. Oops, said Major Winship. Just a second. They're coming in. Heswitched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov. Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay? This is Major Winship. Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major? Little leak. You? Came through without damage. General Finogenov paused a moment. Whenno comment was forthcoming, he continued: Perhaps we built a bit morestrongly, Major. You did this deliberately, Major Winship said testily. No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I verymuch regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. Afterrepeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then tohave something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.Is there anything at all we can do? Just leave us alone, thank you, Major Winship said and cut off thecommunication. What'd they say? Capt. Wilkins asked. Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this. That's nice, Lt. Chandler said. I'll be damned surprised, Major Winship said, if they got anyseismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's getthis leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound? Larry, where's the inventory? Les has got it. Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted. Larry, Major Winship said, why don't you get Earth? Okay. Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended. Got the inventory sheet, Les? Right here. Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins hadenergized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leanedhis helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. We can'thear anything without any air. Major Winship looked at the microphone. Well, I'll just report and—He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. Yes, he said.That's right, isn't it. Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. Some days you don't mine atall, he said. Les, have you found it? It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here. Well, find it. Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. I saw it— Skip, help look. Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. Wehaven't got all day. A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. Here itis! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff. Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up. Marker showed it over here, Major Winship said, inching over to thewall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger. How does this stuff work? Capt. Lawler asked. They huddled over the instruction sheet. Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzleruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour beforeservice. Major Winship said dryly, Never mind. I notice it hardens on contactwith air. Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, Nowthat makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it? How do they possibly think—? Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference, Lt. Chandler said. Someair must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. Agorilla couldn't extrude it. How're the other ones? asked Major Winship. Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. Oh, they're allhard, too. Who was supposed to check? demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation. The only way you can check is to extrude it, Lt. Chandler said, andif it does extrude, you've ruined it. That's that, Major Winship said. There's nothing for it but to yellhelp. II Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. TheSoviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom ofa natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to thetip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angledleft and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way tripof approximately thirty exhausting minutes. Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.Wilkins stayed for company. I want a cigarette in the worst way, Capt. Wilkins said. So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unlesssomething else goes wrong. As long as they'll loan us the calking compound, Capt. Wilkins said. Yeah, yeah, Major Winship said. Let's eat. You got any concentrate? I'm empty. I'll load you, Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily. It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkinscursed twice during the operation. I'd hate to live in this thing forany period. I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians, MajorWinship said. I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky piecesof junk around. They ate. Really horrible stuff. Nutritious. After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, Now I'd like a cup ofhot tea. I'm cooled off. Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. What brought this on? I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've gotbetter than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better thantwelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there'sonly seven of them right now. That's living. They've been here six years longer, after all. Finogenov had a clay samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His ownoffice is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. Anda wooden desk. A wooden desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everythingbig and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less— They've got the power-plants for it. Do you think he did that deliberately? Major Winship asked. I thinkhe's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin'sbuilt to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don'tsuppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure gotthe jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me? You told me, Capt. Wilkins said. <doc-sep>After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, To hell with the Russianengineer. If you've got all that power.... That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.Like a little kid. Maybe they don't make aluminum desks. They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet isaluminum. You know they're just showing off. Let me wire you up, Capt. Wilkins said. We ought to report. That's going to take awhile. It's something to do while we wait. I guess we ought to. Major Winship came down from the bunk andsat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed theequipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. Heunearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exteriorplate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.Okay? Okay, Major Winship gestured. They roused Earth. This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, theAmerican moonbase. At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he wasnow on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change hisair bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. Hereached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet. This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship. Just a moment. Is everything all right? Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed. A-Okay, he said. Just a moment. What's wrong? came the worried question. In the background, he heardsomeone say, I think there's something wrong. Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in asavage grimace. Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to facethrough their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrouslylarge to the other. Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. Onearm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winshipcould no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effortwas not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry ininvoluntary realism. This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth. Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word Leak? Air, Major Winship said silently. Leak? Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive. <doc-sep>Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack. Oh. Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged thespeaker in again. ... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in! We're here, Major Winship said. All right? Are you all right? We're all right. A-Okay. Major Winship, mindful of the extent of hispotential audience, took a deep breath. Earlier this morning, theSoviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the ostensible purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means ofseismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spiteof American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulatedstresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face ofvigorous American protests. Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restrainingcables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle. These protests have proved well founded, Major Winship continued.Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on towithstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. Nopersonnel were injured and there was no equipment damage. Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle wasbeing inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winshipflicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation. However, he continued, we did experience a minor leak in the dome,which is presently being repaired. The Soviet Union, came the reply, has reported the disturbance andhas tendered their official apology. You want it? It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum hasdestroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately threeweeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, sothat, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain thenecessary replacement. The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gavethe conversation a tone of deliberation. A new voice came on. We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We willbe able to deliver replacements in about ten days. I will forward a coded report on the occurrence, Major Winship said. Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leakrepaired? The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out. He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back. Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from thetransmitter. Wow! said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. Fora moment there, I thought.... What? Capt. Wilkins asked with interest. I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenovto get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for aminute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in theworld listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see thenickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,that was rough. III Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. Itoccupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. Itwas a fifty-five gallon drum. The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. What is that ? asked MajorWinship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight. That, said Capt. Lawler, is the calking compound. You're kidding, said Capt. Wilkins. I am not kidding. Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk. Why didn't you just borrow a cupful? Major Winship said sarcastically. It's this way, Lt. Chandler said. They didn't have anything but55-gallon drums of it. Oh, my, said Capt. Wilkins. I suppose it's a steel drum. Thosethings must weigh.... Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong, Capt. Lawlersaid. He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quiteupset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad. He's too damned suspicious, Major Winship said. You know and I knowwhy they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at melike an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in tryingto prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will bepublished in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet! About this drum, Capt. Wilkins said. Well, like I said, it's this way, Lt. Chandler resumed. I told himwe needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mixup. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have tocombine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a littlescale— A little scale? asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome. That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale. Yeah, said Captain Lawler, and he looked at us with that mute,surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of littlescales. Well, anyway, Lt. Chandler continued, he told us just to mix up thewhole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff thatgoes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don'tneed. Somehow, that sounds like him, Major Winship said. He had five or six of them. Jesus! said Capt. Wilkins. That must be three thousand pounds ofcalking compound. Those people are insane. The question is, Capt. Lawler said, 'How are we going to mix it?'It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly. They thought over the problem for a while. That will be a man-sized job, Major Winship said. Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad, said Capt. Wilkins. If I tookthe compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... ifwe could.... <doc-sep>It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer. Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated. Now, Major Winship said, we can either bring the drum inside or takethe mixer out there. We're going to have to bring the drum in, Capt. Wilkins said. Well, said Capt. Lawler, that will make it nice and cozy. It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back andforth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table wasinterposing itself. Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. Damn these suits, he said. You've got it stuck between the bunk post. I know that. I don't think this is the way to do it, Major Winship said. Let'sback the drum out. Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid ofCapt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it overto Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkinscarried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. Itrested uneasily on the uneven surface. Now, let's go, said Major Winship. Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum betweenthe main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.It's not the weight, it's the mass, said Capt. Wilkins brightly. The hell it isn't the weight, said Lt. Chandler. That's heavy. With my reefer out, said Major Winship, I'm the one it's rough on.He shook perspiration out of his eyes. They should figure a way to geta mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you'veforgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes. It's the salt. Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets, Major Winship said.I've never sweat so much since basic. Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them? No! Major Winship snapped. <doc-sep>With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixingattachment. I feel crowded, he said. Cozy's the word. Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that! Sorry. At length the mixer was in operation in the drum. Works perfectly, said Capt. Wilkins proudly. Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English. You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the areathoroughly around the leak. With what? asked Major Winship. Sandpaper, I guess. With sandpaper? Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid intothe drum. We don't have any sandpaper. It's been a long day, Capt. Wilkins said. Mix it thoroughly, Lt. Chandler mused. I guess that means let it mixfor about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service injust a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe. I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air. No, Capt. Lawler said. It sets by some kind of chemical action.General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind ofplastic. Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak, MajorWinship said. Say, I— interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concernin his voice. This is a hell of a time for this to occur tome. I just wasn't thinking, before. You don't suppose it's aroom-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you? Larry, said Major Winship, I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curingepoxy resin from— Hey! exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. The mixer's stopped. He bent forwardand touched the drum. He jerked back. Ye Gods! that's hot! And it'sharder than a rock! It is an epoxy! Let's get out of here. Huh? Out! Out! Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense ofurgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red. Let's go! Capt. Wilkins said. He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and becametemporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainlyin the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with thenecessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into themfrom behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of armsand legs. At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.The table remained untouched. When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, Get to one side, it may go offlike shrapnel. They obeyed. What—what—what? Capt. Lawler stuttered. They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on theother. I'm going to try to look, Capt. Wilkins said. Let me go. Helumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteenfeet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind thetable, on a line of sight with the airlock. I can see it, he said. It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's fallingover to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is gettingred, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh. What? said Capt. Lawler. Watch out! There. There! Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incrediblybright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flamelashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. Thetable was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly. There went the air, Capt. Lawler commented. We got T-Trouble, said Lt. Chandler. <doc-sep></s>

After the Russians conduct their seismic test, a moonquake erupts and tears a leak in the American dome. This leak is significant because it is the first of a series of slightly cataclysmic events. As well, it highlights the strained and tense relationship between the Russians and the Americans. Major Winship accused the Russians of deliberately injuring their base, further showing how contentious their relationship is. General Finogenov ardently denies this, however, and says that their base had no damage at all. After trying and failing to fix the leak with their own supplies, two of the Americans are forced to travel to Base Gagarin and borrow their resin. This ends up backfiring, however, as the epoxy quickly heats up and explodes as they mix the two components together. The explosion further damages the dome and takes away the American’s entire air supply. As well, the seismic testing was greatly discouraged and protested by the Americans.

<s> The Winning of the Moon BY KRIS NEVILLE The enemy was friendly enough. Trouble was—their friendship was as dangerous as their hate! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning. Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans. Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision. Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown? Is Pinov, came the reply. Help? Nyet , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom? Is Pinov, came the reply. Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation. Boom! said Pinov happily. When? Boom—boom! said Pinov. Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English. He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over? No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems. Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on. In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more. Static? Nope. We'll get static on these things. A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly. Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face. Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now. I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin? Is Pinov. Help? Nyet. Pinov's still there, Major Winship said. Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to. I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said. Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in. Let's all— No. I've got to cool off. Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago. The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all. Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep. Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put. <doc-sep>He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, andthe temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper momentof pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped intothe illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second stepwhen the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated besidethe radio equipment. The ground moved again. Charlie! Charlie! I'm okay, Major Winship answered. Okay! Okay! It's— There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased. Hey, Les, how's it look? Capt. Wilkins asked. Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay? Okay, Major Winship said. We told them this might happen, he addedbitterly. There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding theirbreath. I guess it's over, said Major Winship, getting to his feet. Wait abit more, there may be an after-shock. He switched once again to theemergency channel. Is Pinov, came the supremely relaxed voice. Help? Major Winship whinnied in disgust. Nyet! he snarled. To the otherAmericans: Our comrades seem unconcerned. Tough. They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled andsnapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at eachother. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communicationscompletely. It then abated to something in excess of normal. Well, Lt. Chandler commented, even though we didn't build this thingto withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right. I guess I was just— Major Winship began. Oh, hell! We're losingpressure. Where's the markers? By the lug cabinet. Got 'em, Major Winship said a moment later. He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it awayand plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed asthough it were breathing and then it ruptured. Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply whichhad cut in automatically with the pressure drop. You guys wait. It'son your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it. He moved for the plastic sheeting. We've lost about three feet of calk out here, Capt. Lawler said. Ican see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate. Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. How's that? Not yet. I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It'ssprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads. There was a splatter of static. Damn! Major Winship said, they should have made these things moreflexible. Still coming out. Best I can do. Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowlyto slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on thefloor. Come on in, he said dryly. <doc-sep>With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of thefive hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cablestrailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The livingspace was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks juttingout from the walls about six feet from the floor. Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. Well,he said wryly, it doesn't smell as bad now. Oops, said Major Winship. Just a second. They're coming in. Heswitched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov. Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay? This is Major Winship. Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major? Little leak. You? Came through without damage. General Finogenov paused a moment. Whenno comment was forthcoming, he continued: Perhaps we built a bit morestrongly, Major. You did this deliberately, Major Winship said testily. No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I verymuch regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. Afterrepeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then tohave something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.Is there anything at all we can do? Just leave us alone, thank you, Major Winship said and cut off thecommunication. What'd they say? Capt. Wilkins asked. Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this. That's nice, Lt. Chandler said. I'll be damned surprised, Major Winship said, if they got anyseismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's getthis leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound? Larry, where's the inventory? Les has got it. Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted. Larry, Major Winship said, why don't you get Earth? Okay. Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended. Got the inventory sheet, Les? Right here. Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins hadenergized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leanedhis helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. We can'thear anything without any air. Major Winship looked at the microphone. Well, I'll just report and—He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. Yes, he said.That's right, isn't it. Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. Some days you don't mine atall, he said. Les, have you found it? It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here. Well, find it. Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. I saw it— Skip, help look. Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. Wehaven't got all day. A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. Here itis! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff. Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up. Marker showed it over here, Major Winship said, inching over to thewall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger. How does this stuff work? Capt. Lawler asked. They huddled over the instruction sheet. Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzleruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour beforeservice. Major Winship said dryly, Never mind. I notice it hardens on contactwith air. Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, Nowthat makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it? How do they possibly think—? Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference, Lt. Chandler said. Someair must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. Agorilla couldn't extrude it. How're the other ones? asked Major Winship. Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. Oh, they're allhard, too. Who was supposed to check? demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation. The only way you can check is to extrude it, Lt. Chandler said, andif it does extrude, you've ruined it. That's that, Major Winship said. There's nothing for it but to yellhelp. II Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. TheSoviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom ofa natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to thetip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angledleft and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way tripof approximately thirty exhausting minutes. Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.Wilkins stayed for company. I want a cigarette in the worst way, Capt. Wilkins said. So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unlesssomething else goes wrong. As long as they'll loan us the calking compound, Capt. Wilkins said. Yeah, yeah, Major Winship said. Let's eat. You got any concentrate? I'm empty. I'll load you, Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily. It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkinscursed twice during the operation. I'd hate to live in this thing forany period. I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians, MajorWinship said. I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky piecesof junk around. They ate. Really horrible stuff. Nutritious. After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, Now I'd like a cup ofhot tea. I'm cooled off. Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. What brought this on? I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've gotbetter than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better thantwelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there'sonly seven of them right now. That's living. They've been here six years longer, after all. Finogenov had a clay samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His ownoffice is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. Anda wooden desk. A wooden desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everythingbig and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less— They've got the power-plants for it. Do you think he did that deliberately? Major Winship asked. I thinkhe's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin'sbuilt to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don'tsuppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure gotthe jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me? You told me, Capt. Wilkins said. <doc-sep>After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, To hell with the Russianengineer. If you've got all that power.... That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.Like a little kid. Maybe they don't make aluminum desks. They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet isaluminum. You know they're just showing off. Let me wire you up, Capt. Wilkins said. We ought to report. That's going to take awhile. It's something to do while we wait. I guess we ought to. Major Winship came down from the bunk andsat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed theequipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. Heunearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exteriorplate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.Okay? Okay, Major Winship gestured. They roused Earth. This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, theAmerican moonbase. At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he wasnow on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change hisair bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. Hereached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet. This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship. Just a moment. Is everything all right? Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed. A-Okay, he said. Just a moment. What's wrong? came the worried question. In the background, he heardsomeone say, I think there's something wrong. Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in asavage grimace. Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to facethrough their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrouslylarge to the other. Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. Onearm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winshipcould no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effortwas not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry ininvoluntary realism. This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth. Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word Leak? Air, Major Winship said silently. Leak? Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive. <doc-sep>Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack. Oh. Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged thespeaker in again. ... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in! We're here, Major Winship said. All right? Are you all right? We're all right. A-Okay. Major Winship, mindful of the extent of hispotential audience, took a deep breath. Earlier this morning, theSoviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the ostensible purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means ofseismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spiteof American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulatedstresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face ofvigorous American protests. Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restrainingcables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle. These protests have proved well founded, Major Winship continued.Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on towithstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. Nopersonnel were injured and there was no equipment damage. Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle wasbeing inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winshipflicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation. However, he continued, we did experience a minor leak in the dome,which is presently being repaired. The Soviet Union, came the reply, has reported the disturbance andhas tendered their official apology. You want it? It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum hasdestroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately threeweeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, sothat, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain thenecessary replacement. The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gavethe conversation a tone of deliberation. A new voice came on. We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We willbe able to deliver replacements in about ten days. I will forward a coded report on the occurrence, Major Winship said. Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leakrepaired? The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out. He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back. Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from thetransmitter. Wow! said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. Fora moment there, I thought.... What? Capt. Wilkins asked with interest. I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenovto get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for aminute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in theworld listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see thenickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,that was rough. III Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. Itoccupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. Itwas a fifty-five gallon drum. The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. What is that ? asked MajorWinship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight. That, said Capt. Lawler, is the calking compound. You're kidding, said Capt. Wilkins. I am not kidding. Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk. Why didn't you just borrow a cupful? Major Winship said sarcastically. It's this way, Lt. Chandler said. They didn't have anything but55-gallon drums of it. Oh, my, said Capt. Wilkins. I suppose it's a steel drum. Thosethings must weigh.... Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong, Capt. Lawlersaid. He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quiteupset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad. He's too damned suspicious, Major Winship said. You know and I knowwhy they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at melike an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in tryingto prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will bepublished in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet! About this drum, Capt. Wilkins said. Well, like I said, it's this way, Lt. Chandler resumed. I told himwe needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mixup. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have tocombine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a littlescale— A little scale? asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome. That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale. Yeah, said Captain Lawler, and he looked at us with that mute,surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of littlescales. Well, anyway, Lt. Chandler continued, he told us just to mix up thewhole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff thatgoes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don'tneed. Somehow, that sounds like him, Major Winship said. He had five or six of them. Jesus! said Capt. Wilkins. That must be three thousand pounds ofcalking compound. Those people are insane. The question is, Capt. Lawler said, 'How are we going to mix it?'It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly. They thought over the problem for a while. That will be a man-sized job, Major Winship said. Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad, said Capt. Wilkins. If I tookthe compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... ifwe could.... <doc-sep>It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer. Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated. Now, Major Winship said, we can either bring the drum inside or takethe mixer out there. We're going to have to bring the drum in, Capt. Wilkins said. Well, said Capt. Lawler, that will make it nice and cozy. It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back andforth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table wasinterposing itself. Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. Damn these suits, he said. You've got it stuck between the bunk post. I know that. I don't think this is the way to do it, Major Winship said. Let'sback the drum out. Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid ofCapt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it overto Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkinscarried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. Itrested uneasily on the uneven surface. Now, let's go, said Major Winship. Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum betweenthe main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.It's not the weight, it's the mass, said Capt. Wilkins brightly. The hell it isn't the weight, said Lt. Chandler. That's heavy. With my reefer out, said Major Winship, I'm the one it's rough on.He shook perspiration out of his eyes. They should figure a way to geta mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you'veforgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes. It's the salt. Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets, Major Winship said.I've never sweat so much since basic. Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them? No! Major Winship snapped. <doc-sep>With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixingattachment. I feel crowded, he said. Cozy's the word. Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that! Sorry. At length the mixer was in operation in the drum. Works perfectly, said Capt. Wilkins proudly. Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English. You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the areathoroughly around the leak. With what? asked Major Winship. Sandpaper, I guess. With sandpaper? Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid intothe drum. We don't have any sandpaper. It's been a long day, Capt. Wilkins said. Mix it thoroughly, Lt. Chandler mused. I guess that means let it mixfor about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service injust a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe. I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air. No, Capt. Lawler said. It sets by some kind of chemical action.General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind ofplastic. Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak, MajorWinship said. Say, I— interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concernin his voice. This is a hell of a time for this to occur tome. I just wasn't thinking, before. You don't suppose it's aroom-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you? Larry, said Major Winship, I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curingepoxy resin from— Hey! exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. The mixer's stopped. He bent forwardand touched the drum. He jerked back. Ye Gods! that's hot! And it'sharder than a rock! It is an epoxy! Let's get out of here. Huh? Out! Out! Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense ofurgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red. Let's go! Capt. Wilkins said. He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and becametemporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainlyin the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with thenecessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into themfrom behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of armsand legs. At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.The table remained untouched. When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, Get to one side, it may go offlike shrapnel. They obeyed. What—what—what? Capt. Lawler stuttered. They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on theother. I'm going to try to look, Capt. Wilkins said. Let me go. Helumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteenfeet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind thetable, on a line of sight with the airlock. I can see it, he said. It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's fallingover to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is gettingred, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh. What? said Capt. Lawler. Watch out! There. There! Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incrediblybright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flamelashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. Thetable was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly. There went the air, Capt. Lawler commented. We got T-Trouble, said Lt. Chandler. <doc-sep></s>

Major Winship is one of the few Americans who is currently living on base on the surface of the moon. He is in charge as the Commanding Officer of Freedom 19, as he outranks both the Captains and the first Lieutenant. After watching the moonquake shake the surface from inside the base, Major Winship quickly realizes that the quake ripped a hole in the dome itself. He attempts to fix it with a marker, then with a plastic sheet, but both fail. Their caulking compound has hardened and is completely unusable. Winship accuses the Russians of causing the quake and leak on purpose, but the General vehemently denies his claims. They try to call into Earth but realize that without air, there’d be no sound. So, they have to find another way. Stuck in his suit until they can restore air to the base, Winship sends Lt. Chandler and Capt. Lawler to ask the Soviets for help. Winship shares a meal with Wilkins, and then the Captain connected to Winship with a series of wires to the radio. This way he’d be able to communicate while in his suit. He suffers a major mistake with the wiring, however, when his air supply is cut off. He motions to Wilkins who saves him, reconnecting the lost cable, and Winship lets those on Earth know what happened. They let him know that they’ve received a formal apology and that they will send a replacement in ten days’ time. Once Chandler and Lawler return, Winship is faced with a new problem: how to mix and activate the 55-gallon fix for the leak. Wilkins creates an electric mixer, and they bring the barrel inside to mix. The barrel becomes red-hot and looks to be on the verge of combustion. The men scramble and get to the airlock. The barrel explodes and the flames use up all the oxygen. Winship is faced with an even greater problem now: how to survive.

<s> DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN BY ALEXEI PANSHIN The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim in the miasma of a planet without spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp. There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me. He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down? I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything. My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation. After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot. Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob. The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council. I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public. <doc-sep>It wasn't the chance of not coming back that bothered me really,because I never believed that I wouldn't. The thought that made meunhappy was that I would have to be on a planet for a whole month.Planets make me feel wretched. The gravity is always wrong, for one thing. Either your arches andcalves ache or every time you step you think you're going to trip ona piece of fluff and break your neck. There are vegetables everywhereand little grubby things just looking for you to crawl on. If youcan think of anything creepier than that, you've got a real nastyimagination. Worst of all, planets stink. Every single one smells—I'vebeen on enough to know that. A planet is all right for a Mud-eater, butnot for me. We have a place in the Ship like that—the Third Level—but it's only athousand square miles and any time it gets on your nerves you can go upa level or down a level and be back in civilization. When we reached Tintera, they started dropping us. We swung over thesea from the morning side and then dropped low over gray-green forestedhills. Finally George spotted a clear area and dropped into it. Theydon't care what order you go in, so Jimmy D. jumped up, grabbed hisgear and then led his horse down the ramp. I think he was stillsmarting from the slap I'd given him. In a minute we were airborne again. I wondered if I would ever seeJimmy—if he would get back alive. It's no game we play. When we turn fourteen, they drop us on thenearest colonized planet and come back one month later. That may soundlike fun to you, but a lot of us never come back alive. Don't think I was helpless. I'm hell on wheels. They don't let us growfor fourteen years and then kick us out to die. They prepare us. Theydo figure, though, that if you can't keep yourself alive by the timeyou're fourteen, you're too stupid, foolish or unlucky to be any use tothe Ship. There's sense behind it. It means that everybody on the Shipis a person who can take care of himself if he has to. Daddy says thatsomething has to be done in a closed society to keep the populationfrom decaying mentally and physically, and this is it. And it helps tokeep the population steady. I began to check my gear out—sonic pistol, pickup signal so I could befound at the end of the month, saddle and cinches, food and clothes.Venie Morlock has got a crush on Jimmy D., and when she saw me startgetting ready to go, she began to check her gear, too. At our nextlanding, I grabbed Ninc's reins and cut Venie out smoothly. It didn'thave anything to do with Jimmy. I just couldn't stand to put off thebad moment any longer. The ship lifted impersonally away from Ninc and me like a rising bird,and in just a moment it was gone. Its gray-blue color was almost thecolor of the half-overcast sky, so I was never sure when I saw it last. II The first night was hell, I guess because I'm not used to having thelights out. That's when you really start to feel lonely, being alone inthe dark. When the sun disappears, somehow you wonder in your stomachif it's really going to come back. But I lived through it—one day inthirty gone. I rode in a spiral search pattern during the next two days. I had threethings in mind—stay alive, find people and find some of the others.The first was automatic. The second was to find out if there was a slotI could fit into for a month. If not, I would have to find a place tocamp out, as nasty as that would be. The third was to join forces,though not with that meatball Jimmy D. No, he isn't really a meatball. The trouble is that I don't takenothing from nobody, especially him, and he doesn't take nothing fromnobody, especially me. So we do a lot of fighting. I had a good month for Trial. My birthday is in November—too close toYear End Holiday for my taste, but this year it was all right. It wasspring on Tintera, but it was December in the Ship, and after we gotback we had five days of Holiday to celebrate. It gave me something tolook forward to. In two days of riding, I ran onto nothing but a few odd-lookinganimals. I shot one small one and ate it. It turned out to taste prettygood, though not as good as a slice from Hambone No. 4, to my mind thebest meat vat on the Ship. I've eaten things so gruey-looking that Iwondered that anybody had the guts to try them in the first place andthey've turned out to taste good. And I've seen things that looked goodthat I couldn't keep on my stomach. So I guess I was lucky. On the third day, I found the road. I brought Ninc down off thehillside, losing sight of the road in the trees, and then reachingit in the level below. It was narrow and made of sand spread over ahard base. Out of the marks in the sand, I could pick out the tracksof horses and both narrow and wide wheels. Other tracks I couldn'tidentify. One of the smartest moves in history was to include horses whenthey dropped the colonies. I say they because, while we did theactual dropping, the idea originated with the whole evac plan back onEarth. Considering how short a time it was in which the colonies wereestablished, there was not time to set up industry, so they had to havedraft animals. The first of the Great Ships was finished in 2025. One of the eight,as well as the two that were being built then, went up with everythingelse in the Solar System in 2041. In that sixteen years 112 colonieswere planted. I don't know how many of those planets had animals that could have been substituted but, even if they had, they would havehad to be domesticated from scratch. That would have been stupid. I'llbet that half the colonies would have failed if they hadn't had horses. <doc-sep>We'd come in from the west over the ocean, so I traveled east on theroad. That much water makes me nervous, and roads have to go somewhere. I came on my first travelers three hours later. I rounded a tree-linedbend, ducking an overhanging branch, and pulled Ninc to a stop. Therewere five men on horseback herding a bunch of the ugliest creaturesalive. They were green and grotesque. They had squat bodies, long limbs andknobby bulges at their joints. They had square, flat animal masks forfaces. But they walked on their hind legs and they had paws that werealmost hands, and that was enough to make them seem almost human. Theymade a wordless, chilling, lowing sound as they milled and ploddedalong. I started Ninc up again and moved slowly to catch up with them. All themen on horseback had guns in saddle boots. They looked as nervous ascats with kittens. One of them had a string of packhorses on a lineand he saw me and called to another who seemed to be the leader. Thatone wheeled his black horse and rode back toward me. He was a middle-aged man, maybe as old as my Daddy. He was large and hehad a hard face. Normal enough, but hard. He pulled to a halt when wereached each other, but I kept going. He had to come around and followme. I believe in judging a person by his face. A man can't help theface he owns, but he can help the expression he wears on it. If a manlooks mean, I generally believe that he is. This one looked mean. Thatwas why I kept riding. He said, What be you doing out here, boy? Be you out of your head?There be escaped Losels in these woods. I told you I hadn't finished filling out yet, but I hadn't thought itwas that bad. I wasn't ready to make a fight over the point, though.Generally, I can't keep my bloody mouth shut, but now I didn't sayanything. It seemed smart. Where be you from? he asked. I pointed to the road behind us. And where be you going? I pointed ahead. No other way to go. He seemed exasperated. I have that effect sometimes. Even on Mother andDaddy, who should know better. We were coming up on the others now, and the man said, Maybe you'dbetter ride on from here with us. For protection. He had an odd way of twisting his sounds, almost as though he had amouthful of mush. I wondered whether he were just an oddball or whethereverybody here spoke the same way. I'd never heard InternationalEnglish spoken any way but one, even on the planet Daddy made me visitwith him. One of the other outriders came easing by then. I suppose they'd beenwatching us all the while. He called to the hard man. He be awfully small, Horst. I doubt me a Losel'd even notice him atall. We mought as well throw him back again. The rider looked at me. When I didn't dissolve in terror as heexpected, he shrugged and one of the other men laughed. The hard man said to the others, This boy will be riding along with usto Forton for protection. I looked down at the plodding, unhappy creatures they were drivingalong and one looked back at me with dull, expressionless golden eyes.I felt uncomfortable. I said, I don't think so. What the man did then surprised me. He said, I do think so, andreached for the rifle in his saddle boot. I whipped my sonic pistol out so fast that he was caught leaning overwith the rifle half out. His jaw dropped. He knew what I held and hedidn't want to be fried. I said, Ease your rifles out and drop them gently to the ground. They did, watching me all the while with wary expressions. When all the rifles were on the ground, I said, All right, let's go. They didn't want to move. They didn't want to leave the rifles. Icould see that. Horst didn't say anything. He just watched me withnarrowed eyes. But one of the others held up a hand and in wheedlingtones said, Look here, kid.... Shut up, I said, in as mean a voice as I could muster, and he did. Itsurprised me. I didn't think I sounded that mean. I decided he justdidn't trust the crazy kid not to shoot. After twenty minutes of easy riding for us and hard walking for thecreatures, I said, If you want your rifles, you can go back and getthem now. I dug my heels into Ninc's sides and rode on. At the nextbend I looked back and saw four of them holding their packhorses andthe creatures still while one beat a dust-raising retreat down the road. I put this episode in the file and hold for analysis section in mymind and rode on, feeling good. I think I even giggled once. SometimesI even convince myself that I'm hell on wheels. III When I was nine, my Daddy gave me a painted wooden doll that mygreat-grandmother brought from Earth. The thing is that inside it,nestled one in another, are eleven more dolls, each one smaller thanthe last. I like to watch people when they open it for the first time. My face must have been like that as I rode along the road. The country leveled into a great rolling valley and the trees gaveway to great farms and fields. In the fields, working, were some ofthe green creatures, which surprised me since the ones I'd seen beforehadn't seemed smart enough to count to one, let alone do any work. But it relieved me. I thought they might have been eating them orsomething. I passed two crossroads and started to meet more people, but nobodyquestioned me. I met people on horseback, and twice I met trucks movingsilently past. And I overtook a wagon driven by the oldest man I'veseen in my life. He waved to me, and I waved back. Near the end of the afternoon I came to the town, and there I receiveda jolt that sickened me. By the time I came out on the other side, I was sick. My hands werecold and sweaty and my head was spinning, and I wanted to kick Ninc toa gallop. I rode slowly in, looking all around, missing nothing. The town was allstone, wood and brick. Out of date. Out of time, really. There wereno machines more complicated than the trucks I'd seen earlier. At theedge of town, I passed a newspaper office with a headline pasted in thewindow—INVASION! I remember that. I wondered about it. But I looked most closely at the people. In all that town, I didn'tsee one girl over ten years old and no grown-up women at all. Therewere little kids, there were boys and there were men, but no girls. Allthe boys and men wore pants, and so did I, which must have been whyHorst and his buddies assumed I was a boy. It wasn't flattering; butI decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made theclocks tick on this planet. But that wasn't what bothered me. It was the kids. My God! Theyswarmed. I saw a family come out of a house—a father and four children. It was the most foul thing I've ever seen. It struck methen—these people were Free Birthers! I felt a wave of nausea and Iclosed my eyes until it passed. <doc-sep>The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot andcriminal people like these, Earth would never have been destroyed. Theevacuation would never have had to take place, and eight billion peoplewouldn't have died. There wouldn't have been eight billion people.But, no. They bred and they spread and they devoured everything intheir path like a cancer. They gobbled up all the resources that Earthhad and crowded and shoved one another until the final war came. I am lucky. My great-great-grandparents were among those who had enoughforesight to see what was coming. If it hadn't been for them and someothers like them, there wouldn't be any humans left anywhere. And Iwouldn't be here. That may not scare you, but it scares me. What happened before, when people didn't use their heads and wound upblowing the Solar System apart, is something nobody should forget. Theolder people don't let us forget. But these people had, and that theCouncil should know. For the first time since I landed on Tintera, I felt really frightened. There was too much going on that I didn't understand. Ifelt a blind urge to get away, and when I reached the edge of town, Iwhomped Ninc a good one and gave him his head. I let him run for almost a mile before I pulled him down to a walkagain. I couldn't help wishing for Jimmy D. Whatever else he is, he'ssmart and brains I needed. How do you find out what's going on? Eavesdrop? That's a lousy method.For one thing, people can't be depended on to talk about the things youwant to hear. For another, you're likely to get caught. Ask somebody?Who? Make the mistake of bracing a fellow like Horst and you might windup with a sore head and an empty pocket. The best thing I could thinkof was to find a library, but that might be a job. I'd had two bad shocks on this day, but they weren't the last. In thelate afternoon, when the sun was starting to sink and a cool wind wasstarting to ripple the tree leaves, I saw the scoutship high in thesky. The dying sun colored it a deep red. Back again? I wondered whathad gone wrong. I reached down into my saddlebag and brought out my contact signal.The scoutship swung up in the sky in a familiar movement calculated todrop the stomach out of everybody aboard. George Fuhonin's style. Itriggered the signal, my heart turning flips all the while. I didn'tknow why he was back, but I wasn't really sorry. The ship swung around until it was coming back on a path almost over myhead, going in the same direction. Then it went into a slip and startedbucking so hard that I knew this wasn't hot piloting at all, just plainidiot stutter-fingered stupidity at the controls. As it skidded by meoverhead, I got a good look at it and knew that it wasn't one of ours.Not too different, but not ours. One more enigma. Where was it from? Not here. Even if you know how, andwe wouldn't tell these Mud-eaters how, a scoutship is something thattakes an advanced technology to build. <doc-sep>I felt defeated and tired. Not much farther along the road, I came toa campsite with two wagons pulled in for the night, and I couldn'thelp but pull in myself. The campsite was large and had two permanentbuildings on it. One was a well enclosure and the other was little morethan a high-walled pen. It didn't even have a roof. I set up camp and ate my dinner. In the wagon closest to me were a man,his wife and their three children. The kids were running around andplaying, and one of them ran close to the high-walled pen. His fathercame and pulled him away. The kids weren't to blame for their parents, but when one of them saidhello to me, I didn't even answer. I know how lousy I would feel if Ihad two or three brothers and sisters, but it didn't strike me untilthat moment that it wouldn't even seem out of the ordinary to thesekids. Isn't that horrible? About the time I finished eating, and before it grew dark, the old manI had seen earlier in the day drove his wagon in. He fascinated me. Hehad white hair, something I had read about in stories but had neverseen before. When nightfall came, they started a large fire. Everybody gatheredaround. There was singing for awhile, and then the father of thechildren tried to pack them off to bed. But they weren't ready to go,so the old man started telling them a story. In the old man's oddaccent, and sitting there in the campfire light surrounded by darkness,it seemed just right. It was about an old witch named Baba Yaga who lived in the forest ina house that stood on chicken legs. She was the nasty stepmother of anice little girl, and to get rid of the kid, she sent her on a phonyerrand into the deep dark woods at nightfall. I could appreciate thepoor girl's position. All the little girl had to help her were thehandkerchief, the comb and the pearl that she had inherited from herdear dead mother. But, as it turned out, they were just enough todefeat nasty old Baba Yaga and bring the girl safely home. I wished for the same for myself. The old man had just finished and they were starting to drag the kidsoff to bed when there was a commotion on the road at the edge of thecamp. I looked but my eyes were adjusted to the light of the fire and Icouldn't see far into the dark. A voice there said, I'll be damned if I'll take another day like thisone, Horst. We should have been here hours ago. It be your fault we'renot. Horst growled a retort. I decided that it was time for me to leave thecampfire. I got up and eased away as Horst and his men came up to thefire, and cut back to where Ninc was parked. I grabbed up my blanketsand mattress and started to roll them up. I had a pretty good idea nowwhat they used the high-walled pen for. I should have known that they would have to pen the animals up for thenight. I should have used my head. I hadn't and now it was time to takeleave. I never got the chance. <doc-sep>I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on myshoulder and I was swung around. Well, well. Horst, look who we have here, he called. It was the onewho'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. Hewas alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast. I brought the saddle around as hard as I could and then up, and hewent down. He started to get up again, so I dropped the saddle on himand reached inside my jacket for my gun. Somebody grabbed me then frombehind and pinned my arms to my side. I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smellyhand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than alungful of air. I bit down hard—5000 lbs. psi, I'm told—but hedidn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feetand dragged me off. When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stoppeddragging me and dropped me in a heap. Make any noise, he said, andI'll hurt you. That was a silly way to put it, but somehow it said more than if he'dthreatened to break my arm or my head. It left him a latitude of thingsto do if he pleased. He examined his hand. There was enough moonlightfor that. I ought to club you anyway, he said. The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were puttingthe animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him. No, he said. Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and whatwe can use. The other one didn't move. Get going, Jack, Horst said in a menacingtone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finallybacked down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to mebeing kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in hisbunch. But I wasn't done yet. I was scared, but I still had the pistol undermy jacket. Horst turned back to me and I said, You can't do this and get awaywith it. He said, Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot oftrouble. So don't give me a hard time. He still thought I was a boy. It was not time to correct him, but Ididn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering. The courts won't let you get away with this, I said. I'd passeda courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUALJUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD orsomething stuffy like that. He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so Iknew I'd goofed. Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I betaking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go tocourt and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leavingyou your freedom. Why would they be doing that? I asked. I slipped my hand under myjacket. Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of theShips, Horst said. That be enough. They already have one of you bratsin jail in Forton. I was about to bring my gun out when up came Jack leading Ninc, withall my stuff loaded on. I mentally thanked him. He said, The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out whatthis be for. He held out my pickup signal. Horst looked at it, then handed it back. Throw it away, he said. I leveled my gun at them—Hell on Wheels strikes again! I said, Handthat over to me. Horst made a disgusted sound. Don't make any noise, I said, or you'll fry. Now hand it over. I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of thesaddle. What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton. I can't remember, he said. But it be coming to me. Hold on. I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behindand the gun went flying. Jack pounced after it and Horst said, Goodenough, to the others who'd come up behind me. I felt like a fool. Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground andsaid in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it wasnatural and mine wasn't, The piece be yours. Then he tromped on ituntil it cracked and fell apart. Then he said, Pull a gun on me twice. Twice. He slapped me so hardthat my ears rang. You dirty little punk. I said calmly, You big louse. It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I canremember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of myface and then nothing. Brains are no good if you don't use them. <doc-sep></s>

The story begins on a scoutship with 29 fourteen-year-olds. The narrator of the story is Mia Havero, she is short and skinny. Her father is the Chairman of the Council. The fourteen-year-olds are being dropped on a planet called Tintera for their Trial. Mia details her dislike of the planet. She rides on her horse Ninc for three days before she comes across other people. The men and Mia get into a disagreement because she does not want to join them. Mia proceeds to point her weapon and them. She tells them to drop their rifles on the ground and only lets them return to retrieve them once Mia and the men are a 20-minute ride away from the weapons. Mia continues on riding her horse and passes a town where she meets more people. Eventually, Mia ends up at a campsite where she intends to rest and eat. However, the men who she encountered before and flashed her weapon at, find her at the campsite. She is grabbed from behind. The men have their grip on her, preventing her from escaping from them. The men destroy her pickup signal and she is punched in the face by one of the men.

<s> DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN BY ALEXEI PANSHIN The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim in the miasma of a planet without spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp. There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me. He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down? I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything. My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation. After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot. Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob. The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council. I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public. <doc-sep>It wasn't the chance of not coming back that bothered me really,because I never believed that I wouldn't. The thought that made meunhappy was that I would have to be on a planet for a whole month.Planets make me feel wretched. The gravity is always wrong, for one thing. Either your arches andcalves ache or every time you step you think you're going to trip ona piece of fluff and break your neck. There are vegetables everywhereand little grubby things just looking for you to crawl on. If youcan think of anything creepier than that, you've got a real nastyimagination. Worst of all, planets stink. Every single one smells—I'vebeen on enough to know that. A planet is all right for a Mud-eater, butnot for me. We have a place in the Ship like that—the Third Level—but it's only athousand square miles and any time it gets on your nerves you can go upa level or down a level and be back in civilization. When we reached Tintera, they started dropping us. We swung over thesea from the morning side and then dropped low over gray-green forestedhills. Finally George spotted a clear area and dropped into it. Theydon't care what order you go in, so Jimmy D. jumped up, grabbed hisgear and then led his horse down the ramp. I think he was stillsmarting from the slap I'd given him. In a minute we were airborne again. I wondered if I would ever seeJimmy—if he would get back alive. It's no game we play. When we turn fourteen, they drop us on thenearest colonized planet and come back one month later. That may soundlike fun to you, but a lot of us never come back alive. Don't think I was helpless. I'm hell on wheels. They don't let us growfor fourteen years and then kick us out to die. They prepare us. Theydo figure, though, that if you can't keep yourself alive by the timeyou're fourteen, you're too stupid, foolish or unlucky to be any use tothe Ship. There's sense behind it. It means that everybody on the Shipis a person who can take care of himself if he has to. Daddy says thatsomething has to be done in a closed society to keep the populationfrom decaying mentally and physically, and this is it. And it helps tokeep the population steady. I began to check my gear out—sonic pistol, pickup signal so I could befound at the end of the month, saddle and cinches, food and clothes.Venie Morlock has got a crush on Jimmy D., and when she saw me startgetting ready to go, she began to check her gear, too. At our nextlanding, I grabbed Ninc's reins and cut Venie out smoothly. It didn'thave anything to do with Jimmy. I just couldn't stand to put off thebad moment any longer. The ship lifted impersonally away from Ninc and me like a rising bird,and in just a moment it was gone. Its gray-blue color was almost thecolor of the half-overcast sky, so I was never sure when I saw it last. II The first night was hell, I guess because I'm not used to having thelights out. That's when you really start to feel lonely, being alone inthe dark. When the sun disappears, somehow you wonder in your stomachif it's really going to come back. But I lived through it—one day inthirty gone. I rode in a spiral search pattern during the next two days. I had threethings in mind—stay alive, find people and find some of the others.The first was automatic. The second was to find out if there was a slotI could fit into for a month. If not, I would have to find a place tocamp out, as nasty as that would be. The third was to join forces,though not with that meatball Jimmy D. No, he isn't really a meatball. The trouble is that I don't takenothing from nobody, especially him, and he doesn't take nothing fromnobody, especially me. So we do a lot of fighting. I had a good month for Trial. My birthday is in November—too close toYear End Holiday for my taste, but this year it was all right. It wasspring on Tintera, but it was December in the Ship, and after we gotback we had five days of Holiday to celebrate. It gave me something tolook forward to. In two days of riding, I ran onto nothing but a few odd-lookinganimals. I shot one small one and ate it. It turned out to taste prettygood, though not as good as a slice from Hambone No. 4, to my mind thebest meat vat on the Ship. I've eaten things so gruey-looking that Iwondered that anybody had the guts to try them in the first place andthey've turned out to taste good. And I've seen things that looked goodthat I couldn't keep on my stomach. So I guess I was lucky. On the third day, I found the road. I brought Ninc down off thehillside, losing sight of the road in the trees, and then reachingit in the level below. It was narrow and made of sand spread over ahard base. Out of the marks in the sand, I could pick out the tracksof horses and both narrow and wide wheels. Other tracks I couldn'tidentify. One of the smartest moves in history was to include horses whenthey dropped the colonies. I say they because, while we did theactual dropping, the idea originated with the whole evac plan back onEarth. Considering how short a time it was in which the colonies wereestablished, there was not time to set up industry, so they had to havedraft animals. The first of the Great Ships was finished in 2025. One of the eight,as well as the two that were being built then, went up with everythingelse in the Solar System in 2041. In that sixteen years 112 colonieswere planted. I don't know how many of those planets had animals that could have been substituted but, even if they had, they would havehad to be domesticated from scratch. That would have been stupid. I'llbet that half the colonies would have failed if they hadn't had horses. <doc-sep>We'd come in from the west over the ocean, so I traveled east on theroad. That much water makes me nervous, and roads have to go somewhere. I came on my first travelers three hours later. I rounded a tree-linedbend, ducking an overhanging branch, and pulled Ninc to a stop. Therewere five men on horseback herding a bunch of the ugliest creaturesalive. They were green and grotesque. They had squat bodies, long limbs andknobby bulges at their joints. They had square, flat animal masks forfaces. But they walked on their hind legs and they had paws that werealmost hands, and that was enough to make them seem almost human. Theymade a wordless, chilling, lowing sound as they milled and ploddedalong. I started Ninc up again and moved slowly to catch up with them. All themen on horseback had guns in saddle boots. They looked as nervous ascats with kittens. One of them had a string of packhorses on a lineand he saw me and called to another who seemed to be the leader. Thatone wheeled his black horse and rode back toward me. He was a middle-aged man, maybe as old as my Daddy. He was large and hehad a hard face. Normal enough, but hard. He pulled to a halt when wereached each other, but I kept going. He had to come around and followme. I believe in judging a person by his face. A man can't help theface he owns, but he can help the expression he wears on it. If a manlooks mean, I generally believe that he is. This one looked mean. Thatwas why I kept riding. He said, What be you doing out here, boy? Be you out of your head?There be escaped Losels in these woods. I told you I hadn't finished filling out yet, but I hadn't thought itwas that bad. I wasn't ready to make a fight over the point, though.Generally, I can't keep my bloody mouth shut, but now I didn't sayanything. It seemed smart. Where be you from? he asked. I pointed to the road behind us. And where be you going? I pointed ahead. No other way to go. He seemed exasperated. I have that effect sometimes. Even on Mother andDaddy, who should know better. We were coming up on the others now, and the man said, Maybe you'dbetter ride on from here with us. For protection. He had an odd way of twisting his sounds, almost as though he had amouthful of mush. I wondered whether he were just an oddball or whethereverybody here spoke the same way. I'd never heard InternationalEnglish spoken any way but one, even on the planet Daddy made me visitwith him. One of the other outriders came easing by then. I suppose they'd beenwatching us all the while. He called to the hard man. He be awfully small, Horst. I doubt me a Losel'd even notice him atall. We mought as well throw him back again. The rider looked at me. When I didn't dissolve in terror as heexpected, he shrugged and one of the other men laughed. The hard man said to the others, This boy will be riding along with usto Forton for protection. I looked down at the plodding, unhappy creatures they were drivingalong and one looked back at me with dull, expressionless golden eyes.I felt uncomfortable. I said, I don't think so. What the man did then surprised me. He said, I do think so, andreached for the rifle in his saddle boot. I whipped my sonic pistol out so fast that he was caught leaning overwith the rifle half out. His jaw dropped. He knew what I held and hedidn't want to be fried. I said, Ease your rifles out and drop them gently to the ground. They did, watching me all the while with wary expressions. When all the rifles were on the ground, I said, All right, let's go. They didn't want to move. They didn't want to leave the rifles. Icould see that. Horst didn't say anything. He just watched me withnarrowed eyes. But one of the others held up a hand and in wheedlingtones said, Look here, kid.... Shut up, I said, in as mean a voice as I could muster, and he did. Itsurprised me. I didn't think I sounded that mean. I decided he justdidn't trust the crazy kid not to shoot. After twenty minutes of easy riding for us and hard walking for thecreatures, I said, If you want your rifles, you can go back and getthem now. I dug my heels into Ninc's sides and rode on. At the nextbend I looked back and saw four of them holding their packhorses andthe creatures still while one beat a dust-raising retreat down the road. I put this episode in the file and hold for analysis section in mymind and rode on, feeling good. I think I even giggled once. SometimesI even convince myself that I'm hell on wheels. III When I was nine, my Daddy gave me a painted wooden doll that mygreat-grandmother brought from Earth. The thing is that inside it,nestled one in another, are eleven more dolls, each one smaller thanthe last. I like to watch people when they open it for the first time. My face must have been like that as I rode along the road. The country leveled into a great rolling valley and the trees gaveway to great farms and fields. In the fields, working, were some ofthe green creatures, which surprised me since the ones I'd seen beforehadn't seemed smart enough to count to one, let alone do any work. But it relieved me. I thought they might have been eating them orsomething. I passed two crossroads and started to meet more people, but nobodyquestioned me. I met people on horseback, and twice I met trucks movingsilently past. And I overtook a wagon driven by the oldest man I'veseen in my life. He waved to me, and I waved back. Near the end of the afternoon I came to the town, and there I receiveda jolt that sickened me. By the time I came out on the other side, I was sick. My hands werecold and sweaty and my head was spinning, and I wanted to kick Ninc toa gallop. I rode slowly in, looking all around, missing nothing. The town was allstone, wood and brick. Out of date. Out of time, really. There wereno machines more complicated than the trucks I'd seen earlier. At theedge of town, I passed a newspaper office with a headline pasted in thewindow—INVASION! I remember that. I wondered about it. But I looked most closely at the people. In all that town, I didn'tsee one girl over ten years old and no grown-up women at all. Therewere little kids, there were boys and there were men, but no girls. Allthe boys and men wore pants, and so did I, which must have been whyHorst and his buddies assumed I was a boy. It wasn't flattering; butI decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made theclocks tick on this planet. But that wasn't what bothered me. It was the kids. My God! Theyswarmed. I saw a family come out of a house—a father and four children. It was the most foul thing I've ever seen. It struck methen—these people were Free Birthers! I felt a wave of nausea and Iclosed my eyes until it passed. <doc-sep>The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot andcriminal people like these, Earth would never have been destroyed. Theevacuation would never have had to take place, and eight billion peoplewouldn't have died. There wouldn't have been eight billion people.But, no. They bred and they spread and they devoured everything intheir path like a cancer. They gobbled up all the resources that Earthhad and crowded and shoved one another until the final war came. I am lucky. My great-great-grandparents were among those who had enoughforesight to see what was coming. If it hadn't been for them and someothers like them, there wouldn't be any humans left anywhere. And Iwouldn't be here. That may not scare you, but it scares me. What happened before, when people didn't use their heads and wound upblowing the Solar System apart, is something nobody should forget. Theolder people don't let us forget. But these people had, and that theCouncil should know. For the first time since I landed on Tintera, I felt really frightened. There was too much going on that I didn't understand. Ifelt a blind urge to get away, and when I reached the edge of town, Iwhomped Ninc a good one and gave him his head. I let him run for almost a mile before I pulled him down to a walkagain. I couldn't help wishing for Jimmy D. Whatever else he is, he'ssmart and brains I needed. How do you find out what's going on? Eavesdrop? That's a lousy method.For one thing, people can't be depended on to talk about the things youwant to hear. For another, you're likely to get caught. Ask somebody?Who? Make the mistake of bracing a fellow like Horst and you might windup with a sore head and an empty pocket. The best thing I could thinkof was to find a library, but that might be a job. I'd had two bad shocks on this day, but they weren't the last. In thelate afternoon, when the sun was starting to sink and a cool wind wasstarting to ripple the tree leaves, I saw the scoutship high in thesky. The dying sun colored it a deep red. Back again? I wondered whathad gone wrong. I reached down into my saddlebag and brought out my contact signal.The scoutship swung up in the sky in a familiar movement calculated todrop the stomach out of everybody aboard. George Fuhonin's style. Itriggered the signal, my heart turning flips all the while. I didn'tknow why he was back, but I wasn't really sorry. The ship swung around until it was coming back on a path almost over myhead, going in the same direction. Then it went into a slip and startedbucking so hard that I knew this wasn't hot piloting at all, just plainidiot stutter-fingered stupidity at the controls. As it skidded by meoverhead, I got a good look at it and knew that it wasn't one of ours.Not too different, but not ours. One more enigma. Where was it from? Not here. Even if you know how, andwe wouldn't tell these Mud-eaters how, a scoutship is something thattakes an advanced technology to build. <doc-sep>I felt defeated and tired. Not much farther along the road, I came toa campsite with two wagons pulled in for the night, and I couldn'thelp but pull in myself. The campsite was large and had two permanentbuildings on it. One was a well enclosure and the other was little morethan a high-walled pen. It didn't even have a roof. I set up camp and ate my dinner. In the wagon closest to me were a man,his wife and their three children. The kids were running around andplaying, and one of them ran close to the high-walled pen. His fathercame and pulled him away. The kids weren't to blame for their parents, but when one of them saidhello to me, I didn't even answer. I know how lousy I would feel if Ihad two or three brothers and sisters, but it didn't strike me untilthat moment that it wouldn't even seem out of the ordinary to thesekids. Isn't that horrible? About the time I finished eating, and before it grew dark, the old manI had seen earlier in the day drove his wagon in. He fascinated me. Hehad white hair, something I had read about in stories but had neverseen before. When nightfall came, they started a large fire. Everybody gatheredaround. There was singing for awhile, and then the father of thechildren tried to pack them off to bed. But they weren't ready to go,so the old man started telling them a story. In the old man's oddaccent, and sitting there in the campfire light surrounded by darkness,it seemed just right. It was about an old witch named Baba Yaga who lived in the forest ina house that stood on chicken legs. She was the nasty stepmother of anice little girl, and to get rid of the kid, she sent her on a phonyerrand into the deep dark woods at nightfall. I could appreciate thepoor girl's position. All the little girl had to help her were thehandkerchief, the comb and the pearl that she had inherited from herdear dead mother. But, as it turned out, they were just enough todefeat nasty old Baba Yaga and bring the girl safely home. I wished for the same for myself. The old man had just finished and they were starting to drag the kidsoff to bed when there was a commotion on the road at the edge of thecamp. I looked but my eyes were adjusted to the light of the fire and Icouldn't see far into the dark. A voice there said, I'll be damned if I'll take another day like thisone, Horst. We should have been here hours ago. It be your fault we'renot. Horst growled a retort. I decided that it was time for me to leave thecampfire. I got up and eased away as Horst and his men came up to thefire, and cut back to where Ninc was parked. I grabbed up my blanketsand mattress and started to roll them up. I had a pretty good idea nowwhat they used the high-walled pen for. I should have known that they would have to pen the animals up for thenight. I should have used my head. I hadn't and now it was time to takeleave. I never got the chance. <doc-sep>I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on myshoulder and I was swung around. Well, well. Horst, look who we have here, he called. It was the onewho'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. Hewas alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast. I brought the saddle around as hard as I could and then up, and hewent down. He started to get up again, so I dropped the saddle on himand reached inside my jacket for my gun. Somebody grabbed me then frombehind and pinned my arms to my side. I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smellyhand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than alungful of air. I bit down hard—5000 lbs. psi, I'm told—but hedidn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feetand dragged me off. When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stoppeddragging me and dropped me in a heap. Make any noise, he said, andI'll hurt you. That was a silly way to put it, but somehow it said more than if he'dthreatened to break my arm or my head. It left him a latitude of thingsto do if he pleased. He examined his hand. There was enough moonlightfor that. I ought to club you anyway, he said. The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were puttingthe animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him. No, he said. Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and whatwe can use. The other one didn't move. Get going, Jack, Horst said in a menacingtone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finallybacked down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to mebeing kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in hisbunch. But I wasn't done yet. I was scared, but I still had the pistol undermy jacket. Horst turned back to me and I said, You can't do this and get awaywith it. He said, Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot oftrouble. So don't give me a hard time. He still thought I was a boy. It was not time to correct him, but Ididn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering. The courts won't let you get away with this, I said. I'd passeda courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUALJUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD orsomething stuffy like that. He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so Iknew I'd goofed. Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I betaking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go tocourt and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leavingyou your freedom. Why would they be doing that? I asked. I slipped my hand under myjacket. Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of theShips, Horst said. That be enough. They already have one of you bratsin jail in Forton. I was about to bring my gun out when up came Jack leading Ninc, withall my stuff loaded on. I mentally thanked him. He said, The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out whatthis be for. He held out my pickup signal. Horst looked at it, then handed it back. Throw it away, he said. I leveled my gun at them—Hell on Wheels strikes again! I said, Handthat over to me. Horst made a disgusted sound. Don't make any noise, I said, or you'll fry. Now hand it over. I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of thesaddle. What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton. I can't remember, he said. But it be coming to me. Hold on. I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behindand the gun went flying. Jack pounced after it and Horst said, Goodenough, to the others who'd come up behind me. I felt like a fool. Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground andsaid in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it wasnatural and mine wasn't, The piece be yours. Then he tromped on ituntil it cracked and fell apart. Then he said, Pull a gun on me twice. Twice. He slapped me so hardthat my ears rang. You dirty little punk. I said calmly, You big louse. It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I canremember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of myface and then nothing. Brains are no good if you don't use them. <doc-sep></s>

Mia is taught that those who destroyed Earth were not smart and that they deserve punishment for their actions. According to her, Earth was evacuated because of overpopulation. People had too many children that required more resources than Earth was capable of providing. Consequently, there was a fight over the remaining resources that caused a war. Mia has great-great-grandparents that were among those who anticipated the destruction of Earth and prepared to leave. In addition, Mia talks about how humans left Earth. She says there were Great Ships built around 2025. The Great Ships and other things went into the Solar System in 2041. The humans that escaped established 112 colonies in the first 16 years. During this retelling of what she was taught, she emphasizes that horses were important to the success of the new colonies.

<s> DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN BY ALEXEI PANSHIN The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim in the miasma of a planet without spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp. There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me. He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down? I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything. My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation. After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot. Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob. The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council. I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public. <doc-sep>It wasn't the chance of not coming back that bothered me really,because I never believed that I wouldn't. The thought that made meunhappy was that I would have to be on a planet for a whole month.Planets make me feel wretched. The gravity is always wrong, for one thing. Either your arches andcalves ache or every time you step you think you're going to trip ona piece of fluff and break your neck. There are vegetables everywhereand little grubby things just looking for you to crawl on. If youcan think of anything creepier than that, you've got a real nastyimagination. Worst of all, planets stink. Every single one smells—I'vebeen on enough to know that. A planet is all right for a Mud-eater, butnot for me. We have a place in the Ship like that—the Third Level—but it's only athousand square miles and any time it gets on your nerves you can go upa level or down a level and be back in civilization. When we reached Tintera, they started dropping us. We swung over thesea from the morning side and then dropped low over gray-green forestedhills. Finally George spotted a clear area and dropped into it. Theydon't care what order you go in, so Jimmy D. jumped up, grabbed hisgear and then led his horse down the ramp. I think he was stillsmarting from the slap I'd given him. In a minute we were airborne again. I wondered if I would ever seeJimmy—if he would get back alive. It's no game we play. When we turn fourteen, they drop us on thenearest colonized planet and come back one month later. That may soundlike fun to you, but a lot of us never come back alive. Don't think I was helpless. I'm hell on wheels. They don't let us growfor fourteen years and then kick us out to die. They prepare us. Theydo figure, though, that if you can't keep yourself alive by the timeyou're fourteen, you're too stupid, foolish or unlucky to be any use tothe Ship. There's sense behind it. It means that everybody on the Shipis a person who can take care of himself if he has to. Daddy says thatsomething has to be done in a closed society to keep the populationfrom decaying mentally and physically, and this is it. And it helps tokeep the population steady. I began to check my gear out—sonic pistol, pickup signal so I could befound at the end of the month, saddle and cinches, food and clothes.Venie Morlock has got a crush on Jimmy D., and when she saw me startgetting ready to go, she began to check her gear, too. At our nextlanding, I grabbed Ninc's reins and cut Venie out smoothly. It didn'thave anything to do with Jimmy. I just couldn't stand to put off thebad moment any longer. The ship lifted impersonally away from Ninc and me like a rising bird,and in just a moment it was gone. Its gray-blue color was almost thecolor of the half-overcast sky, so I was never sure when I saw it last. II The first night was hell, I guess because I'm not used to having thelights out. That's when you really start to feel lonely, being alone inthe dark. When the sun disappears, somehow you wonder in your stomachif it's really going to come back. But I lived through it—one day inthirty gone. I rode in a spiral search pattern during the next two days. I had threethings in mind—stay alive, find people and find some of the others.The first was automatic. The second was to find out if there was a slotI could fit into for a month. If not, I would have to find a place tocamp out, as nasty as that would be. The third was to join forces,though not with that meatball Jimmy D. No, he isn't really a meatball. The trouble is that I don't takenothing from nobody, especially him, and he doesn't take nothing fromnobody, especially me. So we do a lot of fighting. I had a good month for Trial. My birthday is in November—too close toYear End Holiday for my taste, but this year it was all right. It wasspring on Tintera, but it was December in the Ship, and after we gotback we had five days of Holiday to celebrate. It gave me something tolook forward to. In two days of riding, I ran onto nothing but a few odd-lookinganimals. I shot one small one and ate it. It turned out to taste prettygood, though not as good as a slice from Hambone No. 4, to my mind thebest meat vat on the Ship. I've eaten things so gruey-looking that Iwondered that anybody had the guts to try them in the first place andthey've turned out to taste good. And I've seen things that looked goodthat I couldn't keep on my stomach. So I guess I was lucky. On the third day, I found the road. I brought Ninc down off thehillside, losing sight of the road in the trees, and then reachingit in the level below. It was narrow and made of sand spread over ahard base. Out of the marks in the sand, I could pick out the tracksof horses and both narrow and wide wheels. Other tracks I couldn'tidentify. One of the smartest moves in history was to include horses whenthey dropped the colonies. I say they because, while we did theactual dropping, the idea originated with the whole evac plan back onEarth. Considering how short a time it was in which the colonies wereestablished, there was not time to set up industry, so they had to havedraft animals. The first of the Great Ships was finished in 2025. One of the eight,as well as the two that were being built then, went up with everythingelse in the Solar System in 2041. In that sixteen years 112 colonieswere planted. I don't know how many of those planets had animals that could have been substituted but, even if they had, they would havehad to be domesticated from scratch. That would have been stupid. I'llbet that half the colonies would have failed if they hadn't had horses. <doc-sep>We'd come in from the west over the ocean, so I traveled east on theroad. That much water makes me nervous, and roads have to go somewhere. I came on my first travelers three hours later. I rounded a tree-linedbend, ducking an overhanging branch, and pulled Ninc to a stop. Therewere five men on horseback herding a bunch of the ugliest creaturesalive. They were green and grotesque. They had squat bodies, long limbs andknobby bulges at their joints. They had square, flat animal masks forfaces. But they walked on their hind legs and they had paws that werealmost hands, and that was enough to make them seem almost human. Theymade a wordless, chilling, lowing sound as they milled and ploddedalong. I started Ninc up again and moved slowly to catch up with them. All themen on horseback had guns in saddle boots. They looked as nervous ascats with kittens. One of them had a string of packhorses on a lineand he saw me and called to another who seemed to be the leader. Thatone wheeled his black horse and rode back toward me. He was a middle-aged man, maybe as old as my Daddy. He was large and hehad a hard face. Normal enough, but hard. He pulled to a halt when wereached each other, but I kept going. He had to come around and followme. I believe in judging a person by his face. A man can't help theface he owns, but he can help the expression he wears on it. If a manlooks mean, I generally believe that he is. This one looked mean. Thatwas why I kept riding. He said, What be you doing out here, boy? Be you out of your head?There be escaped Losels in these woods. I told you I hadn't finished filling out yet, but I hadn't thought itwas that bad. I wasn't ready to make a fight over the point, though.Generally, I can't keep my bloody mouth shut, but now I didn't sayanything. It seemed smart. Where be you from? he asked. I pointed to the road behind us. And where be you going? I pointed ahead. No other way to go. He seemed exasperated. I have that effect sometimes. Even on Mother andDaddy, who should know better. We were coming up on the others now, and the man said, Maybe you'dbetter ride on from here with us. For protection. He had an odd way of twisting his sounds, almost as though he had amouthful of mush. I wondered whether he were just an oddball or whethereverybody here spoke the same way. I'd never heard InternationalEnglish spoken any way but one, even on the planet Daddy made me visitwith him. One of the other outriders came easing by then. I suppose they'd beenwatching us all the while. He called to the hard man. He be awfully small, Horst. I doubt me a Losel'd even notice him atall. We mought as well throw him back again. The rider looked at me. When I didn't dissolve in terror as heexpected, he shrugged and one of the other men laughed. The hard man said to the others, This boy will be riding along with usto Forton for protection. I looked down at the plodding, unhappy creatures they were drivingalong and one looked back at me with dull, expressionless golden eyes.I felt uncomfortable. I said, I don't think so. What the man did then surprised me. He said, I do think so, andreached for the rifle in his saddle boot. I whipped my sonic pistol out so fast that he was caught leaning overwith the rifle half out. His jaw dropped. He knew what I held and hedidn't want to be fried. I said, Ease your rifles out and drop them gently to the ground. They did, watching me all the while with wary expressions. When all the rifles were on the ground, I said, All right, let's go. They didn't want to move. They didn't want to leave the rifles. Icould see that. Horst didn't say anything. He just watched me withnarrowed eyes. But one of the others held up a hand and in wheedlingtones said, Look here, kid.... Shut up, I said, in as mean a voice as I could muster, and he did. Itsurprised me. I didn't think I sounded that mean. I decided he justdidn't trust the crazy kid not to shoot. After twenty minutes of easy riding for us and hard walking for thecreatures, I said, If you want your rifles, you can go back and getthem now. I dug my heels into Ninc's sides and rode on. At the nextbend I looked back and saw four of them holding their packhorses andthe creatures still while one beat a dust-raising retreat down the road. I put this episode in the file and hold for analysis section in mymind and rode on, feeling good. I think I even giggled once. SometimesI even convince myself that I'm hell on wheels. III When I was nine, my Daddy gave me a painted wooden doll that mygreat-grandmother brought from Earth. The thing is that inside it,nestled one in another, are eleven more dolls, each one smaller thanthe last. I like to watch people when they open it for the first time. My face must have been like that as I rode along the road. The country leveled into a great rolling valley and the trees gaveway to great farms and fields. In the fields, working, were some ofthe green creatures, which surprised me since the ones I'd seen beforehadn't seemed smart enough to count to one, let alone do any work. But it relieved me. I thought they might have been eating them orsomething. I passed two crossroads and started to meet more people, but nobodyquestioned me. I met people on horseback, and twice I met trucks movingsilently past. And I overtook a wagon driven by the oldest man I'veseen in my life. He waved to me, and I waved back. Near the end of the afternoon I came to the town, and there I receiveda jolt that sickened me. By the time I came out on the other side, I was sick. My hands werecold and sweaty and my head was spinning, and I wanted to kick Ninc toa gallop. I rode slowly in, looking all around, missing nothing. The town was allstone, wood and brick. Out of date. Out of time, really. There wereno machines more complicated than the trucks I'd seen earlier. At theedge of town, I passed a newspaper office with a headline pasted in thewindow—INVASION! I remember that. I wondered about it. But I looked most closely at the people. In all that town, I didn'tsee one girl over ten years old and no grown-up women at all. Therewere little kids, there were boys and there were men, but no girls. Allthe boys and men wore pants, and so did I, which must have been whyHorst and his buddies assumed I was a boy. It wasn't flattering; butI decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made theclocks tick on this planet. But that wasn't what bothered me. It was the kids. My God! Theyswarmed. I saw a family come out of a house—a father and four children. It was the most foul thing I've ever seen. It struck methen—these people were Free Birthers! I felt a wave of nausea and Iclosed my eyes until it passed. <doc-sep>The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot andcriminal people like these, Earth would never have been destroyed. Theevacuation would never have had to take place, and eight billion peoplewouldn't have died. There wouldn't have been eight billion people.But, no. They bred and they spread and they devoured everything intheir path like a cancer. They gobbled up all the resources that Earthhad and crowded and shoved one another until the final war came. I am lucky. My great-great-grandparents were among those who had enoughforesight to see what was coming. If it hadn't been for them and someothers like them, there wouldn't be any humans left anywhere. And Iwouldn't be here. That may not scare you, but it scares me. What happened before, when people didn't use their heads and wound upblowing the Solar System apart, is something nobody should forget. Theolder people don't let us forget. But these people had, and that theCouncil should know. For the first time since I landed on Tintera, I felt really frightened. There was too much going on that I didn't understand. Ifelt a blind urge to get away, and when I reached the edge of town, Iwhomped Ninc a good one and gave him his head. I let him run for almost a mile before I pulled him down to a walkagain. I couldn't help wishing for Jimmy D. Whatever else he is, he'ssmart and brains I needed. How do you find out what's going on? Eavesdrop? That's a lousy method.For one thing, people can't be depended on to talk about the things youwant to hear. For another, you're likely to get caught. Ask somebody?Who? Make the mistake of bracing a fellow like Horst and you might windup with a sore head and an empty pocket. The best thing I could thinkof was to find a library, but that might be a job. I'd had two bad shocks on this day, but they weren't the last. In thelate afternoon, when the sun was starting to sink and a cool wind wasstarting to ripple the tree leaves, I saw the scoutship high in thesky. The dying sun colored it a deep red. Back again? I wondered whathad gone wrong. I reached down into my saddlebag and brought out my contact signal.The scoutship swung up in the sky in a familiar movement calculated todrop the stomach out of everybody aboard. George Fuhonin's style. Itriggered the signal, my heart turning flips all the while. I didn'tknow why he was back, but I wasn't really sorry. The ship swung around until it was coming back on a path almost over myhead, going in the same direction. Then it went into a slip and startedbucking so hard that I knew this wasn't hot piloting at all, just plainidiot stutter-fingered stupidity at the controls. As it skidded by meoverhead, I got a good look at it and knew that it wasn't one of ours.Not too different, but not ours. One more enigma. Where was it from? Not here. Even if you know how, andwe wouldn't tell these Mud-eaters how, a scoutship is something thattakes an advanced technology to build. <doc-sep>I felt defeated and tired. Not much farther along the road, I came toa campsite with two wagons pulled in for the night, and I couldn'thelp but pull in myself. The campsite was large and had two permanentbuildings on it. One was a well enclosure and the other was little morethan a high-walled pen. It didn't even have a roof. I set up camp and ate my dinner. In the wagon closest to me were a man,his wife and their three children. The kids were running around andplaying, and one of them ran close to the high-walled pen. His fathercame and pulled him away. The kids weren't to blame for their parents, but when one of them saidhello to me, I didn't even answer. I know how lousy I would feel if Ihad two or three brothers and sisters, but it didn't strike me untilthat moment that it wouldn't even seem out of the ordinary to thesekids. Isn't that horrible? About the time I finished eating, and before it grew dark, the old manI had seen earlier in the day drove his wagon in. He fascinated me. Hehad white hair, something I had read about in stories but had neverseen before. When nightfall came, they started a large fire. Everybody gatheredaround. There was singing for awhile, and then the father of thechildren tried to pack them off to bed. But they weren't ready to go,so the old man started telling them a story. In the old man's oddaccent, and sitting there in the campfire light surrounded by darkness,it seemed just right. It was about an old witch named Baba Yaga who lived in the forest ina house that stood on chicken legs. She was the nasty stepmother of anice little girl, and to get rid of the kid, she sent her on a phonyerrand into the deep dark woods at nightfall. I could appreciate thepoor girl's position. All the little girl had to help her were thehandkerchief, the comb and the pearl that she had inherited from herdear dead mother. But, as it turned out, they were just enough todefeat nasty old Baba Yaga and bring the girl safely home. I wished for the same for myself. The old man had just finished and they were starting to drag the kidsoff to bed when there was a commotion on the road at the edge of thecamp. I looked but my eyes were adjusted to the light of the fire and Icouldn't see far into the dark. A voice there said, I'll be damned if I'll take another day like thisone, Horst. We should have been here hours ago. It be your fault we'renot. Horst growled a retort. I decided that it was time for me to leave thecampfire. I got up and eased away as Horst and his men came up to thefire, and cut back to where Ninc was parked. I grabbed up my blanketsand mattress and started to roll them up. I had a pretty good idea nowwhat they used the high-walled pen for. I should have known that they would have to pen the animals up for thenight. I should have used my head. I hadn't and now it was time to takeleave. I never got the chance. <doc-sep>I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on myshoulder and I was swung around. Well, well. Horst, look who we have here, he called. It was the onewho'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. Hewas alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast. I brought the saddle around as hard as I could and then up, and hewent down. He started to get up again, so I dropped the saddle on himand reached inside my jacket for my gun. Somebody grabbed me then frombehind and pinned my arms to my side. I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smellyhand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than alungful of air. I bit down hard—5000 lbs. psi, I'm told—but hedidn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feetand dragged me off. When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stoppeddragging me and dropped me in a heap. Make any noise, he said, andI'll hurt you. That was a silly way to put it, but somehow it said more than if he'dthreatened to break my arm or my head. It left him a latitude of thingsto do if he pleased. He examined his hand. There was enough moonlightfor that. I ought to club you anyway, he said. The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were puttingthe animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him. No, he said. Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and whatwe can use. The other one didn't move. Get going, Jack, Horst said in a menacingtone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finallybacked down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to mebeing kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in hisbunch. But I wasn't done yet. I was scared, but I still had the pistol undermy jacket. Horst turned back to me and I said, You can't do this and get awaywith it. He said, Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot oftrouble. So don't give me a hard time. He still thought I was a boy. It was not time to correct him, but Ididn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering. The courts won't let you get away with this, I said. I'd passeda courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUALJUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD orsomething stuffy like that. He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so Iknew I'd goofed. Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I betaking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go tocourt and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leavingyou your freedom. Why would they be doing that? I asked. I slipped my hand under myjacket. Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of theShips, Horst said. That be enough. They already have one of you bratsin jail in Forton. I was about to bring my gun out when up came Jack leading Ninc, withall my stuff loaded on. I mentally thanked him. He said, The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out whatthis be for. He held out my pickup signal. Horst looked at it, then handed it back. Throw it away, he said. I leveled my gun at them—Hell on Wheels strikes again! I said, Handthat over to me. Horst made a disgusted sound. Don't make any noise, I said, or you'll fry. Now hand it over. I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of thesaddle. What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton. I can't remember, he said. But it be coming to me. Hold on. I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behindand the gun went flying. Jack pounced after it and Horst said, Goodenough, to the others who'd come up behind me. I felt like a fool. Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground andsaid in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it wasnatural and mine wasn't, The piece be yours. Then he tromped on ituntil it cracked and fell apart. Then he said, Pull a gun on me twice. Twice. He slapped me so hardthat my ears rang. You dirty little punk. I said calmly, You big louse. It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I canremember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of myface and then nothing. Brains are no good if you don't use them. <doc-sep></s>

Mia discusses how she does not like different planets for many reasons, gravity included. In addition, she does not like the idea of animals that can crawl on her or vegetation existing unintentionally. She also does not like the smells of different planets. When Mia sees individuals with more than one child, she becomes nauseous at the sight. To Mia, that seems reckless to have so many children as she is taught that it was the cause of Earth’s destruction. Another occurrence that Mia finds interesting is when she sees an old man during her travels. She is fascinated by his white hair, which she notes that she had never seen in person before.

<s> DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN BY ALEXEI PANSHIN The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim in the miasma of a planet without spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp. There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me. He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down? I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything. My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation. After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot. Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob. The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council. I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public. <doc-sep>It wasn't the chance of not coming back that bothered me really,because I never believed that I wouldn't. The thought that made meunhappy was that I would have to be on a planet for a whole month.Planets make me feel wretched. The gravity is always wrong, for one thing. Either your arches andcalves ache or every time you step you think you're going to trip ona piece of fluff and break your neck. There are vegetables everywhereand little grubby things just looking for you to crawl on. If youcan think of anything creepier than that, you've got a real nastyimagination. Worst of all, planets stink. Every single one smells—I'vebeen on enough to know that. A planet is all right for a Mud-eater, butnot for me. We have a place in the Ship like that—the Third Level—but it's only athousand square miles and any time it gets on your nerves you can go upa level or down a level and be back in civilization. When we reached Tintera, they started dropping us. We swung over thesea from the morning side and then dropped low over gray-green forestedhills. Finally George spotted a clear area and dropped into it. Theydon't care what order you go in, so Jimmy D. jumped up, grabbed hisgear and then led his horse down the ramp. I think he was stillsmarting from the slap I'd given him. In a minute we were airborne again. I wondered if I would ever seeJimmy—if he would get back alive. It's no game we play. When we turn fourteen, they drop us on thenearest colonized planet and come back one month later. That may soundlike fun to you, but a lot of us never come back alive. Don't think I was helpless. I'm hell on wheels. They don't let us growfor fourteen years and then kick us out to die. They prepare us. Theydo figure, though, that if you can't keep yourself alive by the timeyou're fourteen, you're too stupid, foolish or unlucky to be any use tothe Ship. There's sense behind it. It means that everybody on the Shipis a person who can take care of himself if he has to. Daddy says thatsomething has to be done in a closed society to keep the populationfrom decaying mentally and physically, and this is it. And it helps tokeep the population steady. I began to check my gear out—sonic pistol, pickup signal so I could befound at the end of the month, saddle and cinches, food and clothes.Venie Morlock has got a crush on Jimmy D., and when she saw me startgetting ready to go, she began to check her gear, too. At our nextlanding, I grabbed Ninc's reins and cut Venie out smoothly. It didn'thave anything to do with Jimmy. I just couldn't stand to put off thebad moment any longer. The ship lifted impersonally away from Ninc and me like a rising bird,and in just a moment it was gone. Its gray-blue color was almost thecolor of the half-overcast sky, so I was never sure when I saw it last. II The first night was hell, I guess because I'm not used to having thelights out. That's when you really start to feel lonely, being alone inthe dark. When the sun disappears, somehow you wonder in your stomachif it's really going to come back. But I lived through it—one day inthirty gone. I rode in a spiral search pattern during the next two days. I had threethings in mind—stay alive, find people and find some of the others.The first was automatic. The second was to find out if there was a slotI could fit into for a month. If not, I would have to find a place tocamp out, as nasty as that would be. The third was to join forces,though not with that meatball Jimmy D. No, he isn't really a meatball. The trouble is that I don't takenothing from nobody, especially him, and he doesn't take nothing fromnobody, especially me. So we do a lot of fighting. I had a good month for Trial. My birthday is in November—too close toYear End Holiday for my taste, but this year it was all right. It wasspring on Tintera, but it was December in the Ship, and after we gotback we had five days of Holiday to celebrate. It gave me something tolook forward to. In two days of riding, I ran onto nothing but a few odd-lookinganimals. I shot one small one and ate it. It turned out to taste prettygood, though not as good as a slice from Hambone No. 4, to my mind thebest meat vat on the Ship. I've eaten things so gruey-looking that Iwondered that anybody had the guts to try them in the first place andthey've turned out to taste good. And I've seen things that looked goodthat I couldn't keep on my stomach. So I guess I was lucky. On the third day, I found the road. I brought Ninc down off thehillside, losing sight of the road in the trees, and then reachingit in the level below. It was narrow and made of sand spread over ahard base. Out of the marks in the sand, I could pick out the tracksof horses and both narrow and wide wheels. Other tracks I couldn'tidentify. One of the smartest moves in history was to include horses whenthey dropped the colonies. I say they because, while we did theactual dropping, the idea originated with the whole evac plan back onEarth. Considering how short a time it was in which the colonies wereestablished, there was not time to set up industry, so they had to havedraft animals. The first of the Great Ships was finished in 2025. One of the eight,as well as the two that were being built then, went up with everythingelse in the Solar System in 2041. In that sixteen years 112 colonieswere planted. I don't know how many of those planets had animals that could have been substituted but, even if they had, they would havehad to be domesticated from scratch. That would have been stupid. I'llbet that half the colonies would have failed if they hadn't had horses. <doc-sep>We'd come in from the west over the ocean, so I traveled east on theroad. That much water makes me nervous, and roads have to go somewhere. I came on my first travelers three hours later. I rounded a tree-linedbend, ducking an overhanging branch, and pulled Ninc to a stop. Therewere five men on horseback herding a bunch of the ugliest creaturesalive. They were green and grotesque. They had squat bodies, long limbs andknobby bulges at their joints. They had square, flat animal masks forfaces. But they walked on their hind legs and they had paws that werealmost hands, and that was enough to make them seem almost human. Theymade a wordless, chilling, lowing sound as they milled and ploddedalong. I started Ninc up again and moved slowly to catch up with them. All themen on horseback had guns in saddle boots. They looked as nervous ascats with kittens. One of them had a string of packhorses on a lineand he saw me and called to another who seemed to be the leader. Thatone wheeled his black horse and rode back toward me. He was a middle-aged man, maybe as old as my Daddy. He was large and hehad a hard face. Normal enough, but hard. He pulled to a halt when wereached each other, but I kept going. He had to come around and followme. I believe in judging a person by his face. A man can't help theface he owns, but he can help the expression he wears on it. If a manlooks mean, I generally believe that he is. This one looked mean. Thatwas why I kept riding. He said, What be you doing out here, boy? Be you out of your head?There be escaped Losels in these woods. I told you I hadn't finished filling out yet, but I hadn't thought itwas that bad. I wasn't ready to make a fight over the point, though.Generally, I can't keep my bloody mouth shut, but now I didn't sayanything. It seemed smart. Where be you from? he asked. I pointed to the road behind us. And where be you going? I pointed ahead. No other way to go. He seemed exasperated. I have that effect sometimes. Even on Mother andDaddy, who should know better. We were coming up on the others now, and the man said, Maybe you'dbetter ride on from here with us. For protection. He had an odd way of twisting his sounds, almost as though he had amouthful of mush. I wondered whether he were just an oddball or whethereverybody here spoke the same way. I'd never heard InternationalEnglish spoken any way but one, even on the planet Daddy made me visitwith him. One of the other outriders came easing by then. I suppose they'd beenwatching us all the while. He called to the hard man. He be awfully small, Horst. I doubt me a Losel'd even notice him atall. We mought as well throw him back again. The rider looked at me. When I didn't dissolve in terror as heexpected, he shrugged and one of the other men laughed. The hard man said to the others, This boy will be riding along with usto Forton for protection. I looked down at the plodding, unhappy creatures they were drivingalong and one looked back at me with dull, expressionless golden eyes.I felt uncomfortable. I said, I don't think so. What the man did then surprised me. He said, I do think so, andreached for the rifle in his saddle boot. I whipped my sonic pistol out so fast that he was caught leaning overwith the rifle half out. His jaw dropped. He knew what I held and hedidn't want to be fried. I said, Ease your rifles out and drop them gently to the ground. They did, watching me all the while with wary expressions. When all the rifles were on the ground, I said, All right, let's go. They didn't want to move. They didn't want to leave the rifles. Icould see that. Horst didn't say anything. He just watched me withnarrowed eyes. But one of the others held up a hand and in wheedlingtones said, Look here, kid.... Shut up, I said, in as mean a voice as I could muster, and he did. Itsurprised me. I didn't think I sounded that mean. I decided he justdidn't trust the crazy kid not to shoot. After twenty minutes of easy riding for us and hard walking for thecreatures, I said, If you want your rifles, you can go back and getthem now. I dug my heels into Ninc's sides and rode on. At the nextbend I looked back and saw four of them holding their packhorses andthe creatures still while one beat a dust-raising retreat down the road. I put this episode in the file and hold for analysis section in mymind and rode on, feeling good. I think I even giggled once. SometimesI even convince myself that I'm hell on wheels. III When I was nine, my Daddy gave me a painted wooden doll that mygreat-grandmother brought from Earth. The thing is that inside it,nestled one in another, are eleven more dolls, each one smaller thanthe last. I like to watch people when they open it for the first time. My face must have been like that as I rode along the road. The country leveled into a great rolling valley and the trees gaveway to great farms and fields. In the fields, working, were some ofthe green creatures, which surprised me since the ones I'd seen beforehadn't seemed smart enough to count to one, let alone do any work. But it relieved me. I thought they might have been eating them orsomething. I passed two crossroads and started to meet more people, but nobodyquestioned me. I met people on horseback, and twice I met trucks movingsilently past. And I overtook a wagon driven by the oldest man I'veseen in my life. He waved to me, and I waved back. Near the end of the afternoon I came to the town, and there I receiveda jolt that sickened me. By the time I came out on the other side, I was sick. My hands werecold and sweaty and my head was spinning, and I wanted to kick Ninc toa gallop. I rode slowly in, looking all around, missing nothing. The town was allstone, wood and brick. Out of date. Out of time, really. There wereno machines more complicated than the trucks I'd seen earlier. At theedge of town, I passed a newspaper office with a headline pasted in thewindow—INVASION! I remember that. I wondered about it. But I looked most closely at the people. In all that town, I didn'tsee one girl over ten years old and no grown-up women at all. Therewere little kids, there were boys and there were men, but no girls. Allthe boys and men wore pants, and so did I, which must have been whyHorst and his buddies assumed I was a boy. It wasn't flattering; butI decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made theclocks tick on this planet. But that wasn't what bothered me. It was the kids. My God! Theyswarmed. I saw a family come out of a house—a father and four children. It was the most foul thing I've ever seen. It struck methen—these people were Free Birthers! I felt a wave of nausea and Iclosed my eyes until it passed. <doc-sep>The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot andcriminal people like these, Earth would never have been destroyed. Theevacuation would never have had to take place, and eight billion peoplewouldn't have died. There wouldn't have been eight billion people.But, no. They bred and they spread and they devoured everything intheir path like a cancer. They gobbled up all the resources that Earthhad and crowded and shoved one another until the final war came. I am lucky. My great-great-grandparents were among those who had enoughforesight to see what was coming. If it hadn't been for them and someothers like them, there wouldn't be any humans left anywhere. And Iwouldn't be here. That may not scare you, but it scares me. What happened before, when people didn't use their heads and wound upblowing the Solar System apart, is something nobody should forget. Theolder people don't let us forget. But these people had, and that theCouncil should know. For the first time since I landed on Tintera, I felt really frightened. There was too much going on that I didn't understand. Ifelt a blind urge to get away, and when I reached the edge of town, Iwhomped Ninc a good one and gave him his head. I let him run for almost a mile before I pulled him down to a walkagain. I couldn't help wishing for Jimmy D. Whatever else he is, he'ssmart and brains I needed. How do you find out what's going on? Eavesdrop? That's a lousy method.For one thing, people can't be depended on to talk about the things youwant to hear. For another, you're likely to get caught. Ask somebody?Who? Make the mistake of bracing a fellow like Horst and you might windup with a sore head and an empty pocket. The best thing I could thinkof was to find a library, but that might be a job. I'd had two bad shocks on this day, but they weren't the last. In thelate afternoon, when the sun was starting to sink and a cool wind wasstarting to ripple the tree leaves, I saw the scoutship high in thesky. The dying sun colored it a deep red. Back again? I wondered whathad gone wrong. I reached down into my saddlebag and brought out my contact signal.The scoutship swung up in the sky in a familiar movement calculated todrop the stomach out of everybody aboard. George Fuhonin's style. Itriggered the signal, my heart turning flips all the while. I didn'tknow why he was back, but I wasn't really sorry. The ship swung around until it was coming back on a path almost over myhead, going in the same direction. Then it went into a slip and startedbucking so hard that I knew this wasn't hot piloting at all, just plainidiot stutter-fingered stupidity at the controls. As it skidded by meoverhead, I got a good look at it and knew that it wasn't one of ours.Not too different, but not ours. One more enigma. Where was it from? Not here. Even if you know how, andwe wouldn't tell these Mud-eaters how, a scoutship is something thattakes an advanced technology to build. <doc-sep>I felt defeated and tired. Not much farther along the road, I came toa campsite with two wagons pulled in for the night, and I couldn'thelp but pull in myself. The campsite was large and had two permanentbuildings on it. One was a well enclosure and the other was little morethan a high-walled pen. It didn't even have a roof. I set up camp and ate my dinner. In the wagon closest to me were a man,his wife and their three children. The kids were running around andplaying, and one of them ran close to the high-walled pen. His fathercame and pulled him away. The kids weren't to blame for their parents, but when one of them saidhello to me, I didn't even answer. I know how lousy I would feel if Ihad two or three brothers and sisters, but it didn't strike me untilthat moment that it wouldn't even seem out of the ordinary to thesekids. Isn't that horrible? About the time I finished eating, and before it grew dark, the old manI had seen earlier in the day drove his wagon in. He fascinated me. Hehad white hair, something I had read about in stories but had neverseen before. When nightfall came, they started a large fire. Everybody gatheredaround. There was singing for awhile, and then the father of thechildren tried to pack them off to bed. But they weren't ready to go,so the old man started telling them a story. In the old man's oddaccent, and sitting there in the campfire light surrounded by darkness,it seemed just right. It was about an old witch named Baba Yaga who lived in the forest ina house that stood on chicken legs. She was the nasty stepmother of anice little girl, and to get rid of the kid, she sent her on a phonyerrand into the deep dark woods at nightfall. I could appreciate thepoor girl's position. All the little girl had to help her were thehandkerchief, the comb and the pearl that she had inherited from herdear dead mother. But, as it turned out, they were just enough todefeat nasty old Baba Yaga and bring the girl safely home. I wished for the same for myself. The old man had just finished and they were starting to drag the kidsoff to bed when there was a commotion on the road at the edge of thecamp. I looked but my eyes were adjusted to the light of the fire and Icouldn't see far into the dark. A voice there said, I'll be damned if I'll take another day like thisone, Horst. We should have been here hours ago. It be your fault we'renot. Horst growled a retort. I decided that it was time for me to leave thecampfire. I got up and eased away as Horst and his men came up to thefire, and cut back to where Ninc was parked. I grabbed up my blanketsand mattress and started to roll them up. I had a pretty good idea nowwhat they used the high-walled pen for. I should have known that they would have to pen the animals up for thenight. I should have used my head. I hadn't and now it was time to takeleave. I never got the chance. <doc-sep>I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on myshoulder and I was swung around. Well, well. Horst, look who we have here, he called. It was the onewho'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. Hewas alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast. I brought the saddle around as hard as I could and then up, and hewent down. He started to get up again, so I dropped the saddle on himand reached inside my jacket for my gun. Somebody grabbed me then frombehind and pinned my arms to my side. I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smellyhand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than alungful of air. I bit down hard—5000 lbs. psi, I'm told—but hedidn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feetand dragged me off. When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stoppeddragging me and dropped me in a heap. Make any noise, he said, andI'll hurt you. That was a silly way to put it, but somehow it said more than if he'dthreatened to break my arm or my head. It left him a latitude of thingsto do if he pleased. He examined his hand. There was enough moonlightfor that. I ought to club you anyway, he said. The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were puttingthe animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him. No, he said. Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and whatwe can use. The other one didn't move. Get going, Jack, Horst said in a menacingtone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finallybacked down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to mebeing kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in hisbunch. But I wasn't done yet. I was scared, but I still had the pistol undermy jacket. Horst turned back to me and I said, You can't do this and get awaywith it. He said, Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot oftrouble. So don't give me a hard time. He still thought I was a boy. It was not time to correct him, but Ididn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering. The courts won't let you get away with this, I said. I'd passeda courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUALJUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD orsomething stuffy like that. He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so Iknew I'd goofed. Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I betaking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go tocourt and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leavingyou your freedom. Why would they be doing that? I asked. I slipped my hand under myjacket. Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of theShips, Horst said. That be enough. They already have one of you bratsin jail in Forton. I was about to bring my gun out when up came Jack leading Ninc, withall my stuff loaded on. I mentally thanked him. He said, The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out whatthis be for. He held out my pickup signal. Horst looked at it, then handed it back. Throw it away, he said. I leveled my gun at them—Hell on Wheels strikes again! I said, Handthat over to me. Horst made a disgusted sound. Don't make any noise, I said, or you'll fry. Now hand it over. I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of thesaddle. What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton. I can't remember, he said. But it be coming to me. Hold on. I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behindand the gun went flying. Jack pounced after it and Horst said, Goodenough, to the others who'd come up behind me. I felt like a fool. Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground andsaid in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it wasnatural and mine wasn't, The piece be yours. Then he tromped on ituntil it cracked and fell apart. Then he said, Pull a gun on me twice. Twice. He slapped me so hardthat my ears rang. You dirty little punk. I said calmly, You big louse. It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I canremember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of myface and then nothing. Brains are no good if you don't use them. <doc-sep></s>

At fourteen years old, the inhabitants of the Ship are put through a Trial. During the trial, they are dropped off at the nearest colonized planet and then picked up a month later if they manage to survive on the planet. Each of the fourteen-year-olds are dropped off in separate locations on the planet. They are given a pick signal device so the scoutship that escorted them to the planet is able to locate them at the end of their 30-day Trial period. The purpose of the trial according to the Chairman of the Council is because a closed society needs a way to ensure the physical and mental of its populations. In addition, it helps to maintain a suitable number of individuals in the population. Those that are unable to survive their Trial are presumed to be not fit for life on the Ship.

<s> DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN BY ALEXEI PANSHIN The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim in the miasma of a planet without spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp. There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me. He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down? I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything. My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation. After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot. Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob. The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council. I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public. <doc-sep>It wasn't the chance of not coming back that bothered me really,because I never believed that I wouldn't. The thought that made meunhappy was that I would have to be on a planet for a whole month.Planets make me feel wretched. The gravity is always wrong, for one thing. Either your arches andcalves ache or every time you step you think you're going to trip ona piece of fluff and break your neck. There are vegetables everywhereand little grubby things just looking for you to crawl on. If youcan think of anything creepier than that, you've got a real nastyimagination. Worst of all, planets stink. Every single one smells—I'vebeen on enough to know that. A planet is all right for a Mud-eater, butnot for me. We have a place in the Ship like that—the Third Level—but it's only athousand square miles and any time it gets on your nerves you can go upa level or down a level and be back in civilization. When we reached Tintera, they started dropping us. We swung over thesea from the morning side and then dropped low over gray-green forestedhills. Finally George spotted a clear area and dropped into it. Theydon't care what order you go in, so Jimmy D. jumped up, grabbed hisgear and then led his horse down the ramp. I think he was stillsmarting from the slap I'd given him. In a minute we were airborne again. I wondered if I would ever seeJimmy—if he would get back alive. It's no game we play. When we turn fourteen, they drop us on thenearest colonized planet and come back one month later. That may soundlike fun to you, but a lot of us never come back alive. Don't think I was helpless. I'm hell on wheels. They don't let us growfor fourteen years and then kick us out to die. They prepare us. Theydo figure, though, that if you can't keep yourself alive by the timeyou're fourteen, you're too stupid, foolish or unlucky to be any use tothe Ship. There's sense behind it. It means that everybody on the Shipis a person who can take care of himself if he has to. Daddy says thatsomething has to be done in a closed society to keep the populationfrom decaying mentally and physically, and this is it. And it helps tokeep the population steady. I began to check my gear out—sonic pistol, pickup signal so I could befound at the end of the month, saddle and cinches, food and clothes.Venie Morlock has got a crush on Jimmy D., and when she saw me startgetting ready to go, she began to check her gear, too. At our nextlanding, I grabbed Ninc's reins and cut Venie out smoothly. It didn'thave anything to do with Jimmy. I just couldn't stand to put off thebad moment any longer. The ship lifted impersonally away from Ninc and me like a rising bird,and in just a moment it was gone. Its gray-blue color was almost thecolor of the half-overcast sky, so I was never sure when I saw it last. II The first night was hell, I guess because I'm not used to having thelights out. That's when you really start to feel lonely, being alone inthe dark. When the sun disappears, somehow you wonder in your stomachif it's really going to come back. But I lived through it—one day inthirty gone. I rode in a spiral search pattern during the next two days. I had threethings in mind—stay alive, find people and find some of the others.The first was automatic. The second was to find out if there was a slotI could fit into for a month. If not, I would have to find a place tocamp out, as nasty as that would be. The third was to join forces,though not with that meatball Jimmy D. No, he isn't really a meatball. The trouble is that I don't takenothing from nobody, especially him, and he doesn't take nothing fromnobody, especially me. So we do a lot of fighting. I had a good month for Trial. My birthday is in November—too close toYear End Holiday for my taste, but this year it was all right. It wasspring on Tintera, but it was December in the Ship, and after we gotback we had five days of Holiday to celebrate. It gave me something tolook forward to. In two days of riding, I ran onto nothing but a few odd-lookinganimals. I shot one small one and ate it. It turned out to taste prettygood, though not as good as a slice from Hambone No. 4, to my mind thebest meat vat on the Ship. I've eaten things so gruey-looking that Iwondered that anybody had the guts to try them in the first place andthey've turned out to taste good. And I've seen things that looked goodthat I couldn't keep on my stomach. So I guess I was lucky. On the third day, I found the road. I brought Ninc down off thehillside, losing sight of the road in the trees, and then reachingit in the level below. It was narrow and made of sand spread over ahard base. Out of the marks in the sand, I could pick out the tracksof horses and both narrow and wide wheels. Other tracks I couldn'tidentify. One of the smartest moves in history was to include horses whenthey dropped the colonies. I say they because, while we did theactual dropping, the idea originated with the whole evac plan back onEarth. Considering how short a time it was in which the colonies wereestablished, there was not time to set up industry, so they had to havedraft animals. The first of the Great Ships was finished in 2025. One of the eight,as well as the two that were being built then, went up with everythingelse in the Solar System in 2041. In that sixteen years 112 colonieswere planted. I don't know how many of those planets had animals that could have been substituted but, even if they had, they would havehad to be domesticated from scratch. That would have been stupid. I'llbet that half the colonies would have failed if they hadn't had horses. <doc-sep>We'd come in from the west over the ocean, so I traveled east on theroad. That much water makes me nervous, and roads have to go somewhere. I came on my first travelers three hours later. I rounded a tree-linedbend, ducking an overhanging branch, and pulled Ninc to a stop. Therewere five men on horseback herding a bunch of the ugliest creaturesalive. They were green and grotesque. They had squat bodies, long limbs andknobby bulges at their joints. They had square, flat animal masks forfaces. But they walked on their hind legs and they had paws that werealmost hands, and that was enough to make them seem almost human. Theymade a wordless, chilling, lowing sound as they milled and ploddedalong. I started Ninc up again and moved slowly to catch up with them. All themen on horseback had guns in saddle boots. They looked as nervous ascats with kittens. One of them had a string of packhorses on a lineand he saw me and called to another who seemed to be the leader. Thatone wheeled his black horse and rode back toward me. He was a middle-aged man, maybe as old as my Daddy. He was large and hehad a hard face. Normal enough, but hard. He pulled to a halt when wereached each other, but I kept going. He had to come around and followme. I believe in judging a person by his face. A man can't help theface he owns, but he can help the expression he wears on it. If a manlooks mean, I generally believe that he is. This one looked mean. Thatwas why I kept riding. He said, What be you doing out here, boy? Be you out of your head?There be escaped Losels in these woods. I told you I hadn't finished filling out yet, but I hadn't thought itwas that bad. I wasn't ready to make a fight over the point, though.Generally, I can't keep my bloody mouth shut, but now I didn't sayanything. It seemed smart. Where be you from? he asked. I pointed to the road behind us. And where be you going? I pointed ahead. No other way to go. He seemed exasperated. I have that effect sometimes. Even on Mother andDaddy, who should know better. We were coming up on the others now, and the man said, Maybe you'dbetter ride on from here with us. For protection. He had an odd way of twisting his sounds, almost as though he had amouthful of mush. I wondered whether he were just an oddball or whethereverybody here spoke the same way. I'd never heard InternationalEnglish spoken any way but one, even on the planet Daddy made me visitwith him. One of the other outriders came easing by then. I suppose they'd beenwatching us all the while. He called to the hard man. He be awfully small, Horst. I doubt me a Losel'd even notice him atall. We mought as well throw him back again. The rider looked at me. When I didn't dissolve in terror as heexpected, he shrugged and one of the other men laughed. The hard man said to the others, This boy will be riding along with usto Forton for protection. I looked down at the plodding, unhappy creatures they were drivingalong and one looked back at me with dull, expressionless golden eyes.I felt uncomfortable. I said, I don't think so. What the man did then surprised me. He said, I do think so, andreached for the rifle in his saddle boot. I whipped my sonic pistol out so fast that he was caught leaning overwith the rifle half out. His jaw dropped. He knew what I held and hedidn't want to be fried. I said, Ease your rifles out and drop them gently to the ground. They did, watching me all the while with wary expressions. When all the rifles were on the ground, I said, All right, let's go. They didn't want to move. They didn't want to leave the rifles. Icould see that. Horst didn't say anything. He just watched me withnarrowed eyes. But one of the others held up a hand and in wheedlingtones said, Look here, kid.... Shut up, I said, in as mean a voice as I could muster, and he did. Itsurprised me. I didn't think I sounded that mean. I decided he justdidn't trust the crazy kid not to shoot. After twenty minutes of easy riding for us and hard walking for thecreatures, I said, If you want your rifles, you can go back and getthem now. I dug my heels into Ninc's sides and rode on. At the nextbend I looked back and saw four of them holding their packhorses andthe creatures still while one beat a dust-raising retreat down the road. I put this episode in the file and hold for analysis section in mymind and rode on, feeling good. I think I even giggled once. SometimesI even convince myself that I'm hell on wheels. III When I was nine, my Daddy gave me a painted wooden doll that mygreat-grandmother brought from Earth. The thing is that inside it,nestled one in another, are eleven more dolls, each one smaller thanthe last. I like to watch people when they open it for the first time. My face must have been like that as I rode along the road. The country leveled into a great rolling valley and the trees gaveway to great farms and fields. In the fields, working, were some ofthe green creatures, which surprised me since the ones I'd seen beforehadn't seemed smart enough to count to one, let alone do any work. But it relieved me. I thought they might have been eating them orsomething. I passed two crossroads and started to meet more people, but nobodyquestioned me. I met people on horseback, and twice I met trucks movingsilently past. And I overtook a wagon driven by the oldest man I'veseen in my life. He waved to me, and I waved back. Near the end of the afternoon I came to the town, and there I receiveda jolt that sickened me. By the time I came out on the other side, I was sick. My hands werecold and sweaty and my head was spinning, and I wanted to kick Ninc toa gallop. I rode slowly in, looking all around, missing nothing. The town was allstone, wood and brick. Out of date. Out of time, really. There wereno machines more complicated than the trucks I'd seen earlier. At theedge of town, I passed a newspaper office with a headline pasted in thewindow—INVASION! I remember that. I wondered about it. But I looked most closely at the people. In all that town, I didn'tsee one girl over ten years old and no grown-up women at all. Therewere little kids, there were boys and there were men, but no girls. Allthe boys and men wore pants, and so did I, which must have been whyHorst and his buddies assumed I was a boy. It wasn't flattering; butI decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made theclocks tick on this planet. But that wasn't what bothered me. It was the kids. My God! Theyswarmed. I saw a family come out of a house—a father and four children. It was the most foul thing I've ever seen. It struck methen—these people were Free Birthers! I felt a wave of nausea and Iclosed my eyes until it passed. <doc-sep>The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot andcriminal people like these, Earth would never have been destroyed. Theevacuation would never have had to take place, and eight billion peoplewouldn't have died. There wouldn't have been eight billion people.But, no. They bred and they spread and they devoured everything intheir path like a cancer. They gobbled up all the resources that Earthhad and crowded and shoved one another until the final war came. I am lucky. My great-great-grandparents were among those who had enoughforesight to see what was coming. If it hadn't been for them and someothers like them, there wouldn't be any humans left anywhere. And Iwouldn't be here. That may not scare you, but it scares me. What happened before, when people didn't use their heads and wound upblowing the Solar System apart, is something nobody should forget. Theolder people don't let us forget. But these people had, and that theCouncil should know. For the first time since I landed on Tintera, I felt really frightened. There was too much going on that I didn't understand. Ifelt a blind urge to get away, and when I reached the edge of town, Iwhomped Ninc a good one and gave him his head. I let him run for almost a mile before I pulled him down to a walkagain. I couldn't help wishing for Jimmy D. Whatever else he is, he'ssmart and brains I needed. How do you find out what's going on? Eavesdrop? That's a lousy method.For one thing, people can't be depended on to talk about the things youwant to hear. For another, you're likely to get caught. Ask somebody?Who? Make the mistake of bracing a fellow like Horst and you might windup with a sore head and an empty pocket. The best thing I could thinkof was to find a library, but that might be a job. I'd had two bad shocks on this day, but they weren't the last. In thelate afternoon, when the sun was starting to sink and a cool wind wasstarting to ripple the tree leaves, I saw the scoutship high in thesky. The dying sun colored it a deep red. Back again? I wondered whathad gone wrong. I reached down into my saddlebag and brought out my contact signal.The scoutship swung up in the sky in a familiar movement calculated todrop the stomach out of everybody aboard. George Fuhonin's style. Itriggered the signal, my heart turning flips all the while. I didn'tknow why he was back, but I wasn't really sorry. The ship swung around until it was coming back on a path almost over myhead, going in the same direction. Then it went into a slip and startedbucking so hard that I knew this wasn't hot piloting at all, just plainidiot stutter-fingered stupidity at the controls. As it skidded by meoverhead, I got a good look at it and knew that it wasn't one of ours.Not too different, but not ours. One more enigma. Where was it from? Not here. Even if you know how, andwe wouldn't tell these Mud-eaters how, a scoutship is something thattakes an advanced technology to build. <doc-sep>I felt defeated and tired. Not much farther along the road, I came toa campsite with two wagons pulled in for the night, and I couldn'thelp but pull in myself. The campsite was large and had two permanentbuildings on it. One was a well enclosure and the other was little morethan a high-walled pen. It didn't even have a roof. I set up camp and ate my dinner. In the wagon closest to me were a man,his wife and their three children. The kids were running around andplaying, and one of them ran close to the high-walled pen. His fathercame and pulled him away. The kids weren't to blame for their parents, but when one of them saidhello to me, I didn't even answer. I know how lousy I would feel if Ihad two or three brothers and sisters, but it didn't strike me untilthat moment that it wouldn't even seem out of the ordinary to thesekids. Isn't that horrible? About the time I finished eating, and before it grew dark, the old manI had seen earlier in the day drove his wagon in. He fascinated me. Hehad white hair, something I had read about in stories but had neverseen before. When nightfall came, they started a large fire. Everybody gatheredaround. There was singing for awhile, and then the father of thechildren tried to pack them off to bed. But they weren't ready to go,so the old man started telling them a story. In the old man's oddaccent, and sitting there in the campfire light surrounded by darkness,it seemed just right. It was about an old witch named Baba Yaga who lived in the forest ina house that stood on chicken legs. She was the nasty stepmother of anice little girl, and to get rid of the kid, she sent her on a phonyerrand into the deep dark woods at nightfall. I could appreciate thepoor girl's position. All the little girl had to help her were thehandkerchief, the comb and the pearl that she had inherited from herdear dead mother. But, as it turned out, they were just enough todefeat nasty old Baba Yaga and bring the girl safely home. I wished for the same for myself. The old man had just finished and they were starting to drag the kidsoff to bed when there was a commotion on the road at the edge of thecamp. I looked but my eyes were adjusted to the light of the fire and Icouldn't see far into the dark. A voice there said, I'll be damned if I'll take another day like thisone, Horst. We should have been here hours ago. It be your fault we'renot. Horst growled a retort. I decided that it was time for me to leave thecampfire. I got up and eased away as Horst and his men came up to thefire, and cut back to where Ninc was parked. I grabbed up my blanketsand mattress and started to roll them up. I had a pretty good idea nowwhat they used the high-walled pen for. I should have known that they would have to pen the animals up for thenight. I should have used my head. I hadn't and now it was time to takeleave. I never got the chance. <doc-sep>I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on myshoulder and I was swung around. Well, well. Horst, look who we have here, he called. It was the onewho'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. Hewas alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast. I brought the saddle around as hard as I could and then up, and hewent down. He started to get up again, so I dropped the saddle on himand reached inside my jacket for my gun. Somebody grabbed me then frombehind and pinned my arms to my side. I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smellyhand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than alungful of air. I bit down hard—5000 lbs. psi, I'm told—but hedidn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feetand dragged me off. When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stoppeddragging me and dropped me in a heap. Make any noise, he said, andI'll hurt you. That was a silly way to put it, but somehow it said more than if he'dthreatened to break my arm or my head. It left him a latitude of thingsto do if he pleased. He examined his hand. There was enough moonlightfor that. I ought to club you anyway, he said. The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were puttingthe animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him. No, he said. Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and whatwe can use. The other one didn't move. Get going, Jack, Horst said in a menacingtone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finallybacked down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to mebeing kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in hisbunch. But I wasn't done yet. I was scared, but I still had the pistol undermy jacket. Horst turned back to me and I said, You can't do this and get awaywith it. He said, Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot oftrouble. So don't give me a hard time. He still thought I was a boy. It was not time to correct him, but Ididn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering. The courts won't let you get away with this, I said. I'd passeda courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUALJUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD orsomething stuffy like that. He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so Iknew I'd goofed. Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I betaking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go tocourt and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leavingyou your freedom. Why would they be doing that? I asked. I slipped my hand under myjacket. Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of theShips, Horst said. That be enough. They already have one of you bratsin jail in Forton. I was about to bring my gun out when up came Jack leading Ninc, withall my stuff loaded on. I mentally thanked him. He said, The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out whatthis be for. He held out my pickup signal. Horst looked at it, then handed it back. Throw it away, he said. I leveled my gun at them—Hell on Wheels strikes again! I said, Handthat over to me. Horst made a disgusted sound. Don't make any noise, I said, or you'll fry. Now hand it over. I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of thesaddle. What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton. I can't remember, he said. But it be coming to me. Hold on. I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behindand the gun went flying. Jack pounced after it and Horst said, Goodenough, to the others who'd come up behind me. I felt like a fool. Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground andsaid in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it wasnatural and mine wasn't, The piece be yours. Then he tromped on ituntil it cracked and fell apart. Then he said, Pull a gun on me twice. Twice. He slapped me so hardthat my ears rang. You dirty little punk. I said calmly, You big louse. It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I canremember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of myface and then nothing. Brains are no good if you don't use them. <doc-sep></s>

Horst, along with his four companions, is a man that Mia meets on the planet Tintera. He, along with his companions, were on horses and shepherding animals in front of them. Mia describes him as a middle-aged man with a large build. Mia analyzes his face and decides that she does not want to interact with him because his face looks mean. Horst, incorrectly, assumes Mia is a boy and asks her questions. Horst asserts that Mia will ride along with the men to the town of Forton. However, Mia disagrees with that statement and Horst does not like the response. Horst begins to bring out his rifle, but Mia grabs her sonic pistol before he is able to do so. She holds them at gunpoint until they drop their weapons. After this confrontation, Horst and Mia do not see each other again until they both end up at the same campsite. At the campsite, Horst and his companions bind Mia’s arms together to prevent her from escaping them. They look through her stuff and threaten her.

<s> BIG ANCESTOR By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it! In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on apackage. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked underhis wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neckwas flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, onlyhis head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen longthough narrower ribbons. Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly goodimitation of speech. Yes, I've heard the legend. It's more than a legend, said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction wasnot unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenientspeculation and nothing more. There are at least a hundred kinds ofhumans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as manywidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout theages before space travel— and yet each planetary race can interbreedwith a minimum of ten others ! That's more than a legend—one hell of alot more! It is impressive, admitted Taphetta. But I find it mildlydistasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to myspecies. That's because you're unique, said Halden. Outside of your ownworld, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, andthat's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the soleexception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it'saccidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of humandevelopment. Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around thebeginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though onEmmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There'sa corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able tobreed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile withMeredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility mayextend to Kelburn. <doc-sep>Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years. You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had. But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way. And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification. Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn. Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and only the human race. I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself. It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin. Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden. Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men. We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you. The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested. <doc-sep>Kelburn went to the projector. It would be easier if we knew all thestars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portionof it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past. He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. We'relooking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it istoday and here are the human systems. He pressed another control and,for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. The whole MilkyWay is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remaintogether, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when wecalculate the positions of stars in the past. Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stoppedthe motion. Two hundred thousand years ago, he said. There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairlyequal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn'tclose, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed. Taphetta rustled. The math is accurate? As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem. And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor? To the best of our knowledge, said Kelburn. And whereas there arehumans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always matewith those they were adjacent to two hundred thousand years ago ! The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. Is that the only era thatsatisfies the calculations? Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get somethingthat might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover arepresentative section of territory, said Kelburn. However, we haveother ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no othermammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got thetime right. Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. And you think that where the twoends of the curve cross is your original home? We think so, said Kelburn. We've narrowed it down to several cubiclight-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were afast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of ourexploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding itthis trip. It seems I must decide quickly. The Ribboneer glanced out thevisionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.Do you mind if I ask other questions? Go ahead, Kelburn invited sardonically. But if it's not math, you'dbetter ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition. Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburnwas the most advanced human type present, but while there weredifferences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn'tas great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained inthe fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher orlower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. Andthere was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions andthis was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated somerespect. The Ribboneer shifted his attention. Aside from the sudden illness ofyour pilot, why did you ask for me? We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't givehim. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's fourmonths to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and toldus that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. Wehave men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the regionwe're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer tohave an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigationalability. Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. I had otherplans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergencysuch as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what arethe incentives? Sam Halden coughed. The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied theRibboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a percent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of theprofits from any discoveries we may make. I'm complimented that you like our contract so well, said Taphetta,but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,you'll take my contract. I came prepared. He extended a tightly boundroll that he had kept somewhere on his person. They glanced at one another as Halden took it. You can read it if you want, offered Taphetta. But it will takeyou all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid thatI'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearlyeverywhere in this sector—places men have never been. There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, theintegrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed. Good. Taphetta crinkled. Send it to the ship; they'll forward itfor me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me. He rubbed hisribbons together. Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine theregion toward which we're heading. <doc-sep>Firmon of hydroponics slouched in, a tall man with scanty hair andan equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking hiseyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in themating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet hadbeen inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware ofhis place in the human hierarchy. Disdainfully, Meredith adjusted a skirt that, a few inches shorter,wouldn't have been a skirt at all, revealing, while doing so, just howlong and beautiful a woman's legs could be. Her people had never givenmuch thought to physical modesty and, with legs like that, it was easyto see why. Muttering something about primitive women, Firmon turned to thebiologist. The pilot doesn't like our air. Then change it to suit him. He's in charge of the ship and knows moreabout these things than I do. More than a man? Firmon leered at Meredith and, when she failedto smile, added plaintively, I did try to change it, but he stillcomplains. <doc-sep>Halden took a deep breath. Seems all right to me. To everybody else, too, but the tapeworm hasn't got lungs. He breathesthrough a million tubes scattered over his body. It would do no good to explain that Taphetta wasn't a worm, that hisevolution had taken a different course, but that he was in no senseless complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higherhumans hadn't developed as much as lower races and actually weren'tprepared for the multitude of life-forms they'd meet in space. Firmon'sreaction was quite typical. If he asks for cleaner air, it's because his system needs it, saidHalden. Do anything you can to give it to him. Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could dosomething about it. Hydroponics is your job. There's nothing I can do. Halden pausedthoughtfully. Is there something wrong with the plants? In a way, I guess, and yet not really. What is it, some kind of toxic condition? The plants are healthy enough, but something's chewing them down asfast as they grow. Insects? There shouldn't be any, but if there are, we've got sprays.Use them. It's an animal, said Firmon. We tried poison and got a few, but nowthey won't touch the stuff. I had electronics rig up some traps. Theanimals seem to know what they are and we've never caught one thatway. Halden glowered at the man. How long has this been going on? About three months. It's not bad; we can keep up with them. It was probably nothing to become alarmed at, but an animal on the shipwas a nuisance, doubly so because of their pilot. Tell me what you know about it, said Halden. They're little things. Firmon held out his hands to show how small.I don't know how they got on, but once they did, there were plenty ofplaces to hide. He looked up defensively. This is an old ship withnew equipment and they hide under the machinery. There's nothing we cando except rebuild the ship from the hull inward. Firmon was right. The new equipment had been installed in any placejust to get it in and now there were inaccessible corners and creviceseverywhere that couldn't be closed off without rebuilding. They couldn't set up a continuous watch and shoot the animals downbecause there weren't that many men to spare. Besides, the use ofweapons in hydroponics would cause more damage to the thing they weretrying to protect than to the pest. He'd have to devise other ways. Sam Halden got up. I'll take a look and see what I can do. I'll come along and help, said Meredith, untwining her legs andleaning against him. Your mistress ought to have some sort ofprivileges. Halden started. So she knew that the crew was calling her that!Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn'tsaid it. It didn't help the situation at all. <doc-sep>Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body,he wouldn't have fitted. Maybe it wasn't sitting, but his flat legswere folded neatly around the arms and his head rested comfortably onthe seat. The head ribbons, which were his hands and voice, were neverquite still. He looked from Halden to Emmer and back again. The hydroponics techtells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it. Halden shrugged. We've got to have better air. It might work. Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it! Neither do we. The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. What kind of creatures are they? I have a description, though I've never seen one. It's a smallfour-legged animal with two antennae at the lower base of its skull. Atypical pest. Taphetta rustled. Have you found out how it got on? It was probably brought in with the supplies, said the biologist.Considering how far we've come, it may have been any one of a halfa dozen planets. Anyway, it hid, and since most of the places it hadaccess to were near the outer hull, it got an extra dose of hardradiation, or it may have nested near the atomic engines; both arepossibilities. Either way, it mutated, became a different animal. It'sdeveloped a tolerance for the poisons we spray on plants. Other thingsit detects and avoids, even electronic traps. Then you believe it changed mentally as well as physically, that it'ssmarter? I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to beso hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait'sstrong enough. That's what I don't like, said Taphetta, curling. Let me think itover while I ask questions. He turned to Emmer. I'm curious abouthumans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypotheticalancestor? Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, butnonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised astubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggyhands through shaggier hair. I can speak with some authority, he rumbled. I was born on a worldwith the most extensive relics. As a child, I played in the ruins oftheir camp. I don't question your authority, crinkled Taphetta. To me, allhumans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If youare an archeologist, that's enough for me. He paused and flicked hisspeech ribbons. Camp, did you say? <doc-sep>Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. You've never seen any pictures?Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, andwe'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my worldwas one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughingit, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-storystructures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways wereforty feet high. Very large, agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he wasimpressed. What did you find in the ruins? Nothing, said Emmer. There were buildings there and that was all,not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covereda route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than fivethousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of. A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life, mused Taphetta.But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why? Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different fromours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do knowthey were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, becausethey visited so many of that type, yet different from it because theynever stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big andlong-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planetthey needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendouslyadvanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germplasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of usdid. This special planet sounds strange, murmured Taphetta. Not really, said Emmer. Fifty human races reached space travelindependently and those who did were scattered equally among early andlate species. It's well known that individuals among my people areoften as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole wedon't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're asadvanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in theplanets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is. What happened to those who didn't develop space travel? askedTaphetta. We helped them, said Emmer. And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically lateor early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold ofatomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thingfor non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actuallyaggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselvesaloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, itwas tacitly assumed, such a destiny? <doc-sep>Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor? It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from. Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity. Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span. No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries. Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years. But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else? Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They were master biologists. I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest. He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal. To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this: My terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race. Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes. He hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared. That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now. <doc-sep>Why do we have to watch it on the screen? asked Meredith, glancingup. I'd rather be in hydroponics. Halden shrugged. They may or may not be smarter than planetboundanimals, but they're warier. They don't come out when anyone's near. Lights dimmed in the distant hydroponic section and the screen withit, until he adjusted the infra-red frequencies. He motioned to thetwo crew members, each with his own peculiar screen, below which was aminiature keyboard. Ready? When they nodded, Halden said: Do as you've rehearsed. Keep noise ata minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate themexactly. At first, nothing happened on the big screen, and then a gray shapecrept out. It slid through leaves, listened intently before comingforward. It jumped off one hydroponic section and fled across the openfloor to the next. It paused, eyes glittering and antennae twitching. Looking around once, it leaped up, seizing the ledge and clawing up theside of the tank. Standing on top and rising to its haunches, it begannibbling what it could reach. Suddenly it whirled. Behind it and hitherto unnoticed was anothershape, like it but larger. The newcomer inched forward. The small oneretreated, skittering nervously. Without warning, the big one leapedand the small one tried to flee. In a few jumps, the big one caught upand mauled the other unmercifully. It continued to bite even after the little one lay still. At last itbacked off and waited, watching for signs of motion. There was none.Then it turned to the plant. When it had chewed off everything withinreach, it climbed into the branches. The little one twitched, moved a leg, and cautiously began draggingitself away. It rolled off the raised section and surprisingly made nonoise as it fell. It seemed to revive, shaking itself and scurryingaway, still within range of the screen. Against the wall was a small platform. The little one climbed on topand there found something that seemed to interest it. It sniffedaround and reached and felt the discovery. Wounds were forgotten asit snatched up the object and frisked back to the scene of its recentdefeat. This time it had no trouble with the raised section. It leaped andlanded on top and made considerable noise in doing so. The big animalheard and twisted around. It saw and clambered down hastily, jumpingthe last few feet. Squealing, it hit the floor and charged. The small one stood still till the last instant—and then a pawflickered out and an inch-long knife blade plunged into the throat ofthe charging creature. Red spurted out as the bigger beast screamed.The knife flashed in and out until the big animal collapsed and stoppedmoving. The small creature removed the knife and wiped it on the pelt of itsfoe. Then it scampered back to the platform on which the knife had beenfound— and laid it down . <doc-sep>At Halden's signal, the lights flared up and the screen became toobright for anything to be visible. Go in and get them, said Halden. We don't want the pests to find outthat the bodies aren't flesh. It was realistic enough, said Meredith as the crewmen shut off theirmachines and went out. Do you think it will work? It might. We had an audience. Did we? I didn't notice. Meredith leaned back. Were the puppetsexactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled? The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don'thave to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough,they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it. What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by acreature without real hands? That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—andthey'll never get away from the trap to try. Very good. I never thought of that, said Meredith, coming closer. Ilike the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think ofmarrying you. Primitive, he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knewthat, in relation to her, he was not advanced. It's almost a curse, isn't it? She laughed and took the curse away byleaning provocatively against him. But barbaric lovers are often nice. Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. Toher, I'm merely a passionate savage. They went to his cabin. She sat down, smiling. Was she pretty? Maybe. For her own race, shewasn't tall, only by Terran standards. Her legs were disproportionatelylong and well shaped and her face was somewhat bland and featureless,except for a thin, straight, short nose. It was her eyes that madethe difference, he decided. A notch or two up the scale of visualdevelopment, her eyes were larger and she could see an extra color onthe violet end of the spectrum. She settled back and looked at him. It might be fun living with you onprimeval Earth. He said nothing; she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced asher own world. She had something else in mind. I don't think I will, though. We might have children. Would it be wrong? he asked. I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn'thave subhuman monsters. It would be a step up—for you. Under her calm, there was tension.It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to thesurface now. Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I makethem start lower than I am? The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another,it governed personal relations between races that were united againstnon-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves. I haven't asked you to marry me, he said bluntly. Because you're afraid I'd refuse. It was true; no one asked a member of a higher race to enter apermanent union. Why did you ever have anything to do with me? demanded Halden. Love, she said gloomily. Physical attraction. But I can't let itlead me astray. Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientificabout it, he'd give you children of the higher type. Kelburn. It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. I don'tlike him and he wouldn't marry me. He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough.There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive. <doc-sep>She provocatively arched her back. Not even the women of Kelburn's racehad a body like hers and she knew it. Racially, there should be a chance, she said. Actually, Kelburn andI would be infertile. Can you be sure? he asked, knowing it was a poor attempt to actunconcerned. How can anyone be sure on a theoretical basis? she asked, an obliquesmile narrowing her eyes. I know we can't. His face felt anesthetized. Did you have to tell me that? She got up and came to him. She nuzzled against him and his reactionwas purely reflexive. His hand swung out and he could feel the fleshgive when his knuckles struck it. She fell back and dazedly covered her face with her hand. When she tookit away, blood spurted. She groped toward the mirror and stood in frontof it. She wiped the blood off, examining her features carefully. You've broken my nose, she said factually. I'll have to stop theblood and pain. She pushed her nose back into place and waggled it to make sure. Sheclosed her eyes and stood silent and motionless. Then she stepped backand looked at herself critically. It's set and partially knitted. I'll concentrate tonight and have ithealed by morning. She felt in the cabinet and attached an invisible strip firmly acrossthe bridge. Then she came over to him. I wondered what you'd do. You didn't disappoint me. He scowled miserably at her. Her face was almost plain and the bandage,invisible or not, didn't improve her appearance any. How could he stillfeel that attraction to her? Try Emmer, he suggested tiredly. He'll find you irresistible, andhe's even more savage than I am. Is he? She smiled enigmatically. Maybe, in a biological sense. Toomuch, though. You're just right. He sat down on the bed. Again there was only one way of knowing whatEmmer would do—and she knew. She had no concept of love outside ofthe physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—whatadvantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that,nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with thehigher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet hewanted her. I do think I love you, she said. And if love's enough, I may marryyou in spite of everything. But you'll have to watch out whose childrenI have. She wriggled into his arms. The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was notcompletely her fault. Besides.... Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superiorchildren—and they might be his. He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Werethey all that way, every one of them, crawling upward out of the slimetoward the highest goal they could conceive of? Climbing over—no, through —everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward andupward. He raised his hand, but it was against himself that his angerwas turned. Careful of the nose, she said, pressing against him. You've alreadybroken it once. He kissed her with sudden passion that even he knew was primitive. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story starts with four of the species of the spectrum of human development together, talking and explaining about the possibility of mating with different species on the spectrum to Taphetta the Ribboneer. Emmer is an archeologist and he sits on one end of the spectrum. Halden, the biologist is from Earth, he is somewhat towards the middle on the spectrum. Meredith is a linguist, and she is further down the spectrum. And Kelburn, the mathematician, is at the far end of it. They explain to Taphetta about the theory of ability to mate with humans that are on planets that are close to each other. However, due to movement of planets, they are no longer close to each other. But with some accurate calculations, if all the stars were to go back two hundred thousand years, the position of those stars line up in the shape of a horse shoe. And they theorize that their original home lands on where the extension of the two ends of the horse shoe cross over. And the four explorers believe they have a chance of finding their original home. They are explaining this to Taphetta because they need him to be the pilot of this expedition. After Taphetta suggests that he does not like the air in the ship, they realize that some animals hs been eating the plants. With failing attempts to capture them, the biologist suggest that their mental and physical state might have changed due to radiation or atomic engines. Thus they set up a play for the animal to watch so that they will get into the trap. Meredith and Halden get into a fight because Meredith thinks Halden as primitive, and Halden does not like that. When he realizes that Meredith somehow knows she can’t be fertile with Kelburn, he gets so angry that he hits her nose. Then he come to realize why Meredith will not want to marry him and have children with him, even he would want superior children.

<s> BIG ANCESTOR By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it! In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on apackage. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked underhis wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neckwas flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, onlyhis head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen longthough narrower ribbons. Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly goodimitation of speech. Yes, I've heard the legend. It's more than a legend, said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction wasnot unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenientspeculation and nothing more. There are at least a hundred kinds ofhumans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as manywidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout theages before space travel— and yet each planetary race can interbreedwith a minimum of ten others ! That's more than a legend—one hell of alot more! It is impressive, admitted Taphetta. But I find it mildlydistasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to myspecies. That's because you're unique, said Halden. Outside of your ownworld, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, andthat's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the soleexception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it'saccidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of humandevelopment. Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around thebeginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though onEmmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There'sa corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able tobreed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile withMeredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility mayextend to Kelburn. <doc-sep>Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years. You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had. But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way. And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification. Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn. Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and only the human race. I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself. It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin. Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden. Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men. We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you. The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested. <doc-sep>Kelburn went to the projector. It would be easier if we knew all thestars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portionof it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past. He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. We'relooking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it istoday and here are the human systems. He pressed another control and,for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. The whole MilkyWay is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remaintogether, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when wecalculate the positions of stars in the past. Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stoppedthe motion. Two hundred thousand years ago, he said. There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairlyequal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn'tclose, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed. Taphetta rustled. The math is accurate? As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem. And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor? To the best of our knowledge, said Kelburn. And whereas there arehumans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always matewith those they were adjacent to two hundred thousand years ago ! The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. Is that the only era thatsatisfies the calculations? Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get somethingthat might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover arepresentative section of territory, said Kelburn. However, we haveother ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no othermammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got thetime right. Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. And you think that where the twoends of the curve cross is your original home? We think so, said Kelburn. We've narrowed it down to several cubiclight-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were afast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of ourexploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding itthis trip. It seems I must decide quickly. The Ribboneer glanced out thevisionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.Do you mind if I ask other questions? Go ahead, Kelburn invited sardonically. But if it's not math, you'dbetter ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition. Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburnwas the most advanced human type present, but while there weredifferences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn'tas great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained inthe fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher orlower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. Andthere was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions andthis was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated somerespect. The Ribboneer shifted his attention. Aside from the sudden illness ofyour pilot, why did you ask for me? We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't givehim. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's fourmonths to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and toldus that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. Wehave men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the regionwe're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer tohave an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigationalability. Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. I had otherplans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergencysuch as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what arethe incentives? Sam Halden coughed. The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied theRibboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a percent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of theprofits from any discoveries we may make. I'm complimented that you like our contract so well, said Taphetta,but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,you'll take my contract. I came prepared. He extended a tightly boundroll that he had kept somewhere on his person. They glanced at one another as Halden took it. You can read it if you want, offered Taphetta. But it will takeyou all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid thatI'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearlyeverywhere in this sector—places men have never been. There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, theintegrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed. Good. Taphetta crinkled. Send it to the ship; they'll forward itfor me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me. He rubbed hisribbons together. Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine theregion toward which we're heading. <doc-sep>Firmon of hydroponics slouched in, a tall man with scanty hair andan equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking hiseyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in themating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet hadbeen inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware ofhis place in the human hierarchy. Disdainfully, Meredith adjusted a skirt that, a few inches shorter,wouldn't have been a skirt at all, revealing, while doing so, just howlong and beautiful a woman's legs could be. Her people had never givenmuch thought to physical modesty and, with legs like that, it was easyto see why. Muttering something about primitive women, Firmon turned to thebiologist. The pilot doesn't like our air. Then change it to suit him. He's in charge of the ship and knows moreabout these things than I do. More than a man? Firmon leered at Meredith and, when she failedto smile, added plaintively, I did try to change it, but he stillcomplains. <doc-sep>Halden took a deep breath. Seems all right to me. To everybody else, too, but the tapeworm hasn't got lungs. He breathesthrough a million tubes scattered over his body. It would do no good to explain that Taphetta wasn't a worm, that hisevolution had taken a different course, but that he was in no senseless complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higherhumans hadn't developed as much as lower races and actually weren'tprepared for the multitude of life-forms they'd meet in space. Firmon'sreaction was quite typical. If he asks for cleaner air, it's because his system needs it, saidHalden. Do anything you can to give it to him. Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could dosomething about it. Hydroponics is your job. There's nothing I can do. Halden pausedthoughtfully. Is there something wrong with the plants? In a way, I guess, and yet not really. What is it, some kind of toxic condition? The plants are healthy enough, but something's chewing them down asfast as they grow. Insects? There shouldn't be any, but if there are, we've got sprays.Use them. It's an animal, said Firmon. We tried poison and got a few, but nowthey won't touch the stuff. I had electronics rig up some traps. Theanimals seem to know what they are and we've never caught one thatway. Halden glowered at the man. How long has this been going on? About three months. It's not bad; we can keep up with them. It was probably nothing to become alarmed at, but an animal on the shipwas a nuisance, doubly so because of their pilot. Tell me what you know about it, said Halden. They're little things. Firmon held out his hands to show how small.I don't know how they got on, but once they did, there were plenty ofplaces to hide. He looked up defensively. This is an old ship withnew equipment and they hide under the machinery. There's nothing we cando except rebuild the ship from the hull inward. Firmon was right. The new equipment had been installed in any placejust to get it in and now there were inaccessible corners and creviceseverywhere that couldn't be closed off without rebuilding. They couldn't set up a continuous watch and shoot the animals downbecause there weren't that many men to spare. Besides, the use ofweapons in hydroponics would cause more damage to the thing they weretrying to protect than to the pest. He'd have to devise other ways. Sam Halden got up. I'll take a look and see what I can do. I'll come along and help, said Meredith, untwining her legs andleaning against him. Your mistress ought to have some sort ofprivileges. Halden started. So she knew that the crew was calling her that!Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn'tsaid it. It didn't help the situation at all. <doc-sep>Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body,he wouldn't have fitted. Maybe it wasn't sitting, but his flat legswere folded neatly around the arms and his head rested comfortably onthe seat. The head ribbons, which were his hands and voice, were neverquite still. He looked from Halden to Emmer and back again. The hydroponics techtells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it. Halden shrugged. We've got to have better air. It might work. Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it! Neither do we. The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. What kind of creatures are they? I have a description, though I've never seen one. It's a smallfour-legged animal with two antennae at the lower base of its skull. Atypical pest. Taphetta rustled. Have you found out how it got on? It was probably brought in with the supplies, said the biologist.Considering how far we've come, it may have been any one of a halfa dozen planets. Anyway, it hid, and since most of the places it hadaccess to were near the outer hull, it got an extra dose of hardradiation, or it may have nested near the atomic engines; both arepossibilities. Either way, it mutated, became a different animal. It'sdeveloped a tolerance for the poisons we spray on plants. Other thingsit detects and avoids, even electronic traps. Then you believe it changed mentally as well as physically, that it'ssmarter? I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to beso hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait'sstrong enough. That's what I don't like, said Taphetta, curling. Let me think itover while I ask questions. He turned to Emmer. I'm curious abouthumans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypotheticalancestor? Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, butnonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised astubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggyhands through shaggier hair. I can speak with some authority, he rumbled. I was born on a worldwith the most extensive relics. As a child, I played in the ruins oftheir camp. I don't question your authority, crinkled Taphetta. To me, allhumans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If youare an archeologist, that's enough for me. He paused and flicked hisspeech ribbons. Camp, did you say? <doc-sep>Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. You've never seen any pictures?Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, andwe'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my worldwas one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughingit, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-storystructures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways wereforty feet high. Very large, agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he wasimpressed. What did you find in the ruins? Nothing, said Emmer. There were buildings there and that was all,not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covereda route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than fivethousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of. A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life, mused Taphetta.But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why? Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different fromours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do knowthey were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, becausethey visited so many of that type, yet different from it because theynever stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big andlong-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planetthey needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendouslyadvanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germplasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of usdid. This special planet sounds strange, murmured Taphetta. Not really, said Emmer. Fifty human races reached space travelindependently and those who did were scattered equally among early andlate species. It's well known that individuals among my people areoften as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole wedon't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're asadvanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in theplanets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is. What happened to those who didn't develop space travel? askedTaphetta. We helped them, said Emmer. And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically lateor early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold ofatomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thingfor non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actuallyaggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselvesaloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, itwas tacitly assumed, such a destiny? <doc-sep>Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor? It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from. Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity. Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span. No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries. Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years. But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else? Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They were master biologists. I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest. He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal. To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this: My terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race. Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes. He hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared. That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now. <doc-sep>Why do we have to watch it on the screen? asked Meredith, glancingup. I'd rather be in hydroponics. Halden shrugged. They may or may not be smarter than planetboundanimals, but they're warier. They don't come out when anyone's near. Lights dimmed in the distant hydroponic section and the screen withit, until he adjusted the infra-red frequencies. He motioned to thetwo crew members, each with his own peculiar screen, below which was aminiature keyboard. Ready? When they nodded, Halden said: Do as you've rehearsed. Keep noise ata minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate themexactly. At first, nothing happened on the big screen, and then a gray shapecrept out. It slid through leaves, listened intently before comingforward. It jumped off one hydroponic section and fled across the openfloor to the next. It paused, eyes glittering and antennae twitching. Looking around once, it leaped up, seizing the ledge and clawing up theside of the tank. Standing on top and rising to its haunches, it begannibbling what it could reach. Suddenly it whirled. Behind it and hitherto unnoticed was anothershape, like it but larger. The newcomer inched forward. The small oneretreated, skittering nervously. Without warning, the big one leapedand the small one tried to flee. In a few jumps, the big one caught upand mauled the other unmercifully. It continued to bite even after the little one lay still. At last itbacked off and waited, watching for signs of motion. There was none.Then it turned to the plant. When it had chewed off everything withinreach, it climbed into the branches. The little one twitched, moved a leg, and cautiously began draggingitself away. It rolled off the raised section and surprisingly made nonoise as it fell. It seemed to revive, shaking itself and scurryingaway, still within range of the screen. Against the wall was a small platform. The little one climbed on topand there found something that seemed to interest it. It sniffedaround and reached and felt the discovery. Wounds were forgotten asit snatched up the object and frisked back to the scene of its recentdefeat. This time it had no trouble with the raised section. It leaped andlanded on top and made considerable noise in doing so. The big animalheard and twisted around. It saw and clambered down hastily, jumpingthe last few feet. Squealing, it hit the floor and charged. The small one stood still till the last instant—and then a pawflickered out and an inch-long knife blade plunged into the throat ofthe charging creature. Red spurted out as the bigger beast screamed.The knife flashed in and out until the big animal collapsed and stoppedmoving. The small creature removed the knife and wiped it on the pelt of itsfoe. Then it scampered back to the platform on which the knife had beenfound— and laid it down . <doc-sep>At Halden's signal, the lights flared up and the screen became toobright for anything to be visible. Go in and get them, said Halden. We don't want the pests to find outthat the bodies aren't flesh. It was realistic enough, said Meredith as the crewmen shut off theirmachines and went out. Do you think it will work? It might. We had an audience. Did we? I didn't notice. Meredith leaned back. Were the puppetsexactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled? The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don'thave to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough,they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it. What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by acreature without real hands? That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—andthey'll never get away from the trap to try. Very good. I never thought of that, said Meredith, coming closer. Ilike the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think ofmarrying you. Primitive, he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knewthat, in relation to her, he was not advanced. It's almost a curse, isn't it? She laughed and took the curse away byleaning provocatively against him. But barbaric lovers are often nice. Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. Toher, I'm merely a passionate savage. They went to his cabin. She sat down, smiling. Was she pretty? Maybe. For her own race, shewasn't tall, only by Terran standards. Her legs were disproportionatelylong and well shaped and her face was somewhat bland and featureless,except for a thin, straight, short nose. It was her eyes that madethe difference, he decided. A notch or two up the scale of visualdevelopment, her eyes were larger and she could see an extra color onthe violet end of the spectrum. She settled back and looked at him. It might be fun living with you onprimeval Earth. He said nothing; she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced asher own world. She had something else in mind. I don't think I will, though. We might have children. Would it be wrong? he asked. I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn'thave subhuman monsters. It would be a step up—for you. Under her calm, there was tension.It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to thesurface now. Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I makethem start lower than I am? The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another,it governed personal relations between races that were united againstnon-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves. I haven't asked you to marry me, he said bluntly. Because you're afraid I'd refuse. It was true; no one asked a member of a higher race to enter apermanent union. Why did you ever have anything to do with me? demanded Halden. Love, she said gloomily. Physical attraction. But I can't let itlead me astray. Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientificabout it, he'd give you children of the higher type. Kelburn. It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. I don'tlike him and he wouldn't marry me. He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough.There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive. <doc-sep>She provocatively arched her back. Not even the women of Kelburn's racehad a body like hers and she knew it. Racially, there should be a chance, she said. Actually, Kelburn andI would be infertile. Can you be sure? he asked, knowing it was a poor attempt to actunconcerned. How can anyone be sure on a theoretical basis? she asked, an obliquesmile narrowing her eyes. I know we can't. His face felt anesthetized. Did you have to tell me that? She got up and came to him. She nuzzled against him and his reactionwas purely reflexive. His hand swung out and he could feel the fleshgive when his knuckles struck it. She fell back and dazedly covered her face with her hand. When she tookit away, blood spurted. She groped toward the mirror and stood in frontof it. She wiped the blood off, examining her features carefully. You've broken my nose, she said factually. I'll have to stop theblood and pain. She pushed her nose back into place and waggled it to make sure. Sheclosed her eyes and stood silent and motionless. Then she stepped backand looked at herself critically. It's set and partially knitted. I'll concentrate tonight and have ithealed by morning. She felt in the cabinet and attached an invisible strip firmly acrossthe bridge. Then she came over to him. I wondered what you'd do. You didn't disappoint me. He scowled miserably at her. Her face was almost plain and the bandage,invisible or not, didn't improve her appearance any. How could he stillfeel that attraction to her? Try Emmer, he suggested tiredly. He'll find you irresistible, andhe's even more savage than I am. Is he? She smiled enigmatically. Maybe, in a biological sense. Toomuch, though. You're just right. He sat down on the bed. Again there was only one way of knowing whatEmmer would do—and she knew. She had no concept of love outside ofthe physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—whatadvantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that,nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with thehigher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet hewanted her. I do think I love you, she said. And if love's enough, I may marryyou in spite of everything. But you'll have to watch out whose childrenI have. She wriggled into his arms. The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was notcompletely her fault. Besides.... Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superiorchildren—and they might be his. He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Werethey all that way, every one of them, crawling upward out of the slimetoward the highest goal they could conceive of? Climbing over—no, through —everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward andupward. He raised his hand, but it was against himself that his angerwas turned. Careful of the nose, she said, pressing against him. You've alreadybroken it once. He kissed her with sudden passion that even he knew was primitive. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Taphetta the Ribboneer was on another ship that was passing by the expedition ship. Since the pilot that was supposed to fly the expedition got very sick and needed some treatment, he was taken by the other ship, and they told the explorers that they have an experienced pilot on board. After having Taphetta on the expedition ship, they introduce themselves and explains how they are at different points on the development spectrum. However, unlike human themselves, Taphetta does not see any difference between the early and late stage of humans, they are all the same to her. Later they explain the theory of horse shoe planets, the adjacency mating principle and suggest that they are likely to find their origin planet on their trip. Taphetta is interested and asks them to take her contract. Taphetta is afraid of them holding discoveries for the benefit of one race, thus offers them his own contract. While the truth is that the explorers are not going to hold anything, no one can be sure of the institutions that support this expedition. Furthermore, Taphetta senses that something is wrong with the air, which makes them realize that there has been animals consuming the plants they grew. Despite the fact that he doesn’t want to risk bait for the pest, he is convinced.

<s> BIG ANCESTOR By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it! In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on apackage. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked underhis wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neckwas flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, onlyhis head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen longthough narrower ribbons. Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly goodimitation of speech. Yes, I've heard the legend. It's more than a legend, said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction wasnot unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenientspeculation and nothing more. There are at least a hundred kinds ofhumans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as manywidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout theages before space travel— and yet each planetary race can interbreedwith a minimum of ten others ! That's more than a legend—one hell of alot more! It is impressive, admitted Taphetta. But I find it mildlydistasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to myspecies. That's because you're unique, said Halden. Outside of your ownworld, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, andthat's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the soleexception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it'saccidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of humandevelopment. Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around thebeginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though onEmmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There'sa corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able tobreed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile withMeredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility mayextend to Kelburn. <doc-sep>Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years. You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had. But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way. And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification. Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn. Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and only the human race. I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself. It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin. Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden. Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men. We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you. The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested. <doc-sep>Kelburn went to the projector. It would be easier if we knew all thestars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portionof it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past. He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. We'relooking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it istoday and here are the human systems. He pressed another control and,for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. The whole MilkyWay is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remaintogether, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when wecalculate the positions of stars in the past. Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stoppedthe motion. Two hundred thousand years ago, he said. There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairlyequal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn'tclose, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed. Taphetta rustled. The math is accurate? As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem. And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor? To the best of our knowledge, said Kelburn. And whereas there arehumans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always matewith those they were adjacent to two hundred thousand years ago ! The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. Is that the only era thatsatisfies the calculations? Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get somethingthat might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover arepresentative section of territory, said Kelburn. However, we haveother ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no othermammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got thetime right. Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. And you think that where the twoends of the curve cross is your original home? We think so, said Kelburn. We've narrowed it down to several cubiclight-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were afast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of ourexploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding itthis trip. It seems I must decide quickly. The Ribboneer glanced out thevisionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.Do you mind if I ask other questions? Go ahead, Kelburn invited sardonically. But if it's not math, you'dbetter ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition. Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburnwas the most advanced human type present, but while there weredifferences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn'tas great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained inthe fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher orlower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. Andthere was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions andthis was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated somerespect. The Ribboneer shifted his attention. Aside from the sudden illness ofyour pilot, why did you ask for me? We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't givehim. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's fourmonths to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and toldus that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. Wehave men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the regionwe're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer tohave an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigationalability. Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. I had otherplans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergencysuch as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what arethe incentives? Sam Halden coughed. The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied theRibboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a percent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of theprofits from any discoveries we may make. I'm complimented that you like our contract so well, said Taphetta,but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,you'll take my contract. I came prepared. He extended a tightly boundroll that he had kept somewhere on his person. They glanced at one another as Halden took it. You can read it if you want, offered Taphetta. But it will takeyou all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid thatI'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearlyeverywhere in this sector—places men have never been. There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, theintegrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed. Good. Taphetta crinkled. Send it to the ship; they'll forward itfor me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me. He rubbed hisribbons together. Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine theregion toward which we're heading. <doc-sep>Firmon of hydroponics slouched in, a tall man with scanty hair andan equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking hiseyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in themating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet hadbeen inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware ofhis place in the human hierarchy. Disdainfully, Meredith adjusted a skirt that, a few inches shorter,wouldn't have been a skirt at all, revealing, while doing so, just howlong and beautiful a woman's legs could be. Her people had never givenmuch thought to physical modesty and, with legs like that, it was easyto see why. Muttering something about primitive women, Firmon turned to thebiologist. The pilot doesn't like our air. Then change it to suit him. He's in charge of the ship and knows moreabout these things than I do. More than a man? Firmon leered at Meredith and, when she failedto smile, added plaintively, I did try to change it, but he stillcomplains. <doc-sep>Halden took a deep breath. Seems all right to me. To everybody else, too, but the tapeworm hasn't got lungs. He breathesthrough a million tubes scattered over his body. It would do no good to explain that Taphetta wasn't a worm, that hisevolution had taken a different course, but that he was in no senseless complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higherhumans hadn't developed as much as lower races and actually weren'tprepared for the multitude of life-forms they'd meet in space. Firmon'sreaction was quite typical. If he asks for cleaner air, it's because his system needs it, saidHalden. Do anything you can to give it to him. Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could dosomething about it. Hydroponics is your job. There's nothing I can do. Halden pausedthoughtfully. Is there something wrong with the plants? In a way, I guess, and yet not really. What is it, some kind of toxic condition? The plants are healthy enough, but something's chewing them down asfast as they grow. Insects? There shouldn't be any, but if there are, we've got sprays.Use them. It's an animal, said Firmon. We tried poison and got a few, but nowthey won't touch the stuff. I had electronics rig up some traps. Theanimals seem to know what they are and we've never caught one thatway. Halden glowered at the man. How long has this been going on? About three months. It's not bad; we can keep up with them. It was probably nothing to become alarmed at, but an animal on the shipwas a nuisance, doubly so because of their pilot. Tell me what you know about it, said Halden. They're little things. Firmon held out his hands to show how small.I don't know how they got on, but once they did, there were plenty ofplaces to hide. He looked up defensively. This is an old ship withnew equipment and they hide under the machinery. There's nothing we cando except rebuild the ship from the hull inward. Firmon was right. The new equipment had been installed in any placejust to get it in and now there were inaccessible corners and creviceseverywhere that couldn't be closed off without rebuilding. They couldn't set up a continuous watch and shoot the animals downbecause there weren't that many men to spare. Besides, the use ofweapons in hydroponics would cause more damage to the thing they weretrying to protect than to the pest. He'd have to devise other ways. Sam Halden got up. I'll take a look and see what I can do. I'll come along and help, said Meredith, untwining her legs andleaning against him. Your mistress ought to have some sort ofprivileges. Halden started. So she knew that the crew was calling her that!Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn'tsaid it. It didn't help the situation at all. <doc-sep>Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body,he wouldn't have fitted. Maybe it wasn't sitting, but his flat legswere folded neatly around the arms and his head rested comfortably onthe seat. The head ribbons, which were his hands and voice, were neverquite still. He looked from Halden to Emmer and back again. The hydroponics techtells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it. Halden shrugged. We've got to have better air. It might work. Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it! Neither do we. The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. What kind of creatures are they? I have a description, though I've never seen one. It's a smallfour-legged animal with two antennae at the lower base of its skull. Atypical pest. Taphetta rustled. Have you found out how it got on? It was probably brought in with the supplies, said the biologist.Considering how far we've come, it may have been any one of a halfa dozen planets. Anyway, it hid, and since most of the places it hadaccess to were near the outer hull, it got an extra dose of hardradiation, or it may have nested near the atomic engines; both arepossibilities. Either way, it mutated, became a different animal. It'sdeveloped a tolerance for the poisons we spray on plants. Other thingsit detects and avoids, even electronic traps. Then you believe it changed mentally as well as physically, that it'ssmarter? I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to beso hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait'sstrong enough. That's what I don't like, said Taphetta, curling. Let me think itover while I ask questions. He turned to Emmer. I'm curious abouthumans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypotheticalancestor? Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, butnonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised astubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggyhands through shaggier hair. I can speak with some authority, he rumbled. I was born on a worldwith the most extensive relics. As a child, I played in the ruins oftheir camp. I don't question your authority, crinkled Taphetta. To me, allhumans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If youare an archeologist, that's enough for me. He paused and flicked hisspeech ribbons. Camp, did you say? <doc-sep>Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. You've never seen any pictures?Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, andwe'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my worldwas one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughingit, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-storystructures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways wereforty feet high. Very large, agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he wasimpressed. What did you find in the ruins? Nothing, said Emmer. There were buildings there and that was all,not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covereda route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than fivethousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of. A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life, mused Taphetta.But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why? Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different fromours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do knowthey were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, becausethey visited so many of that type, yet different from it because theynever stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big andlong-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planetthey needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendouslyadvanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germplasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of usdid. This special planet sounds strange, murmured Taphetta. Not really, said Emmer. Fifty human races reached space travelindependently and those who did were scattered equally among early andlate species. It's well known that individuals among my people areoften as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole wedon't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're asadvanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in theplanets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is. What happened to those who didn't develop space travel? askedTaphetta. We helped them, said Emmer. And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically lateor early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold ofatomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thingfor non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actuallyaggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselvesaloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, itwas tacitly assumed, such a destiny? <doc-sep>Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor? It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from. Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity. Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span. No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries. Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years. But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else? Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They were master biologists. I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest. He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal. To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this: My terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race. Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes. He hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared. That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now. <doc-sep>Why do we have to watch it on the screen? asked Meredith, glancingup. I'd rather be in hydroponics. Halden shrugged. They may or may not be smarter than planetboundanimals, but they're warier. They don't come out when anyone's near. Lights dimmed in the distant hydroponic section and the screen withit, until he adjusted the infra-red frequencies. He motioned to thetwo crew members, each with his own peculiar screen, below which was aminiature keyboard. Ready? When they nodded, Halden said: Do as you've rehearsed. Keep noise ata minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate themexactly. At first, nothing happened on the big screen, and then a gray shapecrept out. It slid through leaves, listened intently before comingforward. It jumped off one hydroponic section and fled across the openfloor to the next. It paused, eyes glittering and antennae twitching. Looking around once, it leaped up, seizing the ledge and clawing up theside of the tank. Standing on top and rising to its haunches, it begannibbling what it could reach. Suddenly it whirled. Behind it and hitherto unnoticed was anothershape, like it but larger. The newcomer inched forward. The small oneretreated, skittering nervously. Without warning, the big one leapedand the small one tried to flee. In a few jumps, the big one caught upand mauled the other unmercifully. It continued to bite even after the little one lay still. At last itbacked off and waited, watching for signs of motion. There was none.Then it turned to the plant. When it had chewed off everything withinreach, it climbed into the branches. The little one twitched, moved a leg, and cautiously began draggingitself away. It rolled off the raised section and surprisingly made nonoise as it fell. It seemed to revive, shaking itself and scurryingaway, still within range of the screen. Against the wall was a small platform. The little one climbed on topand there found something that seemed to interest it. It sniffedaround and reached and felt the discovery. Wounds were forgotten asit snatched up the object and frisked back to the scene of its recentdefeat. This time it had no trouble with the raised section. It leaped andlanded on top and made considerable noise in doing so. The big animalheard and twisted around. It saw and clambered down hastily, jumpingthe last few feet. Squealing, it hit the floor and charged. The small one stood still till the last instant—and then a pawflickered out and an inch-long knife blade plunged into the throat ofthe charging creature. Red spurted out as the bigger beast screamed.The knife flashed in and out until the big animal collapsed and stoppedmoving. The small creature removed the knife and wiped it on the pelt of itsfoe. Then it scampered back to the platform on which the knife had beenfound— and laid it down . <doc-sep>At Halden's signal, the lights flared up and the screen became toobright for anything to be visible. Go in and get them, said Halden. We don't want the pests to find outthat the bodies aren't flesh. It was realistic enough, said Meredith as the crewmen shut off theirmachines and went out. Do you think it will work? It might. We had an audience. Did we? I didn't notice. Meredith leaned back. Were the puppetsexactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled? The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don'thave to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough,they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it. What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by acreature without real hands? That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—andthey'll never get away from the trap to try. Very good. I never thought of that, said Meredith, coming closer. Ilike the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think ofmarrying you. Primitive, he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knewthat, in relation to her, he was not advanced. It's almost a curse, isn't it? She laughed and took the curse away byleaning provocatively against him. But barbaric lovers are often nice. Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. Toher, I'm merely a passionate savage. They went to his cabin. She sat down, smiling. Was she pretty? Maybe. For her own race, shewasn't tall, only by Terran standards. Her legs were disproportionatelylong and well shaped and her face was somewhat bland and featureless,except for a thin, straight, short nose. It was her eyes that madethe difference, he decided. A notch or two up the scale of visualdevelopment, her eyes were larger and she could see an extra color onthe violet end of the spectrum. She settled back and looked at him. It might be fun living with you onprimeval Earth. He said nothing; she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced asher own world. She had something else in mind. I don't think I will, though. We might have children. Would it be wrong? he asked. I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn'thave subhuman monsters. It would be a step up—for you. Under her calm, there was tension.It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to thesurface now. Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I makethem start lower than I am? The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another,it governed personal relations between races that were united againstnon-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves. I haven't asked you to marry me, he said bluntly. Because you're afraid I'd refuse. It was true; no one asked a member of a higher race to enter apermanent union. Why did you ever have anything to do with me? demanded Halden. Love, she said gloomily. Physical attraction. But I can't let itlead me astray. Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientificabout it, he'd give you children of the higher type. Kelburn. It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. I don'tlike him and he wouldn't marry me. He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough.There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive. <doc-sep>She provocatively arched her back. Not even the women of Kelburn's racehad a body like hers and she knew it. Racially, there should be a chance, she said. Actually, Kelburn andI would be infertile. Can you be sure? he asked, knowing it was a poor attempt to actunconcerned. How can anyone be sure on a theoretical basis? she asked, an obliquesmile narrowing her eyes. I know we can't. His face felt anesthetized. Did you have to tell me that? She got up and came to him. She nuzzled against him and his reactionwas purely reflexive. His hand swung out and he could feel the fleshgive when his knuckles struck it. She fell back and dazedly covered her face with her hand. When she tookit away, blood spurted. She groped toward the mirror and stood in frontof it. She wiped the blood off, examining her features carefully. You've broken my nose, she said factually. I'll have to stop theblood and pain. She pushed her nose back into place and waggled it to make sure. Sheclosed her eyes and stood silent and motionless. Then she stepped backand looked at herself critically. It's set and partially knitted. I'll concentrate tonight and have ithealed by morning. She felt in the cabinet and attached an invisible strip firmly acrossthe bridge. Then she came over to him. I wondered what you'd do. You didn't disappoint me. He scowled miserably at her. Her face was almost plain and the bandage,invisible or not, didn't improve her appearance any. How could he stillfeel that attraction to her? Try Emmer, he suggested tiredly. He'll find you irresistible, andhe's even more savage than I am. Is he? She smiled enigmatically. Maybe, in a biological sense. Toomuch, though. You're just right. He sat down on the bed. Again there was only one way of knowing whatEmmer would do—and she knew. She had no concept of love outside ofthe physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—whatadvantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that,nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with thehigher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet hewanted her. I do think I love you, she said. And if love's enough, I may marryyou in spite of everything. But you'll have to watch out whose childrenI have. She wriggled into his arms. The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was notcompletely her fault. Besides.... Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superiorchildren—and they might be his. He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Werethey all that way, every one of them, crawling upward out of the slimetoward the highest goal they could conceive of? Climbing over—no, through —everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward andupward. He raised his hand, but it was against himself that his angerwas turned. Careful of the nose, she said, pressing against him. You've alreadybroken it once. He kissed her with sudden passion that even he knew was primitive. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Meredith is a linguist who sits on the middle towards end of the spectrum; Halden is a biologist that is on the middle towards beginning of the spectrum. Meredith is wearing a short skirt which gets Firmon’s unwanted attention. She is also aware of the fact that she has been called “mistress” by the ship crews. After setting the trap for the plant eating animals, Meredith complements Halden for his primitiveness and calls their love barbaric, but Halden takes it a different way. He is indeed primitive in comparison to Meredith, but he clearly does not like the sound of it. He is of the lower level, she is a step up for him. In strong constrast to Taphetta’s belief of all humans are the same disregarding where they are on the spectrum, Meredith thinks that this spectrum weights more than the amount of love between Meredith and Halden. They seem to have known this all along. Halden never asks Meredith if she wanted to marry him, nor will Meredith say yes to that. Halden doesn’t like to be thought of the lower level human, but to his surprise, Halden later realizes that he also prefers a higher level children.

<s> BIG ANCESTOR By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it! In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on apackage. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked underhis wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neckwas flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, onlyhis head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen longthough narrower ribbons. Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly goodimitation of speech. Yes, I've heard the legend. It's more than a legend, said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction wasnot unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenientspeculation and nothing more. There are at least a hundred kinds ofhumans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as manywidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout theages before space travel— and yet each planetary race can interbreedwith a minimum of ten others ! That's more than a legend—one hell of alot more! It is impressive, admitted Taphetta. But I find it mildlydistasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to myspecies. That's because you're unique, said Halden. Outside of your ownworld, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, andthat's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the soleexception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it'saccidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of humandevelopment. Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around thebeginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though onEmmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There'sa corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able tobreed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile withMeredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility mayextend to Kelburn. <doc-sep>Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years. You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had. But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way. And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification. Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn. Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and only the human race. I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself. It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin. Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden. Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men. We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you. The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested. <doc-sep>Kelburn went to the projector. It would be easier if we knew all thestars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portionof it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past. He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. We'relooking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it istoday and here are the human systems. He pressed another control and,for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. The whole MilkyWay is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remaintogether, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when wecalculate the positions of stars in the past. Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stoppedthe motion. Two hundred thousand years ago, he said. There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairlyequal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn'tclose, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed. Taphetta rustled. The math is accurate? As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem. And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor? To the best of our knowledge, said Kelburn. And whereas there arehumans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always matewith those they were adjacent to two hundred thousand years ago ! The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. Is that the only era thatsatisfies the calculations? Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get somethingthat might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover arepresentative section of territory, said Kelburn. However, we haveother ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no othermammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got thetime right. Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. And you think that where the twoends of the curve cross is your original home? We think so, said Kelburn. We've narrowed it down to several cubiclight-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were afast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of ourexploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding itthis trip. It seems I must decide quickly. The Ribboneer glanced out thevisionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.Do you mind if I ask other questions? Go ahead, Kelburn invited sardonically. But if it's not math, you'dbetter ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition. Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburnwas the most advanced human type present, but while there weredifferences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn'tas great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained inthe fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher orlower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. Andthere was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions andthis was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated somerespect. The Ribboneer shifted his attention. Aside from the sudden illness ofyour pilot, why did you ask for me? We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't givehim. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's fourmonths to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and toldus that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. Wehave men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the regionwe're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer tohave an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigationalability. Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. I had otherplans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergencysuch as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what arethe incentives? Sam Halden coughed. The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied theRibboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a percent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of theprofits from any discoveries we may make. I'm complimented that you like our contract so well, said Taphetta,but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,you'll take my contract. I came prepared. He extended a tightly boundroll that he had kept somewhere on his person. They glanced at one another as Halden took it. You can read it if you want, offered Taphetta. But it will takeyou all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid thatI'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearlyeverywhere in this sector—places men have never been. There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, theintegrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed. Good. Taphetta crinkled. Send it to the ship; they'll forward itfor me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me. He rubbed hisribbons together. Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine theregion toward which we're heading. <doc-sep>Firmon of hydroponics slouched in, a tall man with scanty hair andan equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking hiseyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in themating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet hadbeen inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware ofhis place in the human hierarchy. Disdainfully, Meredith adjusted a skirt that, a few inches shorter,wouldn't have been a skirt at all, revealing, while doing so, just howlong and beautiful a woman's legs could be. Her people had never givenmuch thought to physical modesty and, with legs like that, it was easyto see why. Muttering something about primitive women, Firmon turned to thebiologist. The pilot doesn't like our air. Then change it to suit him. He's in charge of the ship and knows moreabout these things than I do. More than a man? Firmon leered at Meredith and, when she failedto smile, added plaintively, I did try to change it, but he stillcomplains. <doc-sep>Halden took a deep breath. Seems all right to me. To everybody else, too, but the tapeworm hasn't got lungs. He breathesthrough a million tubes scattered over his body. It would do no good to explain that Taphetta wasn't a worm, that hisevolution had taken a different course, but that he was in no senseless complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higherhumans hadn't developed as much as lower races and actually weren'tprepared for the multitude of life-forms they'd meet in space. Firmon'sreaction was quite typical. If he asks for cleaner air, it's because his system needs it, saidHalden. Do anything you can to give it to him. Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could dosomething about it. Hydroponics is your job. There's nothing I can do. Halden pausedthoughtfully. Is there something wrong with the plants? In a way, I guess, and yet not really. What is it, some kind of toxic condition? The plants are healthy enough, but something's chewing them down asfast as they grow. Insects? There shouldn't be any, but if there are, we've got sprays.Use them. It's an animal, said Firmon. We tried poison and got a few, but nowthey won't touch the stuff. I had electronics rig up some traps. Theanimals seem to know what they are and we've never caught one thatway. Halden glowered at the man. How long has this been going on? About three months. It's not bad; we can keep up with them. It was probably nothing to become alarmed at, but an animal on the shipwas a nuisance, doubly so because of their pilot. Tell me what you know about it, said Halden. They're little things. Firmon held out his hands to show how small.I don't know how they got on, but once they did, there were plenty ofplaces to hide. He looked up defensively. This is an old ship withnew equipment and they hide under the machinery. There's nothing we cando except rebuild the ship from the hull inward. Firmon was right. The new equipment had been installed in any placejust to get it in and now there were inaccessible corners and creviceseverywhere that couldn't be closed off without rebuilding. They couldn't set up a continuous watch and shoot the animals downbecause there weren't that many men to spare. Besides, the use ofweapons in hydroponics would cause more damage to the thing they weretrying to protect than to the pest. He'd have to devise other ways. Sam Halden got up. I'll take a look and see what I can do. I'll come along and help, said Meredith, untwining her legs andleaning against him. Your mistress ought to have some sort ofprivileges. Halden started. So she knew that the crew was calling her that!Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn'tsaid it. It didn't help the situation at all. <doc-sep>Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body,he wouldn't have fitted. Maybe it wasn't sitting, but his flat legswere folded neatly around the arms and his head rested comfortably onthe seat. The head ribbons, which were his hands and voice, were neverquite still. He looked from Halden to Emmer and back again. The hydroponics techtells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it. Halden shrugged. We've got to have better air. It might work. Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it! Neither do we. The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. What kind of creatures are they? I have a description, though I've never seen one. It's a smallfour-legged animal with two antennae at the lower base of its skull. Atypical pest. Taphetta rustled. Have you found out how it got on? It was probably brought in with the supplies, said the biologist.Considering how far we've come, it may have been any one of a halfa dozen planets. Anyway, it hid, and since most of the places it hadaccess to were near the outer hull, it got an extra dose of hardradiation, or it may have nested near the atomic engines; both arepossibilities. Either way, it mutated, became a different animal. It'sdeveloped a tolerance for the poisons we spray on plants. Other thingsit detects and avoids, even electronic traps. Then you believe it changed mentally as well as physically, that it'ssmarter? I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to beso hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait'sstrong enough. That's what I don't like, said Taphetta, curling. Let me think itover while I ask questions. He turned to Emmer. I'm curious abouthumans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypotheticalancestor? Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, butnonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised astubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggyhands through shaggier hair. I can speak with some authority, he rumbled. I was born on a worldwith the most extensive relics. As a child, I played in the ruins oftheir camp. I don't question your authority, crinkled Taphetta. To me, allhumans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If youare an archeologist, that's enough for me. He paused and flicked hisspeech ribbons. Camp, did you say? <doc-sep>Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. You've never seen any pictures?Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, andwe'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my worldwas one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughingit, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-storystructures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways wereforty feet high. Very large, agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he wasimpressed. What did you find in the ruins? Nothing, said Emmer. There were buildings there and that was all,not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covereda route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than fivethousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of. A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life, mused Taphetta.But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why? Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different fromours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do knowthey were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, becausethey visited so many of that type, yet different from it because theynever stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big andlong-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planetthey needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendouslyadvanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germplasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of usdid. This special planet sounds strange, murmured Taphetta. Not really, said Emmer. Fifty human races reached space travelindependently and those who did were scattered equally among early andlate species. It's well known that individuals among my people areoften as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole wedon't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're asadvanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in theplanets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is. What happened to those who didn't develop space travel? askedTaphetta. We helped them, said Emmer. And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically lateor early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold ofatomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thingfor non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actuallyaggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselvesaloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, itwas tacitly assumed, such a destiny? <doc-sep>Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor? It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from. Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity. Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span. No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries. Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years. But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else? Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They were master biologists. I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest. He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal. To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this: My terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race. Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes. He hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared. That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now. <doc-sep>Why do we have to watch it on the screen? asked Meredith, glancingup. I'd rather be in hydroponics. Halden shrugged. They may or may not be smarter than planetboundanimals, but they're warier. They don't come out when anyone's near. Lights dimmed in the distant hydroponic section and the screen withit, until he adjusted the infra-red frequencies. He motioned to thetwo crew members, each with his own peculiar screen, below which was aminiature keyboard. Ready? When they nodded, Halden said: Do as you've rehearsed. Keep noise ata minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate themexactly. At first, nothing happened on the big screen, and then a gray shapecrept out. It slid through leaves, listened intently before comingforward. It jumped off one hydroponic section and fled across the openfloor to the next. It paused, eyes glittering and antennae twitching. Looking around once, it leaped up, seizing the ledge and clawing up theside of the tank. Standing on top and rising to its haunches, it begannibbling what it could reach. Suddenly it whirled. Behind it and hitherto unnoticed was anothershape, like it but larger. The newcomer inched forward. The small oneretreated, skittering nervously. Without warning, the big one leapedand the small one tried to flee. In a few jumps, the big one caught upand mauled the other unmercifully. It continued to bite even after the little one lay still. At last itbacked off and waited, watching for signs of motion. There was none.Then it turned to the plant. When it had chewed off everything withinreach, it climbed into the branches. The little one twitched, moved a leg, and cautiously began draggingitself away. It rolled off the raised section and surprisingly made nonoise as it fell. It seemed to revive, shaking itself and scurryingaway, still within range of the screen. Against the wall was a small platform. The little one climbed on topand there found something that seemed to interest it. It sniffedaround and reached and felt the discovery. Wounds were forgotten asit snatched up the object and frisked back to the scene of its recentdefeat. This time it had no trouble with the raised section. It leaped andlanded on top and made considerable noise in doing so. The big animalheard and twisted around. It saw and clambered down hastily, jumpingthe last few feet. Squealing, it hit the floor and charged. The small one stood still till the last instant—and then a pawflickered out and an inch-long knife blade plunged into the throat ofthe charging creature. Red spurted out as the bigger beast screamed.The knife flashed in and out until the big animal collapsed and stoppedmoving. The small creature removed the knife and wiped it on the pelt of itsfoe. Then it scampered back to the platform on which the knife had beenfound— and laid it down . <doc-sep>At Halden's signal, the lights flared up and the screen became toobright for anything to be visible. Go in and get them, said Halden. We don't want the pests to find outthat the bodies aren't flesh. It was realistic enough, said Meredith as the crewmen shut off theirmachines and went out. Do you think it will work? It might. We had an audience. Did we? I didn't notice. Meredith leaned back. Were the puppetsexactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled? The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don'thave to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough,they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it. What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by acreature without real hands? That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—andthey'll never get away from the trap to try. Very good. I never thought of that, said Meredith, coming closer. Ilike the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think ofmarrying you. Primitive, he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knewthat, in relation to her, he was not advanced. It's almost a curse, isn't it? She laughed and took the curse away byleaning provocatively against him. But barbaric lovers are often nice. Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. Toher, I'm merely a passionate savage. They went to his cabin. She sat down, smiling. Was she pretty? Maybe. For her own race, shewasn't tall, only by Terran standards. Her legs were disproportionatelylong and well shaped and her face was somewhat bland and featureless,except for a thin, straight, short nose. It was her eyes that madethe difference, he decided. A notch or two up the scale of visualdevelopment, her eyes were larger and she could see an extra color onthe violet end of the spectrum. She settled back and looked at him. It might be fun living with you onprimeval Earth. He said nothing; she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced asher own world. She had something else in mind. I don't think I will, though. We might have children. Would it be wrong? he asked. I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn'thave subhuman monsters. It would be a step up—for you. Under her calm, there was tension.It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to thesurface now. Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I makethem start lower than I am? The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another,it governed personal relations between races that were united againstnon-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves. I haven't asked you to marry me, he said bluntly. Because you're afraid I'd refuse. It was true; no one asked a member of a higher race to enter apermanent union. Why did you ever have anything to do with me? demanded Halden. Love, she said gloomily. Physical attraction. But I can't let itlead me astray. Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientificabout it, he'd give you children of the higher type. Kelburn. It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. I don'tlike him and he wouldn't marry me. He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough.There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive. <doc-sep>She provocatively arched her back. Not even the women of Kelburn's racehad a body like hers and she knew it. Racially, there should be a chance, she said. Actually, Kelburn andI would be infertile. Can you be sure? he asked, knowing it was a poor attempt to actunconcerned. How can anyone be sure on a theoretical basis? she asked, an obliquesmile narrowing her eyes. I know we can't. His face felt anesthetized. Did you have to tell me that? She got up and came to him. She nuzzled against him and his reactionwas purely reflexive. His hand swung out and he could feel the fleshgive when his knuckles struck it. She fell back and dazedly covered her face with her hand. When she tookit away, blood spurted. She groped toward the mirror and stood in frontof it. She wiped the blood off, examining her features carefully. You've broken my nose, she said factually. I'll have to stop theblood and pain. She pushed her nose back into place and waggled it to make sure. Sheclosed her eyes and stood silent and motionless. Then she stepped backand looked at herself critically. It's set and partially knitted. I'll concentrate tonight and have ithealed by morning. She felt in the cabinet and attached an invisible strip firmly acrossthe bridge. Then she came over to him. I wondered what you'd do. You didn't disappoint me. He scowled miserably at her. Her face was almost plain and the bandage,invisible or not, didn't improve her appearance any. How could he stillfeel that attraction to her? Try Emmer, he suggested tiredly. He'll find you irresistible, andhe's even more savage than I am. Is he? She smiled enigmatically. Maybe, in a biological sense. Toomuch, though. You're just right. He sat down on the bed. Again there was only one way of knowing whatEmmer would do—and she knew. She had no concept of love outside ofthe physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—whatadvantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that,nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with thehigher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet hewanted her. I do think I love you, she said. And if love's enough, I may marryyou in spite of everything. But you'll have to watch out whose childrenI have. She wriggled into his arms. The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was notcompletely her fault. Besides.... Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superiorchildren—and they might be his. He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Werethey all that way, every one of them, crawling upward out of the slimetoward the highest goal they could conceive of? Climbing over—no, through —everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward andupward. He raised his hand, but it was against himself that his angerwas turned. Careful of the nose, she said, pressing against him. You've alreadybroken it once. He kissed her with sudden passion that even he knew was primitive. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The goal of the expedition is to find their original home. There are many different species on the human development spectrum, and it is assumed that they can only mate with the species that are close to them on the spectrum according to the adjacency mating principle. Following this principle, careful calculations are done on the orbits of those planets. By determining their location in space at different times, the team are able to find a specific time in the whole universe that not only makes the specific pattern of a horse shoe, but also has supporting data backed up this hypothesis. Furthermore, if two imaginary lines extend from the ends of the horse shoe, the two lines will eventually meet and cross over at a specific location in space. The team are able to narrow the crossing point down to a few cubic light-years. According to the team, this space should be the place that their original home is. If they are to find the planet that the hypothetical unknown ancestors belongs to, they will be making cultural discoveries, technological advances, and finding out where they actually come from.

<s> BIG ANCESTOR By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it! In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on apackage. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked underhis wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neckwas flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, onlyhis head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen longthough narrower ribbons. Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly goodimitation of speech. Yes, I've heard the legend. It's more than a legend, said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction wasnot unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenientspeculation and nothing more. There are at least a hundred kinds ofhumans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as manywidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout theages before space travel— and yet each planetary race can interbreedwith a minimum of ten others ! That's more than a legend—one hell of alot more! It is impressive, admitted Taphetta. But I find it mildlydistasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to myspecies. That's because you're unique, said Halden. Outside of your ownworld, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, andthat's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the soleexception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it'saccidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of humandevelopment. Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around thebeginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though onEmmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There'sa corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able tobreed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile withMeredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility mayextend to Kelburn. <doc-sep>Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years. You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had. But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way. And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification. Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn. Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and only the human race. I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself. It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin. Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden. Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men. We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you. The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested. <doc-sep>Kelburn went to the projector. It would be easier if we knew all thestars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portionof it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past. He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. We'relooking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it istoday and here are the human systems. He pressed another control and,for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. The whole MilkyWay is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remaintogether, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when wecalculate the positions of stars in the past. Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stoppedthe motion. Two hundred thousand years ago, he said. There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairlyequal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn'tclose, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed. Taphetta rustled. The math is accurate? As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem. And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor? To the best of our knowledge, said Kelburn. And whereas there arehumans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always matewith those they were adjacent to two hundred thousand years ago ! The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. Is that the only era thatsatisfies the calculations? Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get somethingthat might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover arepresentative section of territory, said Kelburn. However, we haveother ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no othermammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got thetime right. Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. And you think that where the twoends of the curve cross is your original home? We think so, said Kelburn. We've narrowed it down to several cubiclight-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were afast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of ourexploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding itthis trip. It seems I must decide quickly. The Ribboneer glanced out thevisionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.Do you mind if I ask other questions? Go ahead, Kelburn invited sardonically. But if it's not math, you'dbetter ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition. Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburnwas the most advanced human type present, but while there weredifferences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn'tas great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained inthe fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher orlower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. Andthere was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions andthis was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated somerespect. The Ribboneer shifted his attention. Aside from the sudden illness ofyour pilot, why did you ask for me? We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't givehim. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's fourmonths to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and toldus that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. Wehave men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the regionwe're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer tohave an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigationalability. Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. I had otherplans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergencysuch as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what arethe incentives? Sam Halden coughed. The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied theRibboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a percent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of theprofits from any discoveries we may make. I'm complimented that you like our contract so well, said Taphetta,but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,you'll take my contract. I came prepared. He extended a tightly boundroll that he had kept somewhere on his person. They glanced at one another as Halden took it. You can read it if you want, offered Taphetta. But it will takeyou all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid thatI'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearlyeverywhere in this sector—places men have never been. There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, theintegrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed. Good. Taphetta crinkled. Send it to the ship; they'll forward itfor me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me. He rubbed hisribbons together. Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine theregion toward which we're heading. <doc-sep>Firmon of hydroponics slouched in, a tall man with scanty hair andan equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking hiseyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in themating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet hadbeen inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware ofhis place in the human hierarchy. Disdainfully, Meredith adjusted a skirt that, a few inches shorter,wouldn't have been a skirt at all, revealing, while doing so, just howlong and beautiful a woman's legs could be. Her people had never givenmuch thought to physical modesty and, with legs like that, it was easyto see why. Muttering something about primitive women, Firmon turned to thebiologist. The pilot doesn't like our air. Then change it to suit him. He's in charge of the ship and knows moreabout these things than I do. More than a man? Firmon leered at Meredith and, when she failedto smile, added plaintively, I did try to change it, but he stillcomplains. <doc-sep>Halden took a deep breath. Seems all right to me. To everybody else, too, but the tapeworm hasn't got lungs. He breathesthrough a million tubes scattered over his body. It would do no good to explain that Taphetta wasn't a worm, that hisevolution had taken a different course, but that he was in no senseless complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higherhumans hadn't developed as much as lower races and actually weren'tprepared for the multitude of life-forms they'd meet in space. Firmon'sreaction was quite typical. If he asks for cleaner air, it's because his system needs it, saidHalden. Do anything you can to give it to him. Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could dosomething about it. Hydroponics is your job. There's nothing I can do. Halden pausedthoughtfully. Is there something wrong with the plants? In a way, I guess, and yet not really. What is it, some kind of toxic condition? The plants are healthy enough, but something's chewing them down asfast as they grow. Insects? There shouldn't be any, but if there are, we've got sprays.Use them. It's an animal, said Firmon. We tried poison and got a few, but nowthey won't touch the stuff. I had electronics rig up some traps. Theanimals seem to know what they are and we've never caught one thatway. Halden glowered at the man. How long has this been going on? About three months. It's not bad; we can keep up with them. It was probably nothing to become alarmed at, but an animal on the shipwas a nuisance, doubly so because of their pilot. Tell me what you know about it, said Halden. They're little things. Firmon held out his hands to show how small.I don't know how they got on, but once they did, there were plenty ofplaces to hide. He looked up defensively. This is an old ship withnew equipment and they hide under the machinery. There's nothing we cando except rebuild the ship from the hull inward. Firmon was right. The new equipment had been installed in any placejust to get it in and now there were inaccessible corners and creviceseverywhere that couldn't be closed off without rebuilding. They couldn't set up a continuous watch and shoot the animals downbecause there weren't that many men to spare. Besides, the use ofweapons in hydroponics would cause more damage to the thing they weretrying to protect than to the pest. He'd have to devise other ways. Sam Halden got up. I'll take a look and see what I can do. I'll come along and help, said Meredith, untwining her legs andleaning against him. Your mistress ought to have some sort ofprivileges. Halden started. So she knew that the crew was calling her that!Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn'tsaid it. It didn't help the situation at all. <doc-sep>Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body,he wouldn't have fitted. Maybe it wasn't sitting, but his flat legswere folded neatly around the arms and his head rested comfortably onthe seat. The head ribbons, which were his hands and voice, were neverquite still. He looked from Halden to Emmer and back again. The hydroponics techtells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it. Halden shrugged. We've got to have better air. It might work. Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it! Neither do we. The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. What kind of creatures are they? I have a description, though I've never seen one. It's a smallfour-legged animal with two antennae at the lower base of its skull. Atypical pest. Taphetta rustled. Have you found out how it got on? It was probably brought in with the supplies, said the biologist.Considering how far we've come, it may have been any one of a halfa dozen planets. Anyway, it hid, and since most of the places it hadaccess to were near the outer hull, it got an extra dose of hardradiation, or it may have nested near the atomic engines; both arepossibilities. Either way, it mutated, became a different animal. It'sdeveloped a tolerance for the poisons we spray on plants. Other thingsit detects and avoids, even electronic traps. Then you believe it changed mentally as well as physically, that it'ssmarter? I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to beso hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait'sstrong enough. That's what I don't like, said Taphetta, curling. Let me think itover while I ask questions. He turned to Emmer. I'm curious abouthumans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypotheticalancestor? Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, butnonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised astubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggyhands through shaggier hair. I can speak with some authority, he rumbled. I was born on a worldwith the most extensive relics. As a child, I played in the ruins oftheir camp. I don't question your authority, crinkled Taphetta. To me, allhumans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If youare an archeologist, that's enough for me. He paused and flicked hisspeech ribbons. Camp, did you say? <doc-sep>Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. You've never seen any pictures?Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, andwe'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my worldwas one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughingit, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-storystructures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways wereforty feet high. Very large, agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he wasimpressed. What did you find in the ruins? Nothing, said Emmer. There were buildings there and that was all,not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covereda route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than fivethousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of. A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life, mused Taphetta.But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why? Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different fromours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do knowthey were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, becausethey visited so many of that type, yet different from it because theynever stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big andlong-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planetthey needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendouslyadvanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germplasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of usdid. This special planet sounds strange, murmured Taphetta. Not really, said Emmer. Fifty human races reached space travelindependently and those who did were scattered equally among early andlate species. It's well known that individuals among my people areoften as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole wedon't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're asadvanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in theplanets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is. What happened to those who didn't develop space travel? askedTaphetta. We helped them, said Emmer. And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically lateor early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold ofatomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thingfor non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actuallyaggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselvesaloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, itwas tacitly assumed, such a destiny? <doc-sep>Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor? It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from. Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity. Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span. No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries. Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years. But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else? Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They were master biologists. I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest. He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal. To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this: My terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race. Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes. He hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared. That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now. <doc-sep>Why do we have to watch it on the screen? asked Meredith, glancingup. I'd rather be in hydroponics. Halden shrugged. They may or may not be smarter than planetboundanimals, but they're warier. They don't come out when anyone's near. Lights dimmed in the distant hydroponic section and the screen withit, until he adjusted the infra-red frequencies. He motioned to thetwo crew members, each with his own peculiar screen, below which was aminiature keyboard. Ready? When they nodded, Halden said: Do as you've rehearsed. Keep noise ata minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate themexactly. At first, nothing happened on the big screen, and then a gray shapecrept out. It slid through leaves, listened intently before comingforward. It jumped off one hydroponic section and fled across the openfloor to the next. It paused, eyes glittering and antennae twitching. Looking around once, it leaped up, seizing the ledge and clawing up theside of the tank. Standing on top and rising to its haunches, it begannibbling what it could reach. Suddenly it whirled. Behind it and hitherto unnoticed was anothershape, like it but larger. The newcomer inched forward. The small oneretreated, skittering nervously. Without warning, the big one leapedand the small one tried to flee. In a few jumps, the big one caught upand mauled the other unmercifully. It continued to bite even after the little one lay still. At last itbacked off and waited, watching for signs of motion. There was none.Then it turned to the plant. When it had chewed off everything withinreach, it climbed into the branches. The little one twitched, moved a leg, and cautiously began draggingitself away. It rolled off the raised section and surprisingly made nonoise as it fell. It seemed to revive, shaking itself and scurryingaway, still within range of the screen. Against the wall was a small platform. The little one climbed on topand there found something that seemed to interest it. It sniffedaround and reached and felt the discovery. Wounds were forgotten asit snatched up the object and frisked back to the scene of its recentdefeat. This time it had no trouble with the raised section. It leaped andlanded on top and made considerable noise in doing so. The big animalheard and twisted around. It saw and clambered down hastily, jumpingthe last few feet. Squealing, it hit the floor and charged. The small one stood still till the last instant—and then a pawflickered out and an inch-long knife blade plunged into the throat ofthe charging creature. Red spurted out as the bigger beast screamed.The knife flashed in and out until the big animal collapsed and stoppedmoving. The small creature removed the knife and wiped it on the pelt of itsfoe. Then it scampered back to the platform on which the knife had beenfound— and laid it down . <doc-sep>At Halden's signal, the lights flared up and the screen became toobright for anything to be visible. Go in and get them, said Halden. We don't want the pests to find outthat the bodies aren't flesh. It was realistic enough, said Meredith as the crewmen shut off theirmachines and went out. Do you think it will work? It might. We had an audience. Did we? I didn't notice. Meredith leaned back. Were the puppetsexactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled? The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don'thave to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough,they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it. What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by acreature without real hands? That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—andthey'll never get away from the trap to try. Very good. I never thought of that, said Meredith, coming closer. Ilike the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think ofmarrying you. Primitive, he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knewthat, in relation to her, he was not advanced. It's almost a curse, isn't it? She laughed and took the curse away byleaning provocatively against him. But barbaric lovers are often nice. Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. Toher, I'm merely a passionate savage. They went to his cabin. She sat down, smiling. Was she pretty? Maybe. For her own race, shewasn't tall, only by Terran standards. Her legs were disproportionatelylong and well shaped and her face was somewhat bland and featureless,except for a thin, straight, short nose. It was her eyes that madethe difference, he decided. A notch or two up the scale of visualdevelopment, her eyes were larger and she could see an extra color onthe violet end of the spectrum. She settled back and looked at him. It might be fun living with you onprimeval Earth. He said nothing; she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced asher own world. She had something else in mind. I don't think I will, though. We might have children. Would it be wrong? he asked. I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn'thave subhuman monsters. It would be a step up—for you. Under her calm, there was tension.It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to thesurface now. Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I makethem start lower than I am? The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another,it governed personal relations between races that were united againstnon-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves. I haven't asked you to marry me, he said bluntly. Because you're afraid I'd refuse. It was true; no one asked a member of a higher race to enter apermanent union. Why did you ever have anything to do with me? demanded Halden. Love, she said gloomily. Physical attraction. But I can't let itlead me astray. Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientificabout it, he'd give you children of the higher type. Kelburn. It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. I don'tlike him and he wouldn't marry me. He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough.There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive. <doc-sep>She provocatively arched her back. Not even the women of Kelburn's racehad a body like hers and she knew it. Racially, there should be a chance, she said. Actually, Kelburn andI would be infertile. Can you be sure? he asked, knowing it was a poor attempt to actunconcerned. How can anyone be sure on a theoretical basis? she asked, an obliquesmile narrowing her eyes. I know we can't. His face felt anesthetized. Did you have to tell me that? She got up and came to him. She nuzzled against him and his reactionwas purely reflexive. His hand swung out and he could feel the fleshgive when his knuckles struck it. She fell back and dazedly covered her face with her hand. When she tookit away, blood spurted. She groped toward the mirror and stood in frontof it. She wiped the blood off, examining her features carefully. You've broken my nose, she said factually. I'll have to stop theblood and pain. She pushed her nose back into place and waggled it to make sure. Sheclosed her eyes and stood silent and motionless. Then she stepped backand looked at herself critically. It's set and partially knitted. I'll concentrate tonight and have ithealed by morning. She felt in the cabinet and attached an invisible strip firmly acrossthe bridge. Then she came over to him. I wondered what you'd do. You didn't disappoint me. He scowled miserably at her. Her face was almost plain and the bandage,invisible or not, didn't improve her appearance any. How could he stillfeel that attraction to her? Try Emmer, he suggested tiredly. He'll find you irresistible, andhe's even more savage than I am. Is he? She smiled enigmatically. Maybe, in a biological sense. Toomuch, though. You're just right. He sat down on the bed. Again there was only one way of knowing whatEmmer would do—and she knew. She had no concept of love outside ofthe physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—whatadvantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that,nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with thehigher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet hewanted her. I do think I love you, she said. And if love's enough, I may marryyou in spite of everything. But you'll have to watch out whose childrenI have. She wriggled into his arms. The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was notcompletely her fault. Besides.... Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superiorchildren—and they might be his. He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Werethey all that way, every one of them, crawling upward out of the slimetoward the highest goal they could conceive of? Climbing over—no, through —everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward andupward. He raised his hand, but it was against himself that his angerwas turned. Careful of the nose, she said, pressing against him. You've alreadybroken it once. He kissed her with sudden passion that even he knew was primitive. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story is set in a space ship of an expedition with the goal of finding human’s original home. The universe has many species of human beings at different development levels, and four of them are on board of the ship. They seem to believe that there is a planet of origin, where they evolved. They assume that later, they were brought from the original planet to the planets they now live on. There was another ship that passed the expedition ship, which allow the explorers to send their pilot home since he is sick. They learn that there is a Ribboneer on that ship. The Ribboneer is a pilot and has been to some expeditions. Thus, the team want to have him on board and be the pilot of their ship. Hence, they start to explain about their theories in trying to find out about human race and their origin. The Ribboneer is interested and decides to join the team. Later, they notice that the plants are being eaten by some animals. Thus they put on a show at the hydroponics to trick the animals. Later, we follow Halden and Meredith to Halden’s cabin where they have an argument over the level of development they have and Halden punches Meredith’s nose. Then, the story ends with the two of them in Halden’s room.

<s> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>Knof Llud, the Quest III's captain, came slowly down the narrowstair from the observatory, into the big rotunda that was now the mainrecreation room, where most of the people gathered. The great chamber,a full cross-section of the vessel, had been at first a fuel hold. Atthe voyage's beginning eighty per cent of the fifteen-hundred-footcylinder had been engines and fuel; but as the immense stores werespent and the holds became radioactively safe, the crew had spreadout from its original cramped quarters. Now the interstellar ship waslittle more than a hollow shell. Eyes lifted from the vision screens to interrogate Knof Llud; he metthem with an impassive countenance, and announced quietly, We'vesighted Earth. A feverish buzz arose; the captain gestured for silence and went on,It is still only a featureless disk to the telescope. Zost Relyul hasidentified it—no more. But this time the clamor was not to be settled. People pressed roundthe screens, peering into them as if with the naked eye they couldpick out the atom of reflected light that was Earth, home. They wrungeach other's hands, kissed, shouted, wept. For the present their fearswere forgotten and exaltation prevailed. Knof Llud smiled wryly. The rest of the little speech he had been aboutto make didn't matter anyway, and it might have spoiled this moment. He turned to go, and was halted by the sight of his wife, standing athis elbow. His wry smile took on warmth; he asked, How do you feel,Lesra? She drew an uncertain breath and released it in a faint sigh. I don'tknow. It's good that Earth's still there. She was thinking, he judgedshrewdly, of Knof Jr. and Delza, who save from pictures could notremember sunlit skies or grassy fields or woods in summer.... He said, with a touch of tolerant amusement, What did you think mighthave happened to Earth? After all, it's only been nine hundred years. That's just it, said Lesra shakily. Nine hundred years have goneby— there —and nothing will be the same. It won't be the same worldwe left, the world we knew and fitted in.... The captain put an arm round her with comforting pressure. Don'tworry. Things may have changed—but we'll manage. But his face hadhardened against registering the gnawing of that same doubtful fearwithin him. He let his arm fall. I'd better get up to the bridge.There's a new course to be set now—for Earth. He left her and began to climb the stairway again. Someone switchedoff the lights, and a charmed whisper ran through the big room as thepeople saw each other's faces by the pale golden light of Earth's ownSun, mirrored and multiplied by the screens. In that light Lesra's eyesgleamed with unshed tears. Captain Llud found Navigator Gwar Den looking as smug as the catthat ate the canary. Gwar Den was finding that the actual observedpositions of the planets thus far located agreed quite closely withhis extrapolations from long unused charts of the Solar System. He hadalready set up on the calculator a course that would carry them toEarth. Llud nodded curt approval, remarking, Probably we'll be interceptedbefore we get that far. Den was jolted out of his happy abstraction. Uh, Captain, he saidhesitantly. What kind of a reception do you suppose we'll get? Llud shook his head slowly. Who knows? We don't know whether anyof the other Quests returned successful, or if they returned atall. And we don't know what changes have taken place on Earth. It'spossible—not likely, though—that something has happened to breakcivilization's continuity to the point where our expedition has beenforgotten altogether. <doc-sep>He turned away grim-lipped and left the bridge. From his privateoffice-cabin, he sent a message to Chief Astronomer Zost Relyul tonotify him as soon as Earth's surface features became clear; then hesat idle, alone with his thoughts. The ship's automatic mechanisms had scant need of tending; Knof Lludfound himself wishing that he could find some back-breaking task foreveryone on board, himself included, to fill up the hours that remained. There was an extensive and well-chosen film library in the cabin, buthe couldn't persuade himself to kill time that way. He could go downand watch the screens, or to the family apartment where he might findLesra and the children—but somehow he didn't want to do that either. He felt empty, drained—like his ship. As the Quest III's fuel storesand the hope of success in man's mightiest venture had dwindled, so thestrength had gone out of him. Now the last fuel compartment was almostempty and Captain Knof Llud felt tired and old. Perhaps, he thought, he was feeling the weight of his nine hundredEarth years—though physically he was only forty now, ten years olderthan when the voyage had begun. That was the foreshortening along thetime axis of a space ship approaching the speed of light. Weeks andmonths had passed for the Quest III in interstellar flight whileyears and decades had raced by on the home world. Bemusedly Llud got to his feet and stood surveying a cabinet withbuilt-in voice recorder and pigeonholes for records. There were aboutthree dozen film spools there—his personal memoirs of the greatexpedition, a segment of his life and of history. He might add that tothe ship's official log and its collections of scientific data, as areport to whatever powers might be on Earth now—if such powers werestill interested. Llud selected a spool from among the earliest. It was one he had madeshortly after leaving Procyon, end of the first leg of the trip. Heslid it onto the reproducer. His own voice came from the speaker, fresher, more vibrant andconfident than he knew it was now. One light-day out from Procyon, the thirty-third day by ship's timesince leaving Earth. Our visit to Procyon drew a blank. There is only one huge planet, twicethe size of Jupiter, and like Jupiter utterly unfit to support a colony. Our hopes were dashed—and I think all of us, even remembering theCentaurus Expedition's failure, hoped more than we cared to admit. IfProcyon had possessed a habitable planet, we could have returned afteran absence of not much over twenty years Earth time. It is cheering to note that the crew seems only more resolute. We goon to Capella; its spectrum, so like our own Sun's, beckons. If successcomes there, a century will have passed before we can return to Earth;friends, relatives, all the generation that launched the Quest shipswill be long since dead. Nevertheless we go on. Our generation's dream,humanity's dream, lives in us and in the ship forever.... Presently Knof Llud switched off that younger voice of his and leanedback, an ironic smile touching his lips. That fervent idealism seemedremote and foreign to him now. The fanfares of departure must stillhave been ringing in his ears. He rose, slipped the record back in its niche and picked out another,later, one. One week since we passed close enough to Aldebaran to ascertain thatthat system, too, is devoid of planets. We face the unpleasant realization that what was feared is probablytrue—that worlds such as the Sun's are a rare accident, and that wemay complete our search without finding even one new Earth. It makes no difference, of course; we cannot betray the plan....This may be man's last chance of escaping his pitiful limitation toone world in all the Universe. Certainly the building of this shipand its two sisters, the immense expenditure of time and labor andenergy stores that went into them, left Earth's economy drained andexhausted. Only once in a long age does mankind rise to such a selflessand transcendent effort—the effort of Egypt that built the pyramids,or the war efforts of the nations in the last great conflicts of thetwentieth century. Looked at historically, such super-human outbursts of energy arethe result of a population's outgrowing its room and resources, andtherefore signalize the beginning of the end. Population can belimited, but the price is a deadly frustration, because growth alone islife.... In our day the end of man's room for growth on the Earth wasin sight—so we launched the Quests . Perhaps our effort will prove asfutile as pyramid-building, less practical than orgies of slaughter toreduce pressure.... In any case, it would be impossible to transportvery many people to other stars; but Earth could at least go intoits decline with the knowledge that its race went onward and upward,expanding limitlessly into the Universe.... Hopeless, unless we find planets! <doc-sep>Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments. He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging.... We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula. According to plan, the Quest III has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready. But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way. On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away.... Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the Quest III couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory. That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other Quests , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation. Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there? Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away.... It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship. Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing. The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English.... ... for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. <doc-sep>Llud sighed. He still couldn't say just why he had given the order toturn back. The stars had claimed his heart—but he was still a part ofEarth, and not even nine hundred years of space and time had been ableto alter that. He wondered if there would still be a quiet stream and a greenshady place beside it where a death-weary man, relieved at last ofresponsibility, could rest and dream no more.... Those things wenton, if men didn't change them. And a pine forest where he and youngKnof could go camping, and lie on their backs at night and gaze at theglittering constellations, far away, out of reach.... He wasn't sure hewould want to do that, though. Suddenly a faint cushioned jar went through the great ship; it seemedto falter one moment in flight. <doc-sep>The captain was on his feet instantly, but then his movements becameunhurried. Whatever it had been was past, and he had a good ideawhat it had been—a meteoroid, nothing unusual in the vicinity ofthe Sun, though in interstellar space and around planetless starssuch collisions were rare to the vanishing point. No harm could havebeen done. The Quest III's collision armor was nonmaterial and forpractical purposes invulnerable. Just as he took his finger off the button that opened the door, theintercommunication phone shrilled imperatively. Knof Llud wheeled,frowning—surely a meteoroid impact wasn't that serious. Coincidence,maybe—it might be Zost Relyul calling as instructed. He reached the phone at the moment when another, heavier jolt shookthe vessel. Llud snatched up the receiver with the speed of a scaldedcat. Captain? It was Gwar Den's voice, stammering a little. Captain,we're being attacked! Sound the alarm. Emergency stations. He had said it automatically,then felt a curious detached relief at the knowledge that after allthese years he could still respond quickly and smoothly to a crisis.There was a moment's silence, and he heard the alarm start—threeshort buzzes and repeat, ringing through all the great length of theinterstellar ship. Knowing that Gwar Den was still there, he said,Now—attacked by what? Ships, said Gwar Den helplessly. Five of them so far. No, there's asixth now. Repeated blows quivered the Quest III's framework. Thenavigator said, obviously striving for calm, They're light craft, notfifty feet long, but they move fast. The detectors hardly had time toshow them before they opened up. Can't get a telescope beam on themlong enough to tell much. If they're that small, said Knof Llud deliberately, they can't carryanything heavy enough to hurt us. Hold to course. I'll be right up. In the open doorway he almost fell over his son. Young Knof's eyes werebig; he had heard his father's words. Something's happened, he judged with deadly twelve-year-oldseriousness and, without wasting time on questions, Can I go with you,huh, Dad? Llud hesitated, said, All right. Come along and keep out of the way.He headed for the bridge with strides that the boy could not match. There were people running in the corridors, heading for their posts.Their faces were set, scared, uncomprehending. The Quest III shuddered, again and again, under blows that must have had millionsof horsepower behind them; but it plunged on toward Earth, its mightyengines still steadily braking its interstellar velocity. To a man, the ship's responsible officers were already on the bridge,most of them breathless. To a man they looked appeal at Captain KnofLlud. Well? he snapped. What are they doing? Gwar Den spoke. There are thirteen of them out there now, sir, andthey're all banging away at us. The captain stared into the black star-strewn depths of a vision screenwhere occasional blue points of light winked ominously, never twicefrom the same position. Knof Jr. flattened himself against the metal wall and watched silently.His young face was less anxious than his elders'; he had confidence inhis father. If they had anything heavier, surmised the captain, they'd haveunlimbered it by now. They're out to get us. But at this rate, theycan't touch us as long as our power lasts—or until they bring up somebigger stuff. <doc-sep>The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe Quest III's shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist. But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible. The people in the Quest III would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation. One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth— That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there. The Quest III bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart. Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the Quest III's bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit. He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the Quest III ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting. Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other Quests might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer. <doc-sep>It became evident, too, that the bombardment was being kept up by aconstant arrival of fresh attackers, while others raced away intospace, presumably returning to base to replenish their ammunition. Thatargued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behindit. Elsuz Llug, the gravitic engineer, calculated dismally, At the ratewe're having to shed energy, the fuel will be gone in six or eighthours. We'll have reached Earth before then, Gwar Den said hopefully. If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first. We're under the psychological disadvantage, said the captain, of notknowing why we're being attacked. Knof Jr. burst out, spluttering slightly with the violence of athought too important to suppress, But we're under a ps-psychologicaladvantage, too! His father raised an eyebrow. What's that? I don't seem to havenoticed it. They're mad and we aren't, yet, said the boy. Then, seeing that hehadn't made himself clear, In a fight, if a guy gets mad he startsswinging wild and then you nail him. Smiles splintered the ice of tension. Captain Llud said, Maybe you'vegot something there. They seem to be mad, all right. But we're not ina position to throw any punches. He turned back to the others. As Iwas going to say—I think we'd better try to parley with the enemy. Atleast we may find out who he is and why he's determined to smash us. And now instead of tight-beam detectors the ship was broadcasting on anaudio carrier wave that shifted through a wide range of frequencies,repeating on each the same brief recorded message: Who are you? What do you want? We are the interstellar expedition Quest III .... And so on, identifying themselves and protesting thatthey were unarmed and peaceful, that there must be some mistake, andquerying again, Who are you ? There was no answer. The ship drove on, its fuel trickling away undermultiplied demands. Those outside were squandering vastly greateramounts of energy in the effort to batter down its defenses, butconverting that energy into harmless gravitic impulses was costing the Quest III too. Once more Knof Llud had the insidious sense of his ownnerves and muscles and will weakening along with the power-sinews ofhis ship. Zost Relyul approached him apologetically. If you have time,Captain—I've got some data on Earth now. Eagerly Llud took the sheaf of photographs made with the telescope. Butthey told him nothing; only the continental outlines were clear, andthose were as they had been nine hundred years ago.... He looked upinquiringly at Zost Relyul. There are some strange features, said the astronomer carefully.First of all—there are no lights on the night side. And on thedaylight face, our highest magnification should already reveal tracesof cities, canals, and the like—but it does not. The prevailing color of the land masses, you see, is the normalgreen vegetation. But the diffraction spectrum is queer. It indicatesreflecting surfaces less than one-tenth millimeter wide—so thevegetation there can't be trees or grass, but must be more like a finemoss or even a coarse mold. Is that all? demanded Llud. Isn't it enough? said Zost Relyul blankly. Well—we triedphotography by invisible light, of course. The infra-red shows nothingand likewise the ultraviolet up to the point where the atmosphere isopaque to it. The captain sighed wearily. Good work, he said. Keep it up; perhapsyou can answer some of these riddles before— We know who you are , interrupted a harshly crackling voice with astrange accent, and pleading will do you no good. <doc-sep>Knof Llud whirled to the radio apparatus, his weariness dropping fromhim once more. He snapped, But who are you? and the words blendedabsurdly with the same words in his own voice on the still repeatingtape. He snapped off the record; as he did so the speaker, still cracklingwith space static, said, It may interest you to know that you are thelast. The two other interstellar expeditions that went out have alreadyreturned and been destroyed, as you will soon be—the sooner, if youcontinue toward Earth. Knof Llud's mind was clicking again. The voice—which must be comingfrom Earth, relayed by one of the midget ships—was not very smart; ithad already involuntarily told him a couple of things—that it was notas sure of itself as it sounded he deduced from the fact it had deignedto speak at all, and from its last remark he gathered that the QuestIII's ponderous and unswerving progress toward Earth had somehowfrightened it. So it was trying to frighten them. He shoved those facts back for future use. Just now he had to knowsomething, so vitally that he asked it as a bald question, Are youhuman? The voice chuckled sourly. We are human, it answered, but you arenot. The captain was momentarily silent, groping for an adequate reply.Behind him somebody made a choked noise, the only sound in the stunnedhush, and the ship jarred slightly as a thunderbolt slammed vengefullyinto its field. Suppose we settle this argument about humanity, said Knof Lludwoodenly. He named a vision frequency. Very well. The tone was like a shrug. The voice went on in itslanguage that was quite intelligible, but alien-sounding with thechanges that nine hundred years had wrought. Perhaps, if you realizeyour position, you will follow the intelligent example of the QuestI's commander. Knof Llud stiffened. The Quest I , launched toward Arcturus and thestar cloud called Berenice's Hair, had been after the Quest III themost hopeful of the expeditions—and its captain had been a good friendof Llud's, nine hundred years ago.... He growled, What happened tohim? He fought off our interceptors, which are around you now, for sometime, said the voice lightly. When he saw that it was hopeless, hepreferred suicide to defeat, and took his ship into the Sun. A shortpause. The vision connection is ready. Knof Llud switched on the screen at the named wavelength, and apicture formed there. The face and figure that appeared were ugly,but undeniably a man's. His features and his light-brown skin showedthe same racial characteristics possessed by those aboard the QuestIII , but he had an elusive look of deformity. Most obviously, his headseemed too big for his body, and his eyes in turn too big for his head. He grinned nastily at Knof Llud. Have you any other last wishes? Yes, said Llud with icy control. You haven't answered one question.Why do you want to kill us? You can see we're as human as you are. The big-headed man eyed him with a speculative look in his greateyes, behind which the captain glimpsed the flickering raw fire of apoisonous hatred. It is enough for you to know that you must die. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

A spaceship named Quest III is moving towards a color-changing star, but this time it is the Sun. The crew is excited, their journey is coming to its end and they are coming home. The captain says they have sighted Earth. Talking burst out happily, the captain's wife is anxious about nothing being the same after nine hundred years on Earth, while it was only ten for the crew in space. The course to Earth is set and the whole crew is filled with anticipation. The captain can't find how to kill time and delves into upsetting thoughts about the failure of the venture. The captain rewatches his record from the beginning of the voyage. It shows his hopes fading with every new planet proving unfit for settlement and the Earth years increasing rapidly and frighteningly. By then, the captain had an idea of going to Omega Centauri without returning to Earth, as this planet was more than forty thousand years away from Earth. The reasoning was that the captain didn't want to bring news of a failure to Earth, but eventually he decided to return no matter what. Back to reality, the captain starts thinking about his awaiting future on Earth, when a jar goes through the ship. Very soon the captain calms down, considering a meteoroid to be the reason, but a call informs him the ship is attacked by other ships. The captain rushes up joined by his son, the whole crew is panicking. The ship is not harmed though and still landing, as there is no other place for it to go. The attack seems well-planned and the crew broadcasts an audio wave, asking the attackers who they are and introducing themselves. There is no answer and Zost, a crew member, traces no lights or urban features on Earth, even no trees or grass are detected. Suddenly, a strange voice acknowledges that the other two ships were destroyed, and Quest III will be as well if it continues towards Earth. The captain learns out soon that the voice simply tries to frighten them and is not that confident, and is told that Quest I preferred suicide to defeat and went into the Sun. The vision connection happens and the man on the other side avoids the question why, proclaiming that the Quest III's crew must die.

<s> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>Knof Llud, the Quest III's captain, came slowly down the narrowstair from the observatory, into the big rotunda that was now the mainrecreation room, where most of the people gathered. The great chamber,a full cross-section of the vessel, had been at first a fuel hold. Atthe voyage's beginning eighty per cent of the fifteen-hundred-footcylinder had been engines and fuel; but as the immense stores werespent and the holds became radioactively safe, the crew had spreadout from its original cramped quarters. Now the interstellar ship waslittle more than a hollow shell. Eyes lifted from the vision screens to interrogate Knof Llud; he metthem with an impassive countenance, and announced quietly, We'vesighted Earth. A feverish buzz arose; the captain gestured for silence and went on,It is still only a featureless disk to the telescope. Zost Relyul hasidentified it—no more. But this time the clamor was not to be settled. People pressed roundthe screens, peering into them as if with the naked eye they couldpick out the atom of reflected light that was Earth, home. They wrungeach other's hands, kissed, shouted, wept. For the present their fearswere forgotten and exaltation prevailed. Knof Llud smiled wryly. The rest of the little speech he had been aboutto make didn't matter anyway, and it might have spoiled this moment. He turned to go, and was halted by the sight of his wife, standing athis elbow. His wry smile took on warmth; he asked, How do you feel,Lesra? She drew an uncertain breath and released it in a faint sigh. I don'tknow. It's good that Earth's still there. She was thinking, he judgedshrewdly, of Knof Jr. and Delza, who save from pictures could notremember sunlit skies or grassy fields or woods in summer.... He said, with a touch of tolerant amusement, What did you think mighthave happened to Earth? After all, it's only been nine hundred years. That's just it, said Lesra shakily. Nine hundred years have goneby— there —and nothing will be the same. It won't be the same worldwe left, the world we knew and fitted in.... The captain put an arm round her with comforting pressure. Don'tworry. Things may have changed—but we'll manage. But his face hadhardened against registering the gnawing of that same doubtful fearwithin him. He let his arm fall. I'd better get up to the bridge.There's a new course to be set now—for Earth. He left her and began to climb the stairway again. Someone switchedoff the lights, and a charmed whisper ran through the big room as thepeople saw each other's faces by the pale golden light of Earth's ownSun, mirrored and multiplied by the screens. In that light Lesra's eyesgleamed with unshed tears. Captain Llud found Navigator Gwar Den looking as smug as the catthat ate the canary. Gwar Den was finding that the actual observedpositions of the planets thus far located agreed quite closely withhis extrapolations from long unused charts of the Solar System. He hadalready set up on the calculator a course that would carry them toEarth. Llud nodded curt approval, remarking, Probably we'll be interceptedbefore we get that far. Den was jolted out of his happy abstraction. Uh, Captain, he saidhesitantly. What kind of a reception do you suppose we'll get? Llud shook his head slowly. Who knows? We don't know whether anyof the other Quests returned successful, or if they returned atall. And we don't know what changes have taken place on Earth. It'spossible—not likely, though—that something has happened to breakcivilization's continuity to the point where our expedition has beenforgotten altogether. <doc-sep>He turned away grim-lipped and left the bridge. From his privateoffice-cabin, he sent a message to Chief Astronomer Zost Relyul tonotify him as soon as Earth's surface features became clear; then hesat idle, alone with his thoughts. The ship's automatic mechanisms had scant need of tending; Knof Lludfound himself wishing that he could find some back-breaking task foreveryone on board, himself included, to fill up the hours that remained. There was an extensive and well-chosen film library in the cabin, buthe couldn't persuade himself to kill time that way. He could go downand watch the screens, or to the family apartment where he might findLesra and the children—but somehow he didn't want to do that either. He felt empty, drained—like his ship. As the Quest III's fuel storesand the hope of success in man's mightiest venture had dwindled, so thestrength had gone out of him. Now the last fuel compartment was almostempty and Captain Knof Llud felt tired and old. Perhaps, he thought, he was feeling the weight of his nine hundredEarth years—though physically he was only forty now, ten years olderthan when the voyage had begun. That was the foreshortening along thetime axis of a space ship approaching the speed of light. Weeks andmonths had passed for the Quest III in interstellar flight whileyears and decades had raced by on the home world. Bemusedly Llud got to his feet and stood surveying a cabinet withbuilt-in voice recorder and pigeonholes for records. There were aboutthree dozen film spools there—his personal memoirs of the greatexpedition, a segment of his life and of history. He might add that tothe ship's official log and its collections of scientific data, as areport to whatever powers might be on Earth now—if such powers werestill interested. Llud selected a spool from among the earliest. It was one he had madeshortly after leaving Procyon, end of the first leg of the trip. Heslid it onto the reproducer. His own voice came from the speaker, fresher, more vibrant andconfident than he knew it was now. One light-day out from Procyon, the thirty-third day by ship's timesince leaving Earth. Our visit to Procyon drew a blank. There is only one huge planet, twicethe size of Jupiter, and like Jupiter utterly unfit to support a colony. Our hopes were dashed—and I think all of us, even remembering theCentaurus Expedition's failure, hoped more than we cared to admit. IfProcyon had possessed a habitable planet, we could have returned afteran absence of not much over twenty years Earth time. It is cheering to note that the crew seems only more resolute. We goon to Capella; its spectrum, so like our own Sun's, beckons. If successcomes there, a century will have passed before we can return to Earth;friends, relatives, all the generation that launched the Quest shipswill be long since dead. Nevertheless we go on. Our generation's dream,humanity's dream, lives in us and in the ship forever.... Presently Knof Llud switched off that younger voice of his and leanedback, an ironic smile touching his lips. That fervent idealism seemedremote and foreign to him now. The fanfares of departure must stillhave been ringing in his ears. He rose, slipped the record back in its niche and picked out another,later, one. One week since we passed close enough to Aldebaran to ascertain thatthat system, too, is devoid of planets. We face the unpleasant realization that what was feared is probablytrue—that worlds such as the Sun's are a rare accident, and that wemay complete our search without finding even one new Earth. It makes no difference, of course; we cannot betray the plan....This may be man's last chance of escaping his pitiful limitation toone world in all the Universe. Certainly the building of this shipand its two sisters, the immense expenditure of time and labor andenergy stores that went into them, left Earth's economy drained andexhausted. Only once in a long age does mankind rise to such a selflessand transcendent effort—the effort of Egypt that built the pyramids,or the war efforts of the nations in the last great conflicts of thetwentieth century. Looked at historically, such super-human outbursts of energy arethe result of a population's outgrowing its room and resources, andtherefore signalize the beginning of the end. Population can belimited, but the price is a deadly frustration, because growth alone islife.... In our day the end of man's room for growth on the Earth wasin sight—so we launched the Quests . Perhaps our effort will prove asfutile as pyramid-building, less practical than orgies of slaughter toreduce pressure.... In any case, it would be impossible to transportvery many people to other stars; but Earth could at least go intoits decline with the knowledge that its race went onward and upward,expanding limitlessly into the Universe.... Hopeless, unless we find planets! <doc-sep>Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments. He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging.... We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula. According to plan, the Quest III has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready. But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way. On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away.... Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the Quest III couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory. That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other Quests , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation. Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there? Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away.... It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship. Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing. The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English.... ... for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. <doc-sep>Llud sighed. He still couldn't say just why he had given the order toturn back. The stars had claimed his heart—but he was still a part ofEarth, and not even nine hundred years of space and time had been ableto alter that. He wondered if there would still be a quiet stream and a greenshady place beside it where a death-weary man, relieved at last ofresponsibility, could rest and dream no more.... Those things wenton, if men didn't change them. And a pine forest where he and youngKnof could go camping, and lie on their backs at night and gaze at theglittering constellations, far away, out of reach.... He wasn't sure hewould want to do that, though. Suddenly a faint cushioned jar went through the great ship; it seemedto falter one moment in flight. <doc-sep>The captain was on his feet instantly, but then his movements becameunhurried. Whatever it had been was past, and he had a good ideawhat it had been—a meteoroid, nothing unusual in the vicinity ofthe Sun, though in interstellar space and around planetless starssuch collisions were rare to the vanishing point. No harm could havebeen done. The Quest III's collision armor was nonmaterial and forpractical purposes invulnerable. Just as he took his finger off the button that opened the door, theintercommunication phone shrilled imperatively. Knof Llud wheeled,frowning—surely a meteoroid impact wasn't that serious. Coincidence,maybe—it might be Zost Relyul calling as instructed. He reached the phone at the moment when another, heavier jolt shookthe vessel. Llud snatched up the receiver with the speed of a scaldedcat. Captain? It was Gwar Den's voice, stammering a little. Captain,we're being attacked! Sound the alarm. Emergency stations. He had said it automatically,then felt a curious detached relief at the knowledge that after allthese years he could still respond quickly and smoothly to a crisis.There was a moment's silence, and he heard the alarm start—threeshort buzzes and repeat, ringing through all the great length of theinterstellar ship. Knowing that Gwar Den was still there, he said,Now—attacked by what? Ships, said Gwar Den helplessly. Five of them so far. No, there's asixth now. Repeated blows quivered the Quest III's framework. Thenavigator said, obviously striving for calm, They're light craft, notfifty feet long, but they move fast. The detectors hardly had time toshow them before they opened up. Can't get a telescope beam on themlong enough to tell much. If they're that small, said Knof Llud deliberately, they can't carryanything heavy enough to hurt us. Hold to course. I'll be right up. In the open doorway he almost fell over his son. Young Knof's eyes werebig; he had heard his father's words. Something's happened, he judged with deadly twelve-year-oldseriousness and, without wasting time on questions, Can I go with you,huh, Dad? Llud hesitated, said, All right. Come along and keep out of the way.He headed for the bridge with strides that the boy could not match. There were people running in the corridors, heading for their posts.Their faces were set, scared, uncomprehending. The Quest III shuddered, again and again, under blows that must have had millionsof horsepower behind them; but it plunged on toward Earth, its mightyengines still steadily braking its interstellar velocity. To a man, the ship's responsible officers were already on the bridge,most of them breathless. To a man they looked appeal at Captain KnofLlud. Well? he snapped. What are they doing? Gwar Den spoke. There are thirteen of them out there now, sir, andthey're all banging away at us. The captain stared into the black star-strewn depths of a vision screenwhere occasional blue points of light winked ominously, never twicefrom the same position. Knof Jr. flattened himself against the metal wall and watched silently.His young face was less anxious than his elders'; he had confidence inhis father. If they had anything heavier, surmised the captain, they'd haveunlimbered it by now. They're out to get us. But at this rate, theycan't touch us as long as our power lasts—or until they bring up somebigger stuff. <doc-sep>The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe Quest III's shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist. But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible. The people in the Quest III would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation. One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth— That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there. The Quest III bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart. Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the Quest III's bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit. He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the Quest III ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting. Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other Quests might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer. <doc-sep>It became evident, too, that the bombardment was being kept up by aconstant arrival of fresh attackers, while others raced away intospace, presumably returning to base to replenish their ammunition. Thatargued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behindit. Elsuz Llug, the gravitic engineer, calculated dismally, At the ratewe're having to shed energy, the fuel will be gone in six or eighthours. We'll have reached Earth before then, Gwar Den said hopefully. If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first. We're under the psychological disadvantage, said the captain, of notknowing why we're being attacked. Knof Jr. burst out, spluttering slightly with the violence of athought too important to suppress, But we're under a ps-psychologicaladvantage, too! His father raised an eyebrow. What's that? I don't seem to havenoticed it. They're mad and we aren't, yet, said the boy. Then, seeing that hehadn't made himself clear, In a fight, if a guy gets mad he startsswinging wild and then you nail him. Smiles splintered the ice of tension. Captain Llud said, Maybe you'vegot something there. They seem to be mad, all right. But we're not ina position to throw any punches. He turned back to the others. As Iwas going to say—I think we'd better try to parley with the enemy. Atleast we may find out who he is and why he's determined to smash us. And now instead of tight-beam detectors the ship was broadcasting on anaudio carrier wave that shifted through a wide range of frequencies,repeating on each the same brief recorded message: Who are you? What do you want? We are the interstellar expedition Quest III .... And so on, identifying themselves and protesting thatthey were unarmed and peaceful, that there must be some mistake, andquerying again, Who are you ? There was no answer. The ship drove on, its fuel trickling away undermultiplied demands. Those outside were squandering vastly greateramounts of energy in the effort to batter down its defenses, butconverting that energy into harmless gravitic impulses was costing the Quest III too. Once more Knof Llud had the insidious sense of his ownnerves and muscles and will weakening along with the power-sinews ofhis ship. Zost Relyul approached him apologetically. If you have time,Captain—I've got some data on Earth now. Eagerly Llud took the sheaf of photographs made with the telescope. Butthey told him nothing; only the continental outlines were clear, andthose were as they had been nine hundred years ago.... He looked upinquiringly at Zost Relyul. There are some strange features, said the astronomer carefully.First of all—there are no lights on the night side. And on thedaylight face, our highest magnification should already reveal tracesof cities, canals, and the like—but it does not. The prevailing color of the land masses, you see, is the normalgreen vegetation. But the diffraction spectrum is queer. It indicatesreflecting surfaces less than one-tenth millimeter wide—so thevegetation there can't be trees or grass, but must be more like a finemoss or even a coarse mold. Is that all? demanded Llud. Isn't it enough? said Zost Relyul blankly. Well—we triedphotography by invisible light, of course. The infra-red shows nothingand likewise the ultraviolet up to the point where the atmosphere isopaque to it. The captain sighed wearily. Good work, he said. Keep it up; perhapsyou can answer some of these riddles before— We know who you are , interrupted a harshly crackling voice with astrange accent, and pleading will do you no good. <doc-sep>Knof Llud whirled to the radio apparatus, his weariness dropping fromhim once more. He snapped, But who are you? and the words blendedabsurdly with the same words in his own voice on the still repeatingtape. He snapped off the record; as he did so the speaker, still cracklingwith space static, said, It may interest you to know that you are thelast. The two other interstellar expeditions that went out have alreadyreturned and been destroyed, as you will soon be—the sooner, if youcontinue toward Earth. Knof Llud's mind was clicking again. The voice—which must be comingfrom Earth, relayed by one of the midget ships—was not very smart; ithad already involuntarily told him a couple of things—that it was notas sure of itself as it sounded he deduced from the fact it had deignedto speak at all, and from its last remark he gathered that the QuestIII's ponderous and unswerving progress toward Earth had somehowfrightened it. So it was trying to frighten them. He shoved those facts back for future use. Just now he had to knowsomething, so vitally that he asked it as a bald question, Are youhuman? The voice chuckled sourly. We are human, it answered, but you arenot. The captain was momentarily silent, groping for an adequate reply.Behind him somebody made a choked noise, the only sound in the stunnedhush, and the ship jarred slightly as a thunderbolt slammed vengefullyinto its field. Suppose we settle this argument about humanity, said Knof Lludwoodenly. He named a vision frequency. Very well. The tone was like a shrug. The voice went on in itslanguage that was quite intelligible, but alien-sounding with thechanges that nine hundred years had wrought. Perhaps, if you realizeyour position, you will follow the intelligent example of the QuestI's commander. Knof Llud stiffened. The Quest I , launched toward Arcturus and thestar cloud called Berenice's Hair, had been after the Quest III themost hopeful of the expeditions—and its captain had been a good friendof Llud's, nine hundred years ago.... He growled, What happened tohim? He fought off our interceptors, which are around you now, for sometime, said the voice lightly. When he saw that it was hopeless, hepreferred suicide to defeat, and took his ship into the Sun. A shortpause. The vision connection is ready. Knof Llud switched on the screen at the named wavelength, and apicture formed there. The face and figure that appeared were ugly,but undeniably a man's. His features and his light-brown skin showedthe same racial characteristics possessed by those aboard the QuestIII , but he had an elusive look of deformity. Most obviously, his headseemed too big for his body, and his eyes in turn too big for his head. He grinned nastily at Knof Llud. Have you any other last wishes? Yes, said Llud with icy control. You haven't answered one question.Why do you want to kill us? You can see we're as human as you are. The big-headed man eyed him with a speculative look in his greateyes, behind which the captain glimpsed the flickering raw fire of apoisonous hatred. It is enough for you to know that you must die. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The captain is very responsible concerning his position and keeps an impassive voice and appearance in relation to all events. To his wife though he shows warmth and care, and expresses confidence in Earth's stability, he calms down his wife. Nevertheless, he also feels uncertain about the reception on Earth. Space is the captain's passion, but Earth is still his home. He is nervous about returning and alone with himself doesn't know how to distract. He becomes nostalgic rewatching the records from the beginning of the voyage and feels empty and old. He used to be full of excitement and energy about the mission, but it failed, and at some point he didn't even want to return with the news of failure after centuries, when everything changed. Nevertheless, the decision was made and there is no other choice now. The trip has changed the captain and now he feels aged and tired. He wants to retire and live with his family on Earth, he becomes nostalgic of its forests and green places, but not sure he wants it either.

<s> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>Knof Llud, the Quest III's captain, came slowly down the narrowstair from the observatory, into the big rotunda that was now the mainrecreation room, where most of the people gathered. The great chamber,a full cross-section of the vessel, had been at first a fuel hold. Atthe voyage's beginning eighty per cent of the fifteen-hundred-footcylinder had been engines and fuel; but as the immense stores werespent and the holds became radioactively safe, the crew had spreadout from its original cramped quarters. Now the interstellar ship waslittle more than a hollow shell. Eyes lifted from the vision screens to interrogate Knof Llud; he metthem with an impassive countenance, and announced quietly, We'vesighted Earth. A feverish buzz arose; the captain gestured for silence and went on,It is still only a featureless disk to the telescope. Zost Relyul hasidentified it—no more. But this time the clamor was not to be settled. People pressed roundthe screens, peering into them as if with the naked eye they couldpick out the atom of reflected light that was Earth, home. They wrungeach other's hands, kissed, shouted, wept. For the present their fearswere forgotten and exaltation prevailed. Knof Llud smiled wryly. The rest of the little speech he had been aboutto make didn't matter anyway, and it might have spoiled this moment. He turned to go, and was halted by the sight of his wife, standing athis elbow. His wry smile took on warmth; he asked, How do you feel,Lesra? She drew an uncertain breath and released it in a faint sigh. I don'tknow. It's good that Earth's still there. She was thinking, he judgedshrewdly, of Knof Jr. and Delza, who save from pictures could notremember sunlit skies or grassy fields or woods in summer.... He said, with a touch of tolerant amusement, What did you think mighthave happened to Earth? After all, it's only been nine hundred years. That's just it, said Lesra shakily. Nine hundred years have goneby— there —and nothing will be the same. It won't be the same worldwe left, the world we knew and fitted in.... The captain put an arm round her with comforting pressure. Don'tworry. Things may have changed—but we'll manage. But his face hadhardened against registering the gnawing of that same doubtful fearwithin him. He let his arm fall. I'd better get up to the bridge.There's a new course to be set now—for Earth. He left her and began to climb the stairway again. Someone switchedoff the lights, and a charmed whisper ran through the big room as thepeople saw each other's faces by the pale golden light of Earth's ownSun, mirrored and multiplied by the screens. In that light Lesra's eyesgleamed with unshed tears. Captain Llud found Navigator Gwar Den looking as smug as the catthat ate the canary. Gwar Den was finding that the actual observedpositions of the planets thus far located agreed quite closely withhis extrapolations from long unused charts of the Solar System. He hadalready set up on the calculator a course that would carry them toEarth. Llud nodded curt approval, remarking, Probably we'll be interceptedbefore we get that far. Den was jolted out of his happy abstraction. Uh, Captain, he saidhesitantly. What kind of a reception do you suppose we'll get? Llud shook his head slowly. Who knows? We don't know whether anyof the other Quests returned successful, or if they returned atall. And we don't know what changes have taken place on Earth. It'spossible—not likely, though—that something has happened to breakcivilization's continuity to the point where our expedition has beenforgotten altogether. <doc-sep>He turned away grim-lipped and left the bridge. From his privateoffice-cabin, he sent a message to Chief Astronomer Zost Relyul tonotify him as soon as Earth's surface features became clear; then hesat idle, alone with his thoughts. The ship's automatic mechanisms had scant need of tending; Knof Lludfound himself wishing that he could find some back-breaking task foreveryone on board, himself included, to fill up the hours that remained. There was an extensive and well-chosen film library in the cabin, buthe couldn't persuade himself to kill time that way. He could go downand watch the screens, or to the family apartment where he might findLesra and the children—but somehow he didn't want to do that either. He felt empty, drained—like his ship. As the Quest III's fuel storesand the hope of success in man's mightiest venture had dwindled, so thestrength had gone out of him. Now the last fuel compartment was almostempty and Captain Knof Llud felt tired and old. Perhaps, he thought, he was feeling the weight of his nine hundredEarth years—though physically he was only forty now, ten years olderthan when the voyage had begun. That was the foreshortening along thetime axis of a space ship approaching the speed of light. Weeks andmonths had passed for the Quest III in interstellar flight whileyears and decades had raced by on the home world. Bemusedly Llud got to his feet and stood surveying a cabinet withbuilt-in voice recorder and pigeonholes for records. There were aboutthree dozen film spools there—his personal memoirs of the greatexpedition, a segment of his life and of history. He might add that tothe ship's official log and its collections of scientific data, as areport to whatever powers might be on Earth now—if such powers werestill interested. Llud selected a spool from among the earliest. It was one he had madeshortly after leaving Procyon, end of the first leg of the trip. Heslid it onto the reproducer. His own voice came from the speaker, fresher, more vibrant andconfident than he knew it was now. One light-day out from Procyon, the thirty-third day by ship's timesince leaving Earth. Our visit to Procyon drew a blank. There is only one huge planet, twicethe size of Jupiter, and like Jupiter utterly unfit to support a colony. Our hopes were dashed—and I think all of us, even remembering theCentaurus Expedition's failure, hoped more than we cared to admit. IfProcyon had possessed a habitable planet, we could have returned afteran absence of not much over twenty years Earth time. It is cheering to note that the crew seems only more resolute. We goon to Capella; its spectrum, so like our own Sun's, beckons. If successcomes there, a century will have passed before we can return to Earth;friends, relatives, all the generation that launched the Quest shipswill be long since dead. Nevertheless we go on. Our generation's dream,humanity's dream, lives in us and in the ship forever.... Presently Knof Llud switched off that younger voice of his and leanedback, an ironic smile touching his lips. That fervent idealism seemedremote and foreign to him now. The fanfares of departure must stillhave been ringing in his ears. He rose, slipped the record back in its niche and picked out another,later, one. One week since we passed close enough to Aldebaran to ascertain thatthat system, too, is devoid of planets. We face the unpleasant realization that what was feared is probablytrue—that worlds such as the Sun's are a rare accident, and that wemay complete our search without finding even one new Earth. It makes no difference, of course; we cannot betray the plan....This may be man's last chance of escaping his pitiful limitation toone world in all the Universe. Certainly the building of this shipand its two sisters, the immense expenditure of time and labor andenergy stores that went into them, left Earth's economy drained andexhausted. Only once in a long age does mankind rise to such a selflessand transcendent effort—the effort of Egypt that built the pyramids,or the war efforts of the nations in the last great conflicts of thetwentieth century. Looked at historically, such super-human outbursts of energy arethe result of a population's outgrowing its room and resources, andtherefore signalize the beginning of the end. Population can belimited, but the price is a deadly frustration, because growth alone islife.... In our day the end of man's room for growth on the Earth wasin sight—so we launched the Quests . Perhaps our effort will prove asfutile as pyramid-building, less practical than orgies of slaughter toreduce pressure.... In any case, it would be impossible to transportvery many people to other stars; but Earth could at least go intoits decline with the knowledge that its race went onward and upward,expanding limitlessly into the Universe.... Hopeless, unless we find planets! <doc-sep>Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments. He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging.... We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula. According to plan, the Quest III has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready. But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way. On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away.... Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the Quest III couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory. That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other Quests , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation. Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there? Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away.... It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship. Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing. The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English.... ... for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. <doc-sep>Llud sighed. He still couldn't say just why he had given the order toturn back. The stars had claimed his heart—but he was still a part ofEarth, and not even nine hundred years of space and time had been ableto alter that. He wondered if there would still be a quiet stream and a greenshady place beside it where a death-weary man, relieved at last ofresponsibility, could rest and dream no more.... Those things wenton, if men didn't change them. And a pine forest where he and youngKnof could go camping, and lie on their backs at night and gaze at theglittering constellations, far away, out of reach.... He wasn't sure hewould want to do that, though. Suddenly a faint cushioned jar went through the great ship; it seemedto falter one moment in flight. <doc-sep>The captain was on his feet instantly, but then his movements becameunhurried. Whatever it had been was past, and he had a good ideawhat it had been—a meteoroid, nothing unusual in the vicinity ofthe Sun, though in interstellar space and around planetless starssuch collisions were rare to the vanishing point. No harm could havebeen done. The Quest III's collision armor was nonmaterial and forpractical purposes invulnerable. Just as he took his finger off the button that opened the door, theintercommunication phone shrilled imperatively. Knof Llud wheeled,frowning—surely a meteoroid impact wasn't that serious. Coincidence,maybe—it might be Zost Relyul calling as instructed. He reached the phone at the moment when another, heavier jolt shookthe vessel. Llud snatched up the receiver with the speed of a scaldedcat. Captain? It was Gwar Den's voice, stammering a little. Captain,we're being attacked! Sound the alarm. Emergency stations. He had said it automatically,then felt a curious detached relief at the knowledge that after allthese years he could still respond quickly and smoothly to a crisis.There was a moment's silence, and he heard the alarm start—threeshort buzzes and repeat, ringing through all the great length of theinterstellar ship. Knowing that Gwar Den was still there, he said,Now—attacked by what? Ships, said Gwar Den helplessly. Five of them so far. No, there's asixth now. Repeated blows quivered the Quest III's framework. Thenavigator said, obviously striving for calm, They're light craft, notfifty feet long, but they move fast. The detectors hardly had time toshow them before they opened up. Can't get a telescope beam on themlong enough to tell much. If they're that small, said Knof Llud deliberately, they can't carryanything heavy enough to hurt us. Hold to course. I'll be right up. In the open doorway he almost fell over his son. Young Knof's eyes werebig; he had heard his father's words. Something's happened, he judged with deadly twelve-year-oldseriousness and, without wasting time on questions, Can I go with you,huh, Dad? Llud hesitated, said, All right. Come along and keep out of the way.He headed for the bridge with strides that the boy could not match. There were people running in the corridors, heading for their posts.Their faces were set, scared, uncomprehending. The Quest III shuddered, again and again, under blows that must have had millionsof horsepower behind them; but it plunged on toward Earth, its mightyengines still steadily braking its interstellar velocity. To a man, the ship's responsible officers were already on the bridge,most of them breathless. To a man they looked appeal at Captain KnofLlud. Well? he snapped. What are they doing? Gwar Den spoke. There are thirteen of them out there now, sir, andthey're all banging away at us. The captain stared into the black star-strewn depths of a vision screenwhere occasional blue points of light winked ominously, never twicefrom the same position. Knof Jr. flattened himself against the metal wall and watched silently.His young face was less anxious than his elders'; he had confidence inhis father. If they had anything heavier, surmised the captain, they'd haveunlimbered it by now. They're out to get us. But at this rate, theycan't touch us as long as our power lasts—or until they bring up somebigger stuff. <doc-sep>The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe Quest III's shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist. But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible. The people in the Quest III would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation. One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth— That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there. The Quest III bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart. Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the Quest III's bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit. He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the Quest III ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting. Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other Quests might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer. <doc-sep>It became evident, too, that the bombardment was being kept up by aconstant arrival of fresh attackers, while others raced away intospace, presumably returning to base to replenish their ammunition. Thatargued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behindit. Elsuz Llug, the gravitic engineer, calculated dismally, At the ratewe're having to shed energy, the fuel will be gone in six or eighthours. We'll have reached Earth before then, Gwar Den said hopefully. If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first. We're under the psychological disadvantage, said the captain, of notknowing why we're being attacked. Knof Jr. burst out, spluttering slightly with the violence of athought too important to suppress, But we're under a ps-psychologicaladvantage, too! His father raised an eyebrow. What's that? I don't seem to havenoticed it. They're mad and we aren't, yet, said the boy. Then, seeing that hehadn't made himself clear, In a fight, if a guy gets mad he startsswinging wild and then you nail him. Smiles splintered the ice of tension. Captain Llud said, Maybe you'vegot something there. They seem to be mad, all right. But we're not ina position to throw any punches. He turned back to the others. As Iwas going to say—I think we'd better try to parley with the enemy. Atleast we may find out who he is and why he's determined to smash us. And now instead of tight-beam detectors the ship was broadcasting on anaudio carrier wave that shifted through a wide range of frequencies,repeating on each the same brief recorded message: Who are you? What do you want? We are the interstellar expedition Quest III .... And so on, identifying themselves and protesting thatthey were unarmed and peaceful, that there must be some mistake, andquerying again, Who are you ? There was no answer. The ship drove on, its fuel trickling away undermultiplied demands. Those outside were squandering vastly greateramounts of energy in the effort to batter down its defenses, butconverting that energy into harmless gravitic impulses was costing the Quest III too. Once more Knof Llud had the insidious sense of his ownnerves and muscles and will weakening along with the power-sinews ofhis ship. Zost Relyul approached him apologetically. If you have time,Captain—I've got some data on Earth now. Eagerly Llud took the sheaf of photographs made with the telescope. Butthey told him nothing; only the continental outlines were clear, andthose were as they had been nine hundred years ago.... He looked upinquiringly at Zost Relyul. There are some strange features, said the astronomer carefully.First of all—there are no lights on the night side. And on thedaylight face, our highest magnification should already reveal tracesof cities, canals, and the like—but it does not. The prevailing color of the land masses, you see, is the normalgreen vegetation. But the diffraction spectrum is queer. It indicatesreflecting surfaces less than one-tenth millimeter wide—so thevegetation there can't be trees or grass, but must be more like a finemoss or even a coarse mold. Is that all? demanded Llud. Isn't it enough? said Zost Relyul blankly. Well—we triedphotography by invisible light, of course. The infra-red shows nothingand likewise the ultraviolet up to the point where the atmosphere isopaque to it. The captain sighed wearily. Good work, he said. Keep it up; perhapsyou can answer some of these riddles before— We know who you are , interrupted a harshly crackling voice with astrange accent, and pleading will do you no good. <doc-sep>Knof Llud whirled to the radio apparatus, his weariness dropping fromhim once more. He snapped, But who are you? and the words blendedabsurdly with the same words in his own voice on the still repeatingtape. He snapped off the record; as he did so the speaker, still cracklingwith space static, said, It may interest you to know that you are thelast. The two other interstellar expeditions that went out have alreadyreturned and been destroyed, as you will soon be—the sooner, if youcontinue toward Earth. Knof Llud's mind was clicking again. The voice—which must be comingfrom Earth, relayed by one of the midget ships—was not very smart; ithad already involuntarily told him a couple of things—that it was notas sure of itself as it sounded he deduced from the fact it had deignedto speak at all, and from its last remark he gathered that the QuestIII's ponderous and unswerving progress toward Earth had somehowfrightened it. So it was trying to frighten them. He shoved those facts back for future use. Just now he had to knowsomething, so vitally that he asked it as a bald question, Are youhuman? The voice chuckled sourly. We are human, it answered, but you arenot. The captain was momentarily silent, groping for an adequate reply.Behind him somebody made a choked noise, the only sound in the stunnedhush, and the ship jarred slightly as a thunderbolt slammed vengefullyinto its field. Suppose we settle this argument about humanity, said Knof Lludwoodenly. He named a vision frequency. Very well. The tone was like a shrug. The voice went on in itslanguage that was quite intelligible, but alien-sounding with thechanges that nine hundred years had wrought. Perhaps, if you realizeyour position, you will follow the intelligent example of the QuestI's commander. Knof Llud stiffened. The Quest I , launched toward Arcturus and thestar cloud called Berenice's Hair, had been after the Quest III themost hopeful of the expeditions—and its captain had been a good friendof Llud's, nine hundred years ago.... He growled, What happened tohim? He fought off our interceptors, which are around you now, for sometime, said the voice lightly. When he saw that it was hopeless, hepreferred suicide to defeat, and took his ship into the Sun. A shortpause. The vision connection is ready. Knof Llud switched on the screen at the named wavelength, and apicture formed there. The face and figure that appeared were ugly,but undeniably a man's. His features and his light-brown skin showedthe same racial characteristics possessed by those aboard the QuestIII , but he had an elusive look of deformity. Most obviously, his headseemed too big for his body, and his eyes in turn too big for his head. He grinned nastily at Knof Llud. Have you any other last wishes? Yes, said Llud with icy control. You haven't answered one question.Why do you want to kill us? You can see we're as human as you are. The big-headed man eyed him with a speculative look in his greateyes, behind which the captain glimpsed the flickering raw fire of apoisonous hatred. It is enough for you to know that you must die. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

All the people are extremely excited to return, they keep talking and buzzing about it. Many are nervous about the centuries that have passed and about what they will find upon return. Lesra, the captain's wife, feels anxious, for a while she was even afraid the Earth won't be there. She is scared of how the Earth will look like now and tears fill her eyes. The navigator is also nervous about the reception they will get. When the ship is attacked, everyone is confused and scared, the mass panic starts. The captain has to maintain coolness and calm everyone down, but he is also anxious about the return. Moreover, he hates returning with failure and only does it because the ship ran out of fuel. So, the whole ship anticipates the return and misses home, but due to the long time far away, everyone is afraid of what awaits them.

<s> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>Knof Llud, the Quest III's captain, came slowly down the narrowstair from the observatory, into the big rotunda that was now the mainrecreation room, where most of the people gathered. The great chamber,a full cross-section of the vessel, had been at first a fuel hold. Atthe voyage's beginning eighty per cent of the fifteen-hundred-footcylinder had been engines and fuel; but as the immense stores werespent and the holds became radioactively safe, the crew had spreadout from its original cramped quarters. Now the interstellar ship waslittle more than a hollow shell. Eyes lifted from the vision screens to interrogate Knof Llud; he metthem with an impassive countenance, and announced quietly, We'vesighted Earth. A feverish buzz arose; the captain gestured for silence and went on,It is still only a featureless disk to the telescope. Zost Relyul hasidentified it—no more. But this time the clamor was not to be settled. People pressed roundthe screens, peering into them as if with the naked eye they couldpick out the atom of reflected light that was Earth, home. They wrungeach other's hands, kissed, shouted, wept. For the present their fearswere forgotten and exaltation prevailed. Knof Llud smiled wryly. The rest of the little speech he had been aboutto make didn't matter anyway, and it might have spoiled this moment. He turned to go, and was halted by the sight of his wife, standing athis elbow. His wry smile took on warmth; he asked, How do you feel,Lesra? She drew an uncertain breath and released it in a faint sigh. I don'tknow. It's good that Earth's still there. She was thinking, he judgedshrewdly, of Knof Jr. and Delza, who save from pictures could notremember sunlit skies or grassy fields or woods in summer.... He said, with a touch of tolerant amusement, What did you think mighthave happened to Earth? After all, it's only been nine hundred years. That's just it, said Lesra shakily. Nine hundred years have goneby— there —and nothing will be the same. It won't be the same worldwe left, the world we knew and fitted in.... The captain put an arm round her with comforting pressure. Don'tworry. Things may have changed—but we'll manage. But his face hadhardened against registering the gnawing of that same doubtful fearwithin him. He let his arm fall. I'd better get up to the bridge.There's a new course to be set now—for Earth. He left her and began to climb the stairway again. Someone switchedoff the lights, and a charmed whisper ran through the big room as thepeople saw each other's faces by the pale golden light of Earth's ownSun, mirrored and multiplied by the screens. In that light Lesra's eyesgleamed with unshed tears. Captain Llud found Navigator Gwar Den looking as smug as the catthat ate the canary. Gwar Den was finding that the actual observedpositions of the planets thus far located agreed quite closely withhis extrapolations from long unused charts of the Solar System. He hadalready set up on the calculator a course that would carry them toEarth. Llud nodded curt approval, remarking, Probably we'll be interceptedbefore we get that far. Den was jolted out of his happy abstraction. Uh, Captain, he saidhesitantly. What kind of a reception do you suppose we'll get? Llud shook his head slowly. Who knows? We don't know whether anyof the other Quests returned successful, or if they returned atall. And we don't know what changes have taken place on Earth. It'spossible—not likely, though—that something has happened to breakcivilization's continuity to the point where our expedition has beenforgotten altogether. <doc-sep>He turned away grim-lipped and left the bridge. From his privateoffice-cabin, he sent a message to Chief Astronomer Zost Relyul tonotify him as soon as Earth's surface features became clear; then hesat idle, alone with his thoughts. The ship's automatic mechanisms had scant need of tending; Knof Lludfound himself wishing that he could find some back-breaking task foreveryone on board, himself included, to fill up the hours that remained. There was an extensive and well-chosen film library in the cabin, buthe couldn't persuade himself to kill time that way. He could go downand watch the screens, or to the family apartment where he might findLesra and the children—but somehow he didn't want to do that either. He felt empty, drained—like his ship. As the Quest III's fuel storesand the hope of success in man's mightiest venture had dwindled, so thestrength had gone out of him. Now the last fuel compartment was almostempty and Captain Knof Llud felt tired and old. Perhaps, he thought, he was feeling the weight of his nine hundredEarth years—though physically he was only forty now, ten years olderthan when the voyage had begun. That was the foreshortening along thetime axis of a space ship approaching the speed of light. Weeks andmonths had passed for the Quest III in interstellar flight whileyears and decades had raced by on the home world. Bemusedly Llud got to his feet and stood surveying a cabinet withbuilt-in voice recorder and pigeonholes for records. There were aboutthree dozen film spools there—his personal memoirs of the greatexpedition, a segment of his life and of history. He might add that tothe ship's official log and its collections of scientific data, as areport to whatever powers might be on Earth now—if such powers werestill interested. Llud selected a spool from among the earliest. It was one he had madeshortly after leaving Procyon, end of the first leg of the trip. Heslid it onto the reproducer. His own voice came from the speaker, fresher, more vibrant andconfident than he knew it was now. One light-day out from Procyon, the thirty-third day by ship's timesince leaving Earth. Our visit to Procyon drew a blank. There is only one huge planet, twicethe size of Jupiter, and like Jupiter utterly unfit to support a colony. Our hopes were dashed—and I think all of us, even remembering theCentaurus Expedition's failure, hoped more than we cared to admit. IfProcyon had possessed a habitable planet, we could have returned afteran absence of not much over twenty years Earth time. It is cheering to note that the crew seems only more resolute. We goon to Capella; its spectrum, so like our own Sun's, beckons. If successcomes there, a century will have passed before we can return to Earth;friends, relatives, all the generation that launched the Quest shipswill be long since dead. Nevertheless we go on. Our generation's dream,humanity's dream, lives in us and in the ship forever.... Presently Knof Llud switched off that younger voice of his and leanedback, an ironic smile touching his lips. That fervent idealism seemedremote and foreign to him now. The fanfares of departure must stillhave been ringing in his ears. He rose, slipped the record back in its niche and picked out another,later, one. One week since we passed close enough to Aldebaran to ascertain thatthat system, too, is devoid of planets. We face the unpleasant realization that what was feared is probablytrue—that worlds such as the Sun's are a rare accident, and that wemay complete our search without finding even one new Earth. It makes no difference, of course; we cannot betray the plan....This may be man's last chance of escaping his pitiful limitation toone world in all the Universe. Certainly the building of this shipand its two sisters, the immense expenditure of time and labor andenergy stores that went into them, left Earth's economy drained andexhausted. Only once in a long age does mankind rise to such a selflessand transcendent effort—the effort of Egypt that built the pyramids,or the war efforts of the nations in the last great conflicts of thetwentieth century. Looked at historically, such super-human outbursts of energy arethe result of a population's outgrowing its room and resources, andtherefore signalize the beginning of the end. Population can belimited, but the price is a deadly frustration, because growth alone islife.... In our day the end of man's room for growth on the Earth wasin sight—so we launched the Quests . Perhaps our effort will prove asfutile as pyramid-building, less practical than orgies of slaughter toreduce pressure.... In any case, it would be impossible to transportvery many people to other stars; but Earth could at least go intoits decline with the knowledge that its race went onward and upward,expanding limitlessly into the Universe.... Hopeless, unless we find planets! <doc-sep>Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments. He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging.... We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula. According to plan, the Quest III has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready. But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way. On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away.... Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the Quest III couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory. That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other Quests , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation. Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there? Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away.... It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship. Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing. The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English.... ... for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. <doc-sep>Llud sighed. He still couldn't say just why he had given the order toturn back. The stars had claimed his heart—but he was still a part ofEarth, and not even nine hundred years of space and time had been ableto alter that. He wondered if there would still be a quiet stream and a greenshady place beside it where a death-weary man, relieved at last ofresponsibility, could rest and dream no more.... Those things wenton, if men didn't change them. And a pine forest where he and youngKnof could go camping, and lie on their backs at night and gaze at theglittering constellations, far away, out of reach.... He wasn't sure hewould want to do that, though. Suddenly a faint cushioned jar went through the great ship; it seemedto falter one moment in flight. <doc-sep>The captain was on his feet instantly, but then his movements becameunhurried. Whatever it had been was past, and he had a good ideawhat it had been—a meteoroid, nothing unusual in the vicinity ofthe Sun, though in interstellar space and around planetless starssuch collisions were rare to the vanishing point. No harm could havebeen done. The Quest III's collision armor was nonmaterial and forpractical purposes invulnerable. Just as he took his finger off the button that opened the door, theintercommunication phone shrilled imperatively. Knof Llud wheeled,frowning—surely a meteoroid impact wasn't that serious. Coincidence,maybe—it might be Zost Relyul calling as instructed. He reached the phone at the moment when another, heavier jolt shookthe vessel. Llud snatched up the receiver with the speed of a scaldedcat. Captain? It was Gwar Den's voice, stammering a little. Captain,we're being attacked! Sound the alarm. Emergency stations. He had said it automatically,then felt a curious detached relief at the knowledge that after allthese years he could still respond quickly and smoothly to a crisis.There was a moment's silence, and he heard the alarm start—threeshort buzzes and repeat, ringing through all the great length of theinterstellar ship. Knowing that Gwar Den was still there, he said,Now—attacked by what? Ships, said Gwar Den helplessly. Five of them so far. No, there's asixth now. Repeated blows quivered the Quest III's framework. Thenavigator said, obviously striving for calm, They're light craft, notfifty feet long, but they move fast. The detectors hardly had time toshow them before they opened up. Can't get a telescope beam on themlong enough to tell much. If they're that small, said Knof Llud deliberately, they can't carryanything heavy enough to hurt us. Hold to course. I'll be right up. In the open doorway he almost fell over his son. Young Knof's eyes werebig; he had heard his father's words. Something's happened, he judged with deadly twelve-year-oldseriousness and, without wasting time on questions, Can I go with you,huh, Dad? Llud hesitated, said, All right. Come along and keep out of the way.He headed for the bridge with strides that the boy could not match. There were people running in the corridors, heading for their posts.Their faces were set, scared, uncomprehending. The Quest III shuddered, again and again, under blows that must have had millionsof horsepower behind them; but it plunged on toward Earth, its mightyengines still steadily braking its interstellar velocity. To a man, the ship's responsible officers were already on the bridge,most of them breathless. To a man they looked appeal at Captain KnofLlud. Well? he snapped. What are they doing? Gwar Den spoke. There are thirteen of them out there now, sir, andthey're all banging away at us. The captain stared into the black star-strewn depths of a vision screenwhere occasional blue points of light winked ominously, never twicefrom the same position. Knof Jr. flattened himself against the metal wall and watched silently.His young face was less anxious than his elders'; he had confidence inhis father. If they had anything heavier, surmised the captain, they'd haveunlimbered it by now. They're out to get us. But at this rate, theycan't touch us as long as our power lasts—or until they bring up somebigger stuff. <doc-sep>The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe Quest III's shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist. But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible. The people in the Quest III would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation. One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth— That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there. The Quest III bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart. Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the Quest III's bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit. He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the Quest III ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting. Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other Quests might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer. <doc-sep>It became evident, too, that the bombardment was being kept up by aconstant arrival of fresh attackers, while others raced away intospace, presumably returning to base to replenish their ammunition. Thatargued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behindit. Elsuz Llug, the gravitic engineer, calculated dismally, At the ratewe're having to shed energy, the fuel will be gone in six or eighthours. We'll have reached Earth before then, Gwar Den said hopefully. If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first. We're under the psychological disadvantage, said the captain, of notknowing why we're being attacked. Knof Jr. burst out, spluttering slightly with the violence of athought too important to suppress, But we're under a ps-psychologicaladvantage, too! His father raised an eyebrow. What's that? I don't seem to havenoticed it. They're mad and we aren't, yet, said the boy. Then, seeing that hehadn't made himself clear, In a fight, if a guy gets mad he startsswinging wild and then you nail him. Smiles splintered the ice of tension. Captain Llud said, Maybe you'vegot something there. They seem to be mad, all right. But we're not ina position to throw any punches. He turned back to the others. As Iwas going to say—I think we'd better try to parley with the enemy. Atleast we may find out who he is and why he's determined to smash us. And now instead of tight-beam detectors the ship was broadcasting on anaudio carrier wave that shifted through a wide range of frequencies,repeating on each the same brief recorded message: Who are you? What do you want? We are the interstellar expedition Quest III .... And so on, identifying themselves and protesting thatthey were unarmed and peaceful, that there must be some mistake, andquerying again, Who are you ? There was no answer. The ship drove on, its fuel trickling away undermultiplied demands. Those outside were squandering vastly greateramounts of energy in the effort to batter down its defenses, butconverting that energy into harmless gravitic impulses was costing the Quest III too. Once more Knof Llud had the insidious sense of his ownnerves and muscles and will weakening along with the power-sinews ofhis ship. Zost Relyul approached him apologetically. If you have time,Captain—I've got some data on Earth now. Eagerly Llud took the sheaf of photographs made with the telescope. Butthey told him nothing; only the continental outlines were clear, andthose were as they had been nine hundred years ago.... He looked upinquiringly at Zost Relyul. There are some strange features, said the astronomer carefully.First of all—there are no lights on the night side. And on thedaylight face, our highest magnification should already reveal tracesof cities, canals, and the like—but it does not. The prevailing color of the land masses, you see, is the normalgreen vegetation. But the diffraction spectrum is queer. It indicatesreflecting surfaces less than one-tenth millimeter wide—so thevegetation there can't be trees or grass, but must be more like a finemoss or even a coarse mold. Is that all? demanded Llud. Isn't it enough? said Zost Relyul blankly. Well—we triedphotography by invisible light, of course. The infra-red shows nothingand likewise the ultraviolet up to the point where the atmosphere isopaque to it. The captain sighed wearily. Good work, he said. Keep it up; perhapsyou can answer some of these riddles before— We know who you are , interrupted a harshly crackling voice with astrange accent, and pleading will do you no good. <doc-sep>Knof Llud whirled to the radio apparatus, his weariness dropping fromhim once more. He snapped, But who are you? and the words blendedabsurdly with the same words in his own voice on the still repeatingtape. He snapped off the record; as he did so the speaker, still cracklingwith space static, said, It may interest you to know that you are thelast. The two other interstellar expeditions that went out have alreadyreturned and been destroyed, as you will soon be—the sooner, if youcontinue toward Earth. Knof Llud's mind was clicking again. The voice—which must be comingfrom Earth, relayed by one of the midget ships—was not very smart; ithad already involuntarily told him a couple of things—that it was notas sure of itself as it sounded he deduced from the fact it had deignedto speak at all, and from its last remark he gathered that the QuestIII's ponderous and unswerving progress toward Earth had somehowfrightened it. So it was trying to frighten them. He shoved those facts back for future use. Just now he had to knowsomething, so vitally that he asked it as a bald question, Are youhuman? The voice chuckled sourly. We are human, it answered, but you arenot. The captain was momentarily silent, groping for an adequate reply.Behind him somebody made a choked noise, the only sound in the stunnedhush, and the ship jarred slightly as a thunderbolt slammed vengefullyinto its field. Suppose we settle this argument about humanity, said Knof Lludwoodenly. He named a vision frequency. Very well. The tone was like a shrug. The voice went on in itslanguage that was quite intelligible, but alien-sounding with thechanges that nine hundred years had wrought. Perhaps, if you realizeyour position, you will follow the intelligent example of the QuestI's commander. Knof Llud stiffened. The Quest I , launched toward Arcturus and thestar cloud called Berenice's Hair, had been after the Quest III themost hopeful of the expeditions—and its captain had been a good friendof Llud's, nine hundred years ago.... He growled, What happened tohim? He fought off our interceptors, which are around you now, for sometime, said the voice lightly. When he saw that it was hopeless, hepreferred suicide to defeat, and took his ship into the Sun. A shortpause. The vision connection is ready. Knof Llud switched on the screen at the named wavelength, and apicture formed there. The face and figure that appeared were ugly,but undeniably a man's. His features and his light-brown skin showedthe same racial characteristics possessed by those aboard the QuestIII , but he had an elusive look of deformity. Most obviously, his headseemed too big for his body, and his eyes in turn too big for his head. He grinned nastily at Knof Llud. Have you any other last wishes? Yes, said Llud with icy control. You haven't answered one question.Why do you want to kill us? You can see we're as human as you are. The big-headed man eyed him with a speculative look in his greateyes, behind which the captain glimpsed the flickering raw fire of apoisonous hatred. It is enough for you to know that you must die. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

A few ships were sent to space as a part of the mission. Quest III was one of them, but there also were Quest I and II. The purpose was for the ships to find a sun similar to the Sun somewhere in space, and a planet to live on, in case Earth will become unfit. This mission was of extreme importance for the whole of humanity and the crew felt honored and ready to sacrifice all they were leaving on Earth. Nevertheless, they kept hoping to return as fast as possible, but every sun was unfit. The amount of fuel for no more than one thousand Earth years was loaded before departure and the fairest point to reach was chosen. All three ships went different ways, and were cut from any communication. Nevertheless, Quest III was unable to find any fitting planet and had to return or stay in a place located more than forty thousand Earth years away. The captain decided to return, though the failure upset him.

<s> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>Knof Llud, the Quest III's captain, came slowly down the narrowstair from the observatory, into the big rotunda that was now the mainrecreation room, where most of the people gathered. The great chamber,a full cross-section of the vessel, had been at first a fuel hold. Atthe voyage's beginning eighty per cent of the fifteen-hundred-footcylinder had been engines and fuel; but as the immense stores werespent and the holds became radioactively safe, the crew had spreadout from its original cramped quarters. Now the interstellar ship waslittle more than a hollow shell. Eyes lifted from the vision screens to interrogate Knof Llud; he metthem with an impassive countenance, and announced quietly, We'vesighted Earth. A feverish buzz arose; the captain gestured for silence and went on,It is still only a featureless disk to the telescope. Zost Relyul hasidentified it—no more. But this time the clamor was not to be settled. People pressed roundthe screens, peering into them as if with the naked eye they couldpick out the atom of reflected light that was Earth, home. They wrungeach other's hands, kissed, shouted, wept. For the present their fearswere forgotten and exaltation prevailed. Knof Llud smiled wryly. The rest of the little speech he had been aboutto make didn't matter anyway, and it might have spoiled this moment. He turned to go, and was halted by the sight of his wife, standing athis elbow. His wry smile took on warmth; he asked, How do you feel,Lesra? She drew an uncertain breath and released it in a faint sigh. I don'tknow. It's good that Earth's still there. She was thinking, he judgedshrewdly, of Knof Jr. and Delza, who save from pictures could notremember sunlit skies or grassy fields or woods in summer.... He said, with a touch of tolerant amusement, What did you think mighthave happened to Earth? After all, it's only been nine hundred years. That's just it, said Lesra shakily. Nine hundred years have goneby— there —and nothing will be the same. It won't be the same worldwe left, the world we knew and fitted in.... The captain put an arm round her with comforting pressure. Don'tworry. Things may have changed—but we'll manage. But his face hadhardened against registering the gnawing of that same doubtful fearwithin him. He let his arm fall. I'd better get up to the bridge.There's a new course to be set now—for Earth. He left her and began to climb the stairway again. Someone switchedoff the lights, and a charmed whisper ran through the big room as thepeople saw each other's faces by the pale golden light of Earth's ownSun, mirrored and multiplied by the screens. In that light Lesra's eyesgleamed with unshed tears. Captain Llud found Navigator Gwar Den looking as smug as the catthat ate the canary. Gwar Den was finding that the actual observedpositions of the planets thus far located agreed quite closely withhis extrapolations from long unused charts of the Solar System. He hadalready set up on the calculator a course that would carry them toEarth. Llud nodded curt approval, remarking, Probably we'll be interceptedbefore we get that far. Den was jolted out of his happy abstraction. Uh, Captain, he saidhesitantly. What kind of a reception do you suppose we'll get? Llud shook his head slowly. Who knows? We don't know whether anyof the other Quests returned successful, or if they returned atall. And we don't know what changes have taken place on Earth. It'spossible—not likely, though—that something has happened to breakcivilization's continuity to the point where our expedition has beenforgotten altogether. <doc-sep>He turned away grim-lipped and left the bridge. From his privateoffice-cabin, he sent a message to Chief Astronomer Zost Relyul tonotify him as soon as Earth's surface features became clear; then hesat idle, alone with his thoughts. The ship's automatic mechanisms had scant need of tending; Knof Lludfound himself wishing that he could find some back-breaking task foreveryone on board, himself included, to fill up the hours that remained. There was an extensive and well-chosen film library in the cabin, buthe couldn't persuade himself to kill time that way. He could go downand watch the screens, or to the family apartment where he might findLesra and the children—but somehow he didn't want to do that either. He felt empty, drained—like his ship. As the Quest III's fuel storesand the hope of success in man's mightiest venture had dwindled, so thestrength had gone out of him. Now the last fuel compartment was almostempty and Captain Knof Llud felt tired and old. Perhaps, he thought, he was feeling the weight of his nine hundredEarth years—though physically he was only forty now, ten years olderthan when the voyage had begun. That was the foreshortening along thetime axis of a space ship approaching the speed of light. Weeks andmonths had passed for the Quest III in interstellar flight whileyears and decades had raced by on the home world. Bemusedly Llud got to his feet and stood surveying a cabinet withbuilt-in voice recorder and pigeonholes for records. There were aboutthree dozen film spools there—his personal memoirs of the greatexpedition, a segment of his life and of history. He might add that tothe ship's official log and its collections of scientific data, as areport to whatever powers might be on Earth now—if such powers werestill interested. Llud selected a spool from among the earliest. It was one he had madeshortly after leaving Procyon, end of the first leg of the trip. Heslid it onto the reproducer. His own voice came from the speaker, fresher, more vibrant andconfident than he knew it was now. One light-day out from Procyon, the thirty-third day by ship's timesince leaving Earth. Our visit to Procyon drew a blank. There is only one huge planet, twicethe size of Jupiter, and like Jupiter utterly unfit to support a colony. Our hopes were dashed—and I think all of us, even remembering theCentaurus Expedition's failure, hoped more than we cared to admit. IfProcyon had possessed a habitable planet, we could have returned afteran absence of not much over twenty years Earth time. It is cheering to note that the crew seems only more resolute. We goon to Capella; its spectrum, so like our own Sun's, beckons. If successcomes there, a century will have passed before we can return to Earth;friends, relatives, all the generation that launched the Quest shipswill be long since dead. Nevertheless we go on. Our generation's dream,humanity's dream, lives in us and in the ship forever.... Presently Knof Llud switched off that younger voice of his and leanedback, an ironic smile touching his lips. That fervent idealism seemedremote and foreign to him now. The fanfares of departure must stillhave been ringing in his ears. He rose, slipped the record back in its niche and picked out another,later, one. One week since we passed close enough to Aldebaran to ascertain thatthat system, too, is devoid of planets. We face the unpleasant realization that what was feared is probablytrue—that worlds such as the Sun's are a rare accident, and that wemay complete our search without finding even one new Earth. It makes no difference, of course; we cannot betray the plan....This may be man's last chance of escaping his pitiful limitation toone world in all the Universe. Certainly the building of this shipand its two sisters, the immense expenditure of time and labor andenergy stores that went into them, left Earth's economy drained andexhausted. Only once in a long age does mankind rise to such a selflessand transcendent effort—the effort of Egypt that built the pyramids,or the war efforts of the nations in the last great conflicts of thetwentieth century. Looked at historically, such super-human outbursts of energy arethe result of a population's outgrowing its room and resources, andtherefore signalize the beginning of the end. Population can belimited, but the price is a deadly frustration, because growth alone islife.... In our day the end of man's room for growth on the Earth wasin sight—so we launched the Quests . Perhaps our effort will prove asfutile as pyramid-building, less practical than orgies of slaughter toreduce pressure.... In any case, it would be impossible to transportvery many people to other stars; but Earth could at least go intoits decline with the knowledge that its race went onward and upward,expanding limitlessly into the Universe.... Hopeless, unless we find planets! <doc-sep>Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments. He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging.... We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula. According to plan, the Quest III has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready. But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way. On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away.... Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the Quest III couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory. That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other Quests , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation. Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there? Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away.... It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship. Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing. The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English.... ... for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. <doc-sep>Llud sighed. He still couldn't say just why he had given the order toturn back. The stars had claimed his heart—but he was still a part ofEarth, and not even nine hundred years of space and time had been ableto alter that. He wondered if there would still be a quiet stream and a greenshady place beside it where a death-weary man, relieved at last ofresponsibility, could rest and dream no more.... Those things wenton, if men didn't change them. And a pine forest where he and youngKnof could go camping, and lie on their backs at night and gaze at theglittering constellations, far away, out of reach.... He wasn't sure hewould want to do that, though. Suddenly a faint cushioned jar went through the great ship; it seemedto falter one moment in flight. <doc-sep>The captain was on his feet instantly, but then his movements becameunhurried. Whatever it had been was past, and he had a good ideawhat it had been—a meteoroid, nothing unusual in the vicinity ofthe Sun, though in interstellar space and around planetless starssuch collisions were rare to the vanishing point. No harm could havebeen done. The Quest III's collision armor was nonmaterial and forpractical purposes invulnerable. Just as he took his finger off the button that opened the door, theintercommunication phone shrilled imperatively. Knof Llud wheeled,frowning—surely a meteoroid impact wasn't that serious. Coincidence,maybe—it might be Zost Relyul calling as instructed. He reached the phone at the moment when another, heavier jolt shookthe vessel. Llud snatched up the receiver with the speed of a scaldedcat. Captain? It was Gwar Den's voice, stammering a little. Captain,we're being attacked! Sound the alarm. Emergency stations. He had said it automatically,then felt a curious detached relief at the knowledge that after allthese years he could still respond quickly and smoothly to a crisis.There was a moment's silence, and he heard the alarm start—threeshort buzzes and repeat, ringing through all the great length of theinterstellar ship. Knowing that Gwar Den was still there, he said,Now—attacked by what? Ships, said Gwar Den helplessly. Five of them so far. No, there's asixth now. Repeated blows quivered the Quest III's framework. Thenavigator said, obviously striving for calm, They're light craft, notfifty feet long, but they move fast. The detectors hardly had time toshow them before they opened up. Can't get a telescope beam on themlong enough to tell much. If they're that small, said Knof Llud deliberately, they can't carryanything heavy enough to hurt us. Hold to course. I'll be right up. In the open doorway he almost fell over his son. Young Knof's eyes werebig; he had heard his father's words. Something's happened, he judged with deadly twelve-year-oldseriousness and, without wasting time on questions, Can I go with you,huh, Dad? Llud hesitated, said, All right. Come along and keep out of the way.He headed for the bridge with strides that the boy could not match. There were people running in the corridors, heading for their posts.Their faces were set, scared, uncomprehending. The Quest III shuddered, again and again, under blows that must have had millionsof horsepower behind them; but it plunged on toward Earth, its mightyengines still steadily braking its interstellar velocity. To a man, the ship's responsible officers were already on the bridge,most of them breathless. To a man they looked appeal at Captain KnofLlud. Well? he snapped. What are they doing? Gwar Den spoke. There are thirteen of them out there now, sir, andthey're all banging away at us. The captain stared into the black star-strewn depths of a vision screenwhere occasional blue points of light winked ominously, never twicefrom the same position. Knof Jr. flattened himself against the metal wall and watched silently.His young face was less anxious than his elders'; he had confidence inhis father. If they had anything heavier, surmised the captain, they'd haveunlimbered it by now. They're out to get us. But at this rate, theycan't touch us as long as our power lasts—or until they bring up somebigger stuff. <doc-sep>The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe Quest III's shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist. But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible. The people in the Quest III would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation. One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth— That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there. The Quest III bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart. Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the Quest III's bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit. He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the Quest III ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting. Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other Quests might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer. <doc-sep>It became evident, too, that the bombardment was being kept up by aconstant arrival of fresh attackers, while others raced away intospace, presumably returning to base to replenish their ammunition. Thatargued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behindit. Elsuz Llug, the gravitic engineer, calculated dismally, At the ratewe're having to shed energy, the fuel will be gone in six or eighthours. We'll have reached Earth before then, Gwar Den said hopefully. If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first. We're under the psychological disadvantage, said the captain, of notknowing why we're being attacked. Knof Jr. burst out, spluttering slightly with the violence of athought too important to suppress, But we're under a ps-psychologicaladvantage, too! His father raised an eyebrow. What's that? I don't seem to havenoticed it. They're mad and we aren't, yet, said the boy. Then, seeing that hehadn't made himself clear, In a fight, if a guy gets mad he startsswinging wild and then you nail him. Smiles splintered the ice of tension. Captain Llud said, Maybe you'vegot something there. They seem to be mad, all right. But we're not ina position to throw any punches. He turned back to the others. As Iwas going to say—I think we'd better try to parley with the enemy. Atleast we may find out who he is and why he's determined to smash us. And now instead of tight-beam detectors the ship was broadcasting on anaudio carrier wave that shifted through a wide range of frequencies,repeating on each the same brief recorded message: Who are you? What do you want? We are the interstellar expedition Quest III .... And so on, identifying themselves and protesting thatthey were unarmed and peaceful, that there must be some mistake, andquerying again, Who are you ? There was no answer. The ship drove on, its fuel trickling away undermultiplied demands. Those outside were squandering vastly greateramounts of energy in the effort to batter down its defenses, butconverting that energy into harmless gravitic impulses was costing the Quest III too. Once more Knof Llud had the insidious sense of his ownnerves and muscles and will weakening along with the power-sinews ofhis ship. Zost Relyul approached him apologetically. If you have time,Captain—I've got some data on Earth now. Eagerly Llud took the sheaf of photographs made with the telescope. Butthey told him nothing; only the continental outlines were clear, andthose were as they had been nine hundred years ago.... He looked upinquiringly at Zost Relyul. There are some strange features, said the astronomer carefully.First of all—there are no lights on the night side. And on thedaylight face, our highest magnification should already reveal tracesof cities, canals, and the like—but it does not. The prevailing color of the land masses, you see, is the normalgreen vegetation. But the diffraction spectrum is queer. It indicatesreflecting surfaces less than one-tenth millimeter wide—so thevegetation there can't be trees or grass, but must be more like a finemoss or even a coarse mold. Is that all? demanded Llud. Isn't it enough? said Zost Relyul blankly. Well—we triedphotography by invisible light, of course. The infra-red shows nothingand likewise the ultraviolet up to the point where the atmosphere isopaque to it. The captain sighed wearily. Good work, he said. Keep it up; perhapsyou can answer some of these riddles before— We know who you are , interrupted a harshly crackling voice with astrange accent, and pleading will do you no good. <doc-sep>Knof Llud whirled to the radio apparatus, his weariness dropping fromhim once more. He snapped, But who are you? and the words blendedabsurdly with the same words in his own voice on the still repeatingtape. He snapped off the record; as he did so the speaker, still cracklingwith space static, said, It may interest you to know that you are thelast. The two other interstellar expeditions that went out have alreadyreturned and been destroyed, as you will soon be—the sooner, if youcontinue toward Earth. Knof Llud's mind was clicking again. The voice—which must be comingfrom Earth, relayed by one of the midget ships—was not very smart; ithad already involuntarily told him a couple of things—that it was notas sure of itself as it sounded he deduced from the fact it had deignedto speak at all, and from its last remark he gathered that the QuestIII's ponderous and unswerving progress toward Earth had somehowfrightened it. So it was trying to frighten them. He shoved those facts back for future use. Just now he had to knowsomething, so vitally that he asked it as a bald question, Are youhuman? The voice chuckled sourly. We are human, it answered, but you arenot. The captain was momentarily silent, groping for an adequate reply.Behind him somebody made a choked noise, the only sound in the stunnedhush, and the ship jarred slightly as a thunderbolt slammed vengefullyinto its field. Suppose we settle this argument about humanity, said Knof Lludwoodenly. He named a vision frequency. Very well. The tone was like a shrug. The voice went on in itslanguage that was quite intelligible, but alien-sounding with thechanges that nine hundred years had wrought. Perhaps, if you realizeyour position, you will follow the intelligent example of the QuestI's commander. Knof Llud stiffened. The Quest I , launched toward Arcturus and thestar cloud called Berenice's Hair, had been after the Quest III themost hopeful of the expeditions—and its captain had been a good friendof Llud's, nine hundred years ago.... He growled, What happened tohim? He fought off our interceptors, which are around you now, for sometime, said the voice lightly. When he saw that it was hopeless, hepreferred suicide to defeat, and took his ship into the Sun. A shortpause. The vision connection is ready. Knof Llud switched on the screen at the named wavelength, and apicture formed there. The face and figure that appeared were ugly,but undeniably a man's. His features and his light-brown skin showedthe same racial characteristics possessed by those aboard the QuestIII , but he had an elusive look of deformity. Most obviously, his headseemed too big for his body, and his eyes in turn too big for his head. He grinned nastily at Knof Llud. Have you any other last wishes? Yes, said Llud with icy control. You haven't answered one question.Why do you want to kill us? You can see we're as human as you are. The big-headed man eyed him with a speculative look in his greateyes, behind which the captain glimpsed the flickering raw fire of apoisonous hatred. It is enough for you to know that you must die. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The whole crew was getting homesick and excited about returning, even the captain became nostalgic of the forests and green areas. On the other hand, all the people the crew knew had died a long time ago, and there was some frightening uncertainty about what awaited them upon return. Therefore, the decision was hard to make. Even more difficult it was for the captain as he didn't want to return with the news of failure. Soon, it turns out that the return was a dangerous choice and the crew is not welcome. The ship is attacked and the enemy threatens to destroy the ship, which can't turn away as it is out of fuel. Therefore, this decision put the whole crew in danger instead of fulfilling their hopes for warm welcome and excitement to come home.

<s> The Blue Behemoth By LEIGH BRACKETT Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed space-carny leased for a mysterious tour of the inner worlds. It made a one-night pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to find that death stalked it from the jungle in a tiny ball of flame. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of thil , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them. We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute. I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding! Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments.... It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks! I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame. Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry. I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be. I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I.... Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon? Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently: Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel? I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer. The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad. There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's. He said, I don't think you understand. I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc. Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand. I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed. Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him. Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money! The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you? Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity. The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal. I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole. The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus. <doc-sep>I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn'tsay anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a freshpitcher of thil on the table. Then I cleared my throat. What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish? Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. I haveindependent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lightenthe burden of life for those less fortunate.... Bucky got red around the ears. Just a minute, he murmured, andstarted to get up. I kicked him under the table. Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish. He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamishignored him. He went on, quietly, I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the mostvaluable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation oftoil and boredom.... I said, Sure, sure. But what was your idea? There are many towns along the Venusian frontiers where noentertainment of the— proper sort has been available. I propose toremedy that. I propose to charter your circus, Mister Shannon, to makea tour of several settlements along the Tehara Belt. Bucky had relaxed. His grey-green eyes began to gleam. He started tospeak, and I kicked him again. That would be expensive, Mister Beamish, I said. We'd have to cancelseveral engagements.... He looked at me. I was lying, and he knew it. But he said, I quite understand that. I would be prepared.... The curtains were yanked back suddenly. Beamish shut up. Bucky and Iglared at the head and shoulders poking in between the drapes. It was Gow, our zoo-man—a big, ugly son-of-a-gun from a Terrancolony on Mercury. I was there once. Gow looks a lot like thescenery—scowling, unapproachable, and tough. His hands, holding thecurtains apart, had thick black hair on them and were not much largerthan the hams of a Venusian swamp-rhino. He said, Boss, Gertrude's actin' up again. Gertrude be blowed, growled Bucky. Can't you see I'm busy? Gow's black eyes were unpleasant. I'm tellin' you, Boss, Gertrudeain't happy. She ain't had the right food. If something.... I said, That'll all be taken care of, Gow. Run along now. He looked at me like he was thinking it wouldn't take much timber tofit me for a coffin. Okay! But Gertrude's unhappy. She's lonesome,see? And if she don't get happier pretty soon I ain't sure your tin-potship'll hold her. He pulled the curtains to and departed. Bucky Shannon groaned. Beamishcleared his throat and said, rather stiffly, Gertrude? Yeah. She's kind of temperamental. Bucky took a quick drink. Ifinished for him. She's the star attraction of our show, Mr. Beamish. A real blue-swampVenusian cansin . The only other one on the Triangle belongs to SavittBrothers, and she's much smaller than Gertrude. She was also much younger, but I didn't go into that. Gertrude may bea little creaky, but she's still pretty impressive. I only hoped shewouldn't die on us, because without her we'd have a sicker-lookingcircus than even I could stand. Beamish looked impressed. A cansin . Well, well! The mysterysurrounding the origin and species of the cansin is a fascinatingsubject. The extreme rarity of the animal.... We were getting off the subject. I said tactfully, We'd have to haveat least a hundred U.C.'s. It was twice what we had any right to ask. I was prepared to dicker.Beamish looked at me with that innocent dead pan. For a fraction of asecond I thought I saw something back of his round blue eyes, and mystomach jumped like it was shot. Beamish smiled sweetly. I'm not much of a bargainer. One hundred Universal Credits will beagreeable to me. He dragged out a roll as big as my two fists, peeledoff half a dozen credit slips, and laid them on the table. By way of a retainer, gentleman. My attorney and I will call on you inthe morning with a contract and itinerary. Good night. We said good night, trying not to drool. Beamish went away. Bucky madegrab for the money, but I beat him to it. Scram, I said. There are guys waiting for this. Big guys with clubs.Here. I gave him a small-denomination slip I'd been holding out. Wecan get lushed enough on this. Shannon has a good vocabulary. He used it. When he got his breath backhe said suddenly, Beamish is pulling some kind of a game. Yeah. It may be crooked. Sure. And he may be screwball and on the level. For Pete's sake! Iyelled. You want to sit here till we all dry up and blow away? Shannon looked at me, kind of funny. He looked at the bulge in my tunicwhere the roll was. He raked back his thick light hair. Yeah, he said. I hope there'll be enough left to bribe the jury. Hepoked his head outside. Hey, boy! More thildatum ! <doc-sep>It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport whereShannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Lateas it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sittingaround and smoking and looking very ugly. It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restlessunder the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead anddried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blownred dust gritted in my teeth. Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance tothe roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on hisfeet. He waved and said, Hiya, boys. They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. Igrinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot morethan money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out ofhis own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time inweeks we'd come in at the front door. I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly,Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts.Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily. Now? he said. Now, I said. We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to joinin. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all wenthome happy. They had their money, and we had their blood. The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and thegreen girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt themuscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkersand joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in thepassageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings. Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose.They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I'verewarded them. I said, Sure, rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed. Let's go see Gertrude. I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny goinginto the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a cityguy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. ButBucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged. Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye. You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'.... The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall downthe ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't....Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends? It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there wasa dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started downthe long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks andcompression units. Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn'tnear as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It'sthe smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them,breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walledaround them as strong as the cage bars. Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, andthen wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again.A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell,ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall. It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the sametime. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name Icould think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a greatmetallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gowhad them nicely conditioned to that gong. <doc-sep>But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden.... Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome. That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled. I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a cansin . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference. They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The cansins were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils. I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big. I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire. The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began. Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one. Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male cansin . There may not even be any. Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain.... Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts. He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude. I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time.... He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child. This time, he said, I ain't sure. Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'. He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed. You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love.... Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck. We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller. Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire. I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake! I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream. I thought, Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us! I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me. One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder. The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes. Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared! Then I went out. II Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed thak -weed. It smelt. You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell. He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he? Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell! I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick. Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said: Beamish is here with his lawyer. I picked up my shirt. Right with you. Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door. Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose. I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head. Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why? Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped. One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out? I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors. Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I.... I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all! We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens. Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way. Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute. Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look. I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned. A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one! I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship. While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming. <doc-sep>The canvasmen were busy setting up the annex, slopping and cursing inthe mud. The paste brigade was heading for the shacks. Shannon and Istood with the hot rain running off our slickers, looking. I heard a noise behind me and looked around. Ahra the Nahali woman wasstanding in the mud with her arms up and her head thrown back, and hertriangular mouth open like a thirsty dog. She didn't have anything onbut her blue-green, hard scaled hide, and she was chuckling. It didn'tsound nice. You find a lot of Nahali people in side-shows, doing tricks withthe electric power they carry in their own bodies. They're Venusianmiddle-swampers, they're not human, and they never forget it. Ahra opened her slitted red eyes and looked at me and laughed withwhite reptilian teeth. Death, she whispered. Death and trouble. The jungle tells me. I cansmell it in the swamp wind. The hot rain sluiced over her. She shivered, and the pale skin underher jaw pulsed like a toad's, and her eyes were red. The deep swamps are angry, she whispered. Something has been taken.They are angry, and I smell death in the wind! She turned away, laughing, and I cursed her, and my stomach was tightand cold. Bucky said, Let's eat if they have a bar in this dump. We weren't half way across the mud puddle that passed as a landingfield when a man came out of a shack on the edge of the settlement. Wecould see him plainly, because he was off to one side of the crowd. He fell on his knees in the mud, making noises. It took him three orfour tries to get our names out clear enough to understand. Bucky said, Jig—it's Sam Kapper. We started to run. The crowd, mostly big unshaken miners, wheeledaround to see what was happening. People began to close in on the manwho crawled and whimpered in the mud. Sam Kapper was a hunter, supplying animals to zoos and circuses andcarnivals. He'd given us good deals a couple of times, when we weren'ttoo broke, and we were pretty friendly. I hadn't seen him for three seasons. I remembered him as a bronzed,hard-bitten guy, lean and tough as a twist of tung wire. I felt sick,looking down at him. Bucky started to help him up. Kapper was crying, and he jerked all overlike animals I've seen that were scared to death. Some guy leaned overand put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it for him. I was thinking about Kapper, then, and I didn't pay much attention. Ionly caught a glimpse of the man's face as he straightened up. I didn'trealize until later that he looked familiar. We got Kapper inside the shack. It turned out to be a cheap bar, with acouple of curtained booths at the back. We got him into one and pulledthe curtain in a lot of curious faces. Kapper dragged hard on thecigarette. The man that gave it to him was gone. Bucky said gently, Okay, Sam. Relax. What's the trouble? <doc-sep>Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard linesof his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was coveredwith mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's. He said thickly, I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found itand brought it out. The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. Helpme, he said simply. I'm scared. His mouth drooled. I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It'sgot to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but theywouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it.... He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. I don't knowhow they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back.I've got to.... Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared,suddenly. I said, Get what back where? Bucky got up. I'll get a doctor, he said. Stick with him. Kappergrabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his handsstood out like guy wires. Don't leave me. Got to tell you—where it is. Got to take it back.Promise you'll take it back. He gasped and struggled over hisbreathing. Sure, said Bucky. Sure, well take it back. What is it? Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight forair. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was nouse. Kapper whispered, Cansin . Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back. Where is it, Sam? I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamishwas standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kappermade a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table. Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky feltKapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew. Heart? said Beamish finally. Yeah, said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. Poor Sam. I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked atBeamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon andpushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap. Keep this guy here till I get back, I said. Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. Shut up, Itold him. We got a contract. I yanked the curtains shut and walkedover to the bar. I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in theplace. At first glance they looked okay—a hard-faced, muscular bunchof miners in dirty shirts and high boots. Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they neverdid any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else. The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartenderwas a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white haircoiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy. I leaned on the bar. Lhak , I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of agreen bottle. I reached for it, casually. That guy we brought in, I said. He sure has a skinful. Passed outcold. What's he been spiking his drinks with? Selak , said a voice in my ear. As if you didn't know. I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standingbehind me. And I remembered him, then. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Bucky Shannon, a space circus owner, and his business manager, Jig Bentley, have a dispute over the business' financial hardships. Suddenly, a little man interferes. Mistaking him for a bill-collector, Bucky starts a fight, when Jig notices money in the man's hands. Simon Beamish, the little man, is planning to invest in the circus and make its tour to other towns. He agrees to pay much more than the real cost is, Bucky and Jig suspect some kind of a game there, but they need money. The two go to their circus and are finally able to pay the performers. After having some fun all together, the two go to see Gertrude, a huge cansin, the main attraction, who was earlier reported to be unhappy. Upon entry, Jig feels uneasy, frightened and sorry for Gertrude, who is in desperate need of a mate. The sorrow of this creature makes the whole team sad and uneasy, full of pity, and no one could help, even Gow who saved her and is the closest to her. Exiting her tank, Jig has to carry Bucky, who is crying at the view and falling asleep at the same time. On their way, the two face the Vapor snakes let out by someone, they fall, and the snakes cover their bodies. Gow saves the two and they are burnt but alive, trying to find out who let the snakes out to hurt them and suspecting Beamish. Then the whole gang goes to Venus to meet Beamish, and there is a feeling of discontent coming from the gang and mixed with Gertrude's screams all the way. Further, the Nahali woman from the gang claims to smell death and trouble. Then they meet Sam, a hunter selling them animals until three seasons ago, and now he is crying and scared. Turns out, he has found the only male cansin and wants to take it back to prevent trouble, though he is afraid of people wanting to take the cansin from him. Suddenly, Jig discovers Beamish listening to the conversation and Sam dies. Jig then notices the suspicious silence and too much of a crowd in the bar and recognizes the man who gave Sam a cigarette a while ago.

<s> The Blue Behemoth By LEIGH BRACKETT Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed space-carny leased for a mysterious tour of the inner worlds. It made a one-night pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to find that death stalked it from the jungle in a tiny ball of flame. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of thil , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them. We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute. I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding! Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments.... It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks! I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame. Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry. I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be. I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I.... Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon? Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently: Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel? I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer. The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad. There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's. He said, I don't think you understand. I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc. Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand. I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed. Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him. Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money! The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you? Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity. The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal. I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole. The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus. <doc-sep>I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn'tsay anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a freshpitcher of thil on the table. Then I cleared my throat. What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish? Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. I haveindependent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lightenthe burden of life for those less fortunate.... Bucky got red around the ears. Just a minute, he murmured, andstarted to get up. I kicked him under the table. Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish. He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamishignored him. He went on, quietly, I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the mostvaluable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation oftoil and boredom.... I said, Sure, sure. But what was your idea? There are many towns along the Venusian frontiers where noentertainment of the— proper sort has been available. I propose toremedy that. I propose to charter your circus, Mister Shannon, to makea tour of several settlements along the Tehara Belt. Bucky had relaxed. His grey-green eyes began to gleam. He started tospeak, and I kicked him again. That would be expensive, Mister Beamish, I said. We'd have to cancelseveral engagements.... He looked at me. I was lying, and he knew it. But he said, I quite understand that. I would be prepared.... The curtains were yanked back suddenly. Beamish shut up. Bucky and Iglared at the head and shoulders poking in between the drapes. It was Gow, our zoo-man—a big, ugly son-of-a-gun from a Terrancolony on Mercury. I was there once. Gow looks a lot like thescenery—scowling, unapproachable, and tough. His hands, holding thecurtains apart, had thick black hair on them and were not much largerthan the hams of a Venusian swamp-rhino. He said, Boss, Gertrude's actin' up again. Gertrude be blowed, growled Bucky. Can't you see I'm busy? Gow's black eyes were unpleasant. I'm tellin' you, Boss, Gertrudeain't happy. She ain't had the right food. If something.... I said, That'll all be taken care of, Gow. Run along now. He looked at me like he was thinking it wouldn't take much timber tofit me for a coffin. Okay! But Gertrude's unhappy. She's lonesome,see? And if she don't get happier pretty soon I ain't sure your tin-potship'll hold her. He pulled the curtains to and departed. Bucky Shannon groaned. Beamishcleared his throat and said, rather stiffly, Gertrude? Yeah. She's kind of temperamental. Bucky took a quick drink. Ifinished for him. She's the star attraction of our show, Mr. Beamish. A real blue-swampVenusian cansin . The only other one on the Triangle belongs to SavittBrothers, and she's much smaller than Gertrude. She was also much younger, but I didn't go into that. Gertrude may bea little creaky, but she's still pretty impressive. I only hoped shewouldn't die on us, because without her we'd have a sicker-lookingcircus than even I could stand. Beamish looked impressed. A cansin . Well, well! The mysterysurrounding the origin and species of the cansin is a fascinatingsubject. The extreme rarity of the animal.... We were getting off the subject. I said tactfully, We'd have to haveat least a hundred U.C.'s. It was twice what we had any right to ask. I was prepared to dicker.Beamish looked at me with that innocent dead pan. For a fraction of asecond I thought I saw something back of his round blue eyes, and mystomach jumped like it was shot. Beamish smiled sweetly. I'm not much of a bargainer. One hundred Universal Credits will beagreeable to me. He dragged out a roll as big as my two fists, peeledoff half a dozen credit slips, and laid them on the table. By way of a retainer, gentleman. My attorney and I will call on you inthe morning with a contract and itinerary. Good night. We said good night, trying not to drool. Beamish went away. Bucky madegrab for the money, but I beat him to it. Scram, I said. There are guys waiting for this. Big guys with clubs.Here. I gave him a small-denomination slip I'd been holding out. Wecan get lushed enough on this. Shannon has a good vocabulary. He used it. When he got his breath backhe said suddenly, Beamish is pulling some kind of a game. Yeah. It may be crooked. Sure. And he may be screwball and on the level. For Pete's sake! Iyelled. You want to sit here till we all dry up and blow away? Shannon looked at me, kind of funny. He looked at the bulge in my tunicwhere the roll was. He raked back his thick light hair. Yeah, he said. I hope there'll be enough left to bribe the jury. Hepoked his head outside. Hey, boy! More thildatum ! <doc-sep>It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport whereShannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Lateas it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sittingaround and smoking and looking very ugly. It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restlessunder the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead anddried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blownred dust gritted in my teeth. Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance tothe roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on hisfeet. He waved and said, Hiya, boys. They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. Igrinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot morethan money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out ofhis own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time inweeks we'd come in at the front door. I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly,Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts.Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily. Now? he said. Now, I said. We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to joinin. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all wenthome happy. They had their money, and we had their blood. The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and thegreen girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt themuscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkersand joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in thepassageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings. Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose.They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I'verewarded them. I said, Sure, rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed. Let's go see Gertrude. I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny goinginto the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a cityguy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. ButBucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged. Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye. You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'.... The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall downthe ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't....Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends? It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there wasa dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started downthe long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks andcompression units. Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn'tnear as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It'sthe smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them,breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walledaround them as strong as the cage bars. Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, andthen wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again.A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell,ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall. It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the sametime. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name Icould think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a greatmetallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gowhad them nicely conditioned to that gong. <doc-sep>But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden.... Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome. That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled. I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a cansin . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference. They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The cansins were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils. I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big. I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire. The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began. Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one. Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male cansin . There may not even be any. Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain.... Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts. He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude. I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time.... He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child. This time, he said, I ain't sure. Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'. He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed. You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love.... Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck. We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller. Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire. I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake! I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream. I thought, Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us! I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me. One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder. The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes. Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared! Then I went out. II Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed thak -weed. It smelt. You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell. He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he? Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell! I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick. Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said: Beamish is here with his lawyer. I picked up my shirt. Right with you. Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door. Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose. I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head. Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why? Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped. One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out? I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors. Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I.... I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all! We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens. Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way. Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute. Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look. I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned. A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one! I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship. While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming. <doc-sep>The canvasmen were busy setting up the annex, slopping and cursing inthe mud. The paste brigade was heading for the shacks. Shannon and Istood with the hot rain running off our slickers, looking. I heard a noise behind me and looked around. Ahra the Nahali woman wasstanding in the mud with her arms up and her head thrown back, and hertriangular mouth open like a thirsty dog. She didn't have anything onbut her blue-green, hard scaled hide, and she was chuckling. It didn'tsound nice. You find a lot of Nahali people in side-shows, doing tricks withthe electric power they carry in their own bodies. They're Venusianmiddle-swampers, they're not human, and they never forget it. Ahra opened her slitted red eyes and looked at me and laughed withwhite reptilian teeth. Death, she whispered. Death and trouble. The jungle tells me. I cansmell it in the swamp wind. The hot rain sluiced over her. She shivered, and the pale skin underher jaw pulsed like a toad's, and her eyes were red. The deep swamps are angry, she whispered. Something has been taken.They are angry, and I smell death in the wind! She turned away, laughing, and I cursed her, and my stomach was tightand cold. Bucky said, Let's eat if they have a bar in this dump. We weren't half way across the mud puddle that passed as a landingfield when a man came out of a shack on the edge of the settlement. Wecould see him plainly, because he was off to one side of the crowd. He fell on his knees in the mud, making noises. It took him three orfour tries to get our names out clear enough to understand. Bucky said, Jig—it's Sam Kapper. We started to run. The crowd, mostly big unshaken miners, wheeledaround to see what was happening. People began to close in on the manwho crawled and whimpered in the mud. Sam Kapper was a hunter, supplying animals to zoos and circuses andcarnivals. He'd given us good deals a couple of times, when we weren'ttoo broke, and we were pretty friendly. I hadn't seen him for three seasons. I remembered him as a bronzed,hard-bitten guy, lean and tough as a twist of tung wire. I felt sick,looking down at him. Bucky started to help him up. Kapper was crying, and he jerked all overlike animals I've seen that were scared to death. Some guy leaned overand put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it for him. I was thinking about Kapper, then, and I didn't pay much attention. Ionly caught a glimpse of the man's face as he straightened up. I didn'trealize until later that he looked familiar. We got Kapper inside the shack. It turned out to be a cheap bar, with acouple of curtained booths at the back. We got him into one and pulledthe curtain in a lot of curious faces. Kapper dragged hard on thecigarette. The man that gave it to him was gone. Bucky said gently, Okay, Sam. Relax. What's the trouble? <doc-sep>Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard linesof his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was coveredwith mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's. He said thickly, I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found itand brought it out. The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. Helpme, he said simply. I'm scared. His mouth drooled. I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It'sgot to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but theywouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it.... He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. I don't knowhow they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back.I've got to.... Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared,suddenly. I said, Get what back where? Bucky got up. I'll get a doctor, he said. Stick with him. Kappergrabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his handsstood out like guy wires. Don't leave me. Got to tell you—where it is. Got to take it back.Promise you'll take it back. He gasped and struggled over hisbreathing. Sure, said Bucky. Sure, well take it back. What is it? Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight forair. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was nouse. Kapper whispered, Cansin . Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back. Where is it, Sam? I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamishwas standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kappermade a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table. Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky feltKapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew. Heart? said Beamish finally. Yeah, said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. Poor Sam. I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked atBeamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon andpushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap. Keep this guy here till I get back, I said. Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. Shut up, Itold him. We got a contract. I yanked the curtains shut and walkedover to the bar. I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in theplace. At first glance they looked okay—a hard-faced, muscular bunchof miners in dirty shirts and high boots. Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they neverdid any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else. The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartenderwas a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white haircoiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy. I leaned on the bar. Lhak , I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of agreen bottle. I reached for it, casually. That guy we brought in, I said. He sure has a skinful. Passed outcold. What's he been spiking his drinks with? Selak , said a voice in my ear. As if you didn't know. I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standingbehind me. And I remembered him, then. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Bucky, the owner, is of a rather idealistic opinion of the circus. He considers it great and he loves the participants as they are loyal and good. Jig is rather realistic, he knows the circus is broken and lousy, with Gertrude, the huge cansin, being the only worthy creature, though even she is old. Jig is also not that fond of many creatures, he sees them as ugly, some scary, some absurd. The state of Gertrude made Bucky cry, and soon he confessed that he actually knows that the circus is not great, but he loves it no matter what. Jig tried to be practical and asked Gow to snap Gertrude out of this state for the good of the circus. Nevertheless, even Jig was touched by the creature's appearance and gaze full of grief, her screams made him tremble. The Nahali woman, claiming to smell death, made Jig feel anxious and scared. Throughout the story Jig keeps feeling uneasy around the creatures and tries to avoid them, limiting the interactions to business. Bucky, at the same time, sympathizes with them and tries to get closer.

<s> The Blue Behemoth By LEIGH BRACKETT Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed space-carny leased for a mysterious tour of the inner worlds. It made a one-night pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to find that death stalked it from the jungle in a tiny ball of flame. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of thil , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them. We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute. I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding! Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments.... It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks! I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame. Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry. I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be. I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I.... Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon? Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently: Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel? I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer. The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad. There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's. He said, I don't think you understand. I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc. Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand. I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed. Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him. Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money! The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you? Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity. The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal. I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole. The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus. <doc-sep>I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn'tsay anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a freshpitcher of thil on the table. Then I cleared my throat. What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish? Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. I haveindependent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lightenthe burden of life for those less fortunate.... Bucky got red around the ears. Just a minute, he murmured, andstarted to get up. I kicked him under the table. Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish. He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamishignored him. He went on, quietly, I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the mostvaluable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation oftoil and boredom.... I said, Sure, sure. But what was your idea? There are many towns along the Venusian frontiers where noentertainment of the— proper sort has been available. I propose toremedy that. I propose to charter your circus, Mister Shannon, to makea tour of several settlements along the Tehara Belt. Bucky had relaxed. His grey-green eyes began to gleam. He started tospeak, and I kicked him again. That would be expensive, Mister Beamish, I said. We'd have to cancelseveral engagements.... He looked at me. I was lying, and he knew it. But he said, I quite understand that. I would be prepared.... The curtains were yanked back suddenly. Beamish shut up. Bucky and Iglared at the head and shoulders poking in between the drapes. It was Gow, our zoo-man—a big, ugly son-of-a-gun from a Terrancolony on Mercury. I was there once. Gow looks a lot like thescenery—scowling, unapproachable, and tough. His hands, holding thecurtains apart, had thick black hair on them and were not much largerthan the hams of a Venusian swamp-rhino. He said, Boss, Gertrude's actin' up again. Gertrude be blowed, growled Bucky. Can't you see I'm busy? Gow's black eyes were unpleasant. I'm tellin' you, Boss, Gertrudeain't happy. She ain't had the right food. If something.... I said, That'll all be taken care of, Gow. Run along now. He looked at me like he was thinking it wouldn't take much timber tofit me for a coffin. Okay! But Gertrude's unhappy. She's lonesome,see? And if she don't get happier pretty soon I ain't sure your tin-potship'll hold her. He pulled the curtains to and departed. Bucky Shannon groaned. Beamishcleared his throat and said, rather stiffly, Gertrude? Yeah. She's kind of temperamental. Bucky took a quick drink. Ifinished for him. She's the star attraction of our show, Mr. Beamish. A real blue-swampVenusian cansin . The only other one on the Triangle belongs to SavittBrothers, and she's much smaller than Gertrude. She was also much younger, but I didn't go into that. Gertrude may bea little creaky, but she's still pretty impressive. I only hoped shewouldn't die on us, because without her we'd have a sicker-lookingcircus than even I could stand. Beamish looked impressed. A cansin . Well, well! The mysterysurrounding the origin and species of the cansin is a fascinatingsubject. The extreme rarity of the animal.... We were getting off the subject. I said tactfully, We'd have to haveat least a hundred U.C.'s. It was twice what we had any right to ask. I was prepared to dicker.Beamish looked at me with that innocent dead pan. For a fraction of asecond I thought I saw something back of his round blue eyes, and mystomach jumped like it was shot. Beamish smiled sweetly. I'm not much of a bargainer. One hundred Universal Credits will beagreeable to me. He dragged out a roll as big as my two fists, peeledoff half a dozen credit slips, and laid them on the table. By way of a retainer, gentleman. My attorney and I will call on you inthe morning with a contract and itinerary. Good night. We said good night, trying not to drool. Beamish went away. Bucky madegrab for the money, but I beat him to it. Scram, I said. There are guys waiting for this. Big guys with clubs.Here. I gave him a small-denomination slip I'd been holding out. Wecan get lushed enough on this. Shannon has a good vocabulary. He used it. When he got his breath backhe said suddenly, Beamish is pulling some kind of a game. Yeah. It may be crooked. Sure. And he may be screwball and on the level. For Pete's sake! Iyelled. You want to sit here till we all dry up and blow away? Shannon looked at me, kind of funny. He looked at the bulge in my tunicwhere the roll was. He raked back his thick light hair. Yeah, he said. I hope there'll be enough left to bribe the jury. Hepoked his head outside. Hey, boy! More thildatum ! <doc-sep>It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport whereShannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Lateas it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sittingaround and smoking and looking very ugly. It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restlessunder the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead anddried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blownred dust gritted in my teeth. Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance tothe roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on hisfeet. He waved and said, Hiya, boys. They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. Igrinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot morethan money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out ofhis own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time inweeks we'd come in at the front door. I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly,Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts.Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily. Now? he said. Now, I said. We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to joinin. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all wenthome happy. They had their money, and we had their blood. The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and thegreen girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt themuscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkersand joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in thepassageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings. Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose.They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I'verewarded them. I said, Sure, rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed. Let's go see Gertrude. I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny goinginto the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a cityguy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. ButBucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged. Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye. You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'.... The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall downthe ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't....Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends? It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there wasa dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started downthe long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks andcompression units. Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn'tnear as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It'sthe smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them,breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walledaround them as strong as the cage bars. Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, andthen wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again.A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell,ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall. It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the sametime. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name Icould think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a greatmetallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gowhad them nicely conditioned to that gong. <doc-sep>But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden.... Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome. That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled. I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a cansin . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference. They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The cansins were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils. I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big. I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire. The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began. Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one. Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male cansin . There may not even be any. Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain.... Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts. He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude. I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time.... He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child. This time, he said, I ain't sure. Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'. He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed. You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love.... Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck. We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller. Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire. I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake! I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream. I thought, Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us! I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me. One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder. The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes. Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared! Then I went out. II Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed thak -weed. It smelt. You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell. He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he? Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell! I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick. Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said: Beamish is here with his lawyer. I picked up my shirt. Right with you. Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door. Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose. I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head. Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why? Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped. One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out? I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors. Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I.... I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all! We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens. Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way. Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute. Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look. I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned. A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one! I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship. While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming. <doc-sep>The canvasmen were busy setting up the annex, slopping and cursing inthe mud. The paste brigade was heading for the shacks. Shannon and Istood with the hot rain running off our slickers, looking. I heard a noise behind me and looked around. Ahra the Nahali woman wasstanding in the mud with her arms up and her head thrown back, and hertriangular mouth open like a thirsty dog. She didn't have anything onbut her blue-green, hard scaled hide, and she was chuckling. It didn'tsound nice. You find a lot of Nahali people in side-shows, doing tricks withthe electric power they carry in their own bodies. They're Venusianmiddle-swampers, they're not human, and they never forget it. Ahra opened her slitted red eyes and looked at me and laughed withwhite reptilian teeth. Death, she whispered. Death and trouble. The jungle tells me. I cansmell it in the swamp wind. The hot rain sluiced over her. She shivered, and the pale skin underher jaw pulsed like a toad's, and her eyes were red. The deep swamps are angry, she whispered. Something has been taken.They are angry, and I smell death in the wind! She turned away, laughing, and I cursed her, and my stomach was tightand cold. Bucky said, Let's eat if they have a bar in this dump. We weren't half way across the mud puddle that passed as a landingfield when a man came out of a shack on the edge of the settlement. Wecould see him plainly, because he was off to one side of the crowd. He fell on his knees in the mud, making noises. It took him three orfour tries to get our names out clear enough to understand. Bucky said, Jig—it's Sam Kapper. We started to run. The crowd, mostly big unshaken miners, wheeledaround to see what was happening. People began to close in on the manwho crawled and whimpered in the mud. Sam Kapper was a hunter, supplying animals to zoos and circuses andcarnivals. He'd given us good deals a couple of times, when we weren'ttoo broke, and we were pretty friendly. I hadn't seen him for three seasons. I remembered him as a bronzed,hard-bitten guy, lean and tough as a twist of tung wire. I felt sick,looking down at him. Bucky started to help him up. Kapper was crying, and he jerked all overlike animals I've seen that were scared to death. Some guy leaned overand put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it for him. I was thinking about Kapper, then, and I didn't pay much attention. Ionly caught a glimpse of the man's face as he straightened up. I didn'trealize until later that he looked familiar. We got Kapper inside the shack. It turned out to be a cheap bar, with acouple of curtained booths at the back. We got him into one and pulledthe curtain in a lot of curious faces. Kapper dragged hard on thecigarette. The man that gave it to him was gone. Bucky said gently, Okay, Sam. Relax. What's the trouble? <doc-sep>Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard linesof his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was coveredwith mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's. He said thickly, I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found itand brought it out. The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. Helpme, he said simply. I'm scared. His mouth drooled. I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It'sgot to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but theywouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it.... He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. I don't knowhow they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back.I've got to.... Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared,suddenly. I said, Get what back where? Bucky got up. I'll get a doctor, he said. Stick with him. Kappergrabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his handsstood out like guy wires. Don't leave me. Got to tell you—where it is. Got to take it back.Promise you'll take it back. He gasped and struggled over hisbreathing. Sure, said Bucky. Sure, well take it back. What is it? Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight forair. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was nouse. Kapper whispered, Cansin . Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back. Where is it, Sam? I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamishwas standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kappermade a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table. Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky feltKapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew. Heart? said Beamish finally. Yeah, said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. Poor Sam. I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked atBeamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon andpushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap. Keep this guy here till I get back, I said. Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. Shut up, Itold him. We got a contract. I yanked the curtains shut and walkedover to the bar. I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in theplace. At first glance they looked okay—a hard-faced, muscular bunchof miners in dirty shirts and high boots. Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they neverdid any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else. The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartenderwas a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white haircoiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy. I leaned on the bar. Lhak , I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of agreen bottle. I reached for it, casually. That guy we brought in, I said. He sure has a skinful. Passed outcold. What's he been spiking his drinks with? Selak , said a voice in my ear. As if you didn't know. I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standingbehind me. And I remembered him, then. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Jig argues with Bucky, the owner of the circus, whose director is the former. Jig is drunk and is careless enough to insult the circus. He almost gets beaten when a stranger interferes. Jig feels pity towards his savior at first, but then he sees a sum of money in the man’s hands. Jig stops Bucky and the three of them begin to discuss business. Jig tries to show off the circus and asks for more money than it’s worth. He is suspicious of the man, but they make a deal. Then, Jig goes together with Bucky to pay the members of the gang and they have fun. After that, the two friends go to check on Gertrude, the main attraction. The creature’s depressing appearance makes Jig feel uneasy and pitiful, he has to carry Bucky, who is crying and falling asleep, away from the cage. Then both are attacked by Vapor snakes and Jig appears a hero by covering Bucky. He finds himself bitten all over and looking ridiculous, but at least alive. He encounters Bucky and they try to learn who wanted to kill them both. Then they go to Venus to meet Beamish, Jig feels the gang’s unhappiness with the travel, and he feels uneasy himself. The Nahali woman and her death predictions make him even more scared. Then they meet Sam who used to hunt animals for their circus, his terrible appearance makes Jig feel sick. Then together with Bucky, he tries to help the hunter by asking questions in the nearby bar. Jig feels even more scared and sick when Sam starts choking and his mouth gets blue. Jig wants to rush for a doctor, but finds Beamish listening behind the curtain. When Sam dies, Jig starts understanding and suspecting something, he talks to the bartender and suddenly recognizes the man who gave a cigarette to Sam.

<s> The Blue Behemoth By LEIGH BRACKETT Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed space-carny leased for a mysterious tour of the inner worlds. It made a one-night pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to find that death stalked it from the jungle in a tiny ball of flame. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of thil , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them. We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute. I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding! Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments.... It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks! I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame. Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry. I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be. I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I.... Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon? Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently: Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel? I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer. The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad. There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's. He said, I don't think you understand. I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc. Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand. I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed. Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him. Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money! The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you? Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity. The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal. I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole. The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus. <doc-sep>I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn'tsay anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a freshpitcher of thil on the table. Then I cleared my throat. What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish? Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. I haveindependent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lightenthe burden of life for those less fortunate.... Bucky got red around the ears. Just a minute, he murmured, andstarted to get up. I kicked him under the table. Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish. He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamishignored him. He went on, quietly, I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the mostvaluable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation oftoil and boredom.... I said, Sure, sure. But what was your idea? There are many towns along the Venusian frontiers where noentertainment of the— proper sort has been available. I propose toremedy that. I propose to charter your circus, Mister Shannon, to makea tour of several settlements along the Tehara Belt. Bucky had relaxed. His grey-green eyes began to gleam. He started tospeak, and I kicked him again. That would be expensive, Mister Beamish, I said. We'd have to cancelseveral engagements.... He looked at me. I was lying, and he knew it. But he said, I quite understand that. I would be prepared.... The curtains were yanked back suddenly. Beamish shut up. Bucky and Iglared at the head and shoulders poking in between the drapes. It was Gow, our zoo-man—a big, ugly son-of-a-gun from a Terrancolony on Mercury. I was there once. Gow looks a lot like thescenery—scowling, unapproachable, and tough. His hands, holding thecurtains apart, had thick black hair on them and were not much largerthan the hams of a Venusian swamp-rhino. He said, Boss, Gertrude's actin' up again. Gertrude be blowed, growled Bucky. Can't you see I'm busy? Gow's black eyes were unpleasant. I'm tellin' you, Boss, Gertrudeain't happy. She ain't had the right food. If something.... I said, That'll all be taken care of, Gow. Run along now. He looked at me like he was thinking it wouldn't take much timber tofit me for a coffin. Okay! But Gertrude's unhappy. She's lonesome,see? And if she don't get happier pretty soon I ain't sure your tin-potship'll hold her. He pulled the curtains to and departed. Bucky Shannon groaned. Beamishcleared his throat and said, rather stiffly, Gertrude? Yeah. She's kind of temperamental. Bucky took a quick drink. Ifinished for him. She's the star attraction of our show, Mr. Beamish. A real blue-swampVenusian cansin . The only other one on the Triangle belongs to SavittBrothers, and she's much smaller than Gertrude. She was also much younger, but I didn't go into that. Gertrude may bea little creaky, but she's still pretty impressive. I only hoped shewouldn't die on us, because without her we'd have a sicker-lookingcircus than even I could stand. Beamish looked impressed. A cansin . Well, well! The mysterysurrounding the origin and species of the cansin is a fascinatingsubject. The extreme rarity of the animal.... We were getting off the subject. I said tactfully, We'd have to haveat least a hundred U.C.'s. It was twice what we had any right to ask. I was prepared to dicker.Beamish looked at me with that innocent dead pan. For a fraction of asecond I thought I saw something back of his round blue eyes, and mystomach jumped like it was shot. Beamish smiled sweetly. I'm not much of a bargainer. One hundred Universal Credits will beagreeable to me. He dragged out a roll as big as my two fists, peeledoff half a dozen credit slips, and laid them on the table. By way of a retainer, gentleman. My attorney and I will call on you inthe morning with a contract and itinerary. Good night. We said good night, trying not to drool. Beamish went away. Bucky madegrab for the money, but I beat him to it. Scram, I said. There are guys waiting for this. Big guys with clubs.Here. I gave him a small-denomination slip I'd been holding out. Wecan get lushed enough on this. Shannon has a good vocabulary. He used it. When he got his breath backhe said suddenly, Beamish is pulling some kind of a game. Yeah. It may be crooked. Sure. And he may be screwball and on the level. For Pete's sake! Iyelled. You want to sit here till we all dry up and blow away? Shannon looked at me, kind of funny. He looked at the bulge in my tunicwhere the roll was. He raked back his thick light hair. Yeah, he said. I hope there'll be enough left to bribe the jury. Hepoked his head outside. Hey, boy! More thildatum ! <doc-sep>It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport whereShannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Lateas it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sittingaround and smoking and looking very ugly. It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restlessunder the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead anddried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blownred dust gritted in my teeth. Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance tothe roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on hisfeet. He waved and said, Hiya, boys. They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. Igrinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot morethan money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out ofhis own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time inweeks we'd come in at the front door. I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly,Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts.Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily. Now? he said. Now, I said. We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to joinin. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all wenthome happy. They had their money, and we had their blood. The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and thegreen girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt themuscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkersand joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in thepassageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings. Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose.They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I'verewarded them. I said, Sure, rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed. Let's go see Gertrude. I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny goinginto the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a cityguy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. ButBucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged. Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye. You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'.... The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall downthe ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't....Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends? It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there wasa dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started downthe long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks andcompression units. Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn'tnear as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It'sthe smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them,breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walledaround them as strong as the cage bars. Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, andthen wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again.A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell,ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall. It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the sametime. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name Icould think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a greatmetallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gowhad them nicely conditioned to that gong. <doc-sep>But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden.... Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome. That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled. I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a cansin . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference. They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The cansins were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils. I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big. I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire. The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began. Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one. Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male cansin . There may not even be any. Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain.... Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts. He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude. I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time.... He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child. This time, he said, I ain't sure. Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'. He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed. You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love.... Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck. We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller. Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire. I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake! I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream. I thought, Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us! I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me. One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder. The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes. Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared! Then I went out. II Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed thak -weed. It smelt. You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell. He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he? Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell! I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick. Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said: Beamish is here with his lawyer. I picked up my shirt. Right with you. Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door. Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose. I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head. Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why? Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped. One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out? I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors. Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I.... I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all! We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens. Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way. Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute. Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look. I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned. A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one! I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship. While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming. <doc-sep>The canvasmen were busy setting up the annex, slopping and cursing inthe mud. The paste brigade was heading for the shacks. Shannon and Istood with the hot rain running off our slickers, looking. I heard a noise behind me and looked around. Ahra the Nahali woman wasstanding in the mud with her arms up and her head thrown back, and hertriangular mouth open like a thirsty dog. She didn't have anything onbut her blue-green, hard scaled hide, and she was chuckling. It didn'tsound nice. You find a lot of Nahali people in side-shows, doing tricks withthe electric power they carry in their own bodies. They're Venusianmiddle-swampers, they're not human, and they never forget it. Ahra opened her slitted red eyes and looked at me and laughed withwhite reptilian teeth. Death, she whispered. Death and trouble. The jungle tells me. I cansmell it in the swamp wind. The hot rain sluiced over her. She shivered, and the pale skin underher jaw pulsed like a toad's, and her eyes were red. The deep swamps are angry, she whispered. Something has been taken.They are angry, and I smell death in the wind! She turned away, laughing, and I cursed her, and my stomach was tightand cold. Bucky said, Let's eat if they have a bar in this dump. We weren't half way across the mud puddle that passed as a landingfield when a man came out of a shack on the edge of the settlement. Wecould see him plainly, because he was off to one side of the crowd. He fell on his knees in the mud, making noises. It took him three orfour tries to get our names out clear enough to understand. Bucky said, Jig—it's Sam Kapper. We started to run. The crowd, mostly big unshaken miners, wheeledaround to see what was happening. People began to close in on the manwho crawled and whimpered in the mud. Sam Kapper was a hunter, supplying animals to zoos and circuses andcarnivals. He'd given us good deals a couple of times, when we weren'ttoo broke, and we were pretty friendly. I hadn't seen him for three seasons. I remembered him as a bronzed,hard-bitten guy, lean and tough as a twist of tung wire. I felt sick,looking down at him. Bucky started to help him up. Kapper was crying, and he jerked all overlike animals I've seen that were scared to death. Some guy leaned overand put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it for him. I was thinking about Kapper, then, and I didn't pay much attention. Ionly caught a glimpse of the man's face as he straightened up. I didn'trealize until later that he looked familiar. We got Kapper inside the shack. It turned out to be a cheap bar, with acouple of curtained booths at the back. We got him into one and pulledthe curtain in a lot of curious faces. Kapper dragged hard on thecigarette. The man that gave it to him was gone. Bucky said gently, Okay, Sam. Relax. What's the trouble? <doc-sep>Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard linesof his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was coveredwith mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's. He said thickly, I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found itand brought it out. The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. Helpme, he said simply. I'm scared. His mouth drooled. I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It'sgot to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but theywouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it.... He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. I don't knowhow they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back.I've got to.... Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared,suddenly. I said, Get what back where? Bucky got up. I'll get a doctor, he said. Stick with him. Kappergrabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his handsstood out like guy wires. Don't leave me. Got to tell you—where it is. Got to take it back.Promise you'll take it back. He gasped and struggled over hisbreathing. Sure, said Bucky. Sure, well take it back. What is it? Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight forair. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was nouse. Kapper whispered, Cansin . Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back. Where is it, Sam? I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamishwas standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kappermade a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table. Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky feltKapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew. Heart? said Beamish finally. Yeah, said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. Poor Sam. I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked atBeamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon andpushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap. Keep this guy here till I get back, I said. Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. Shut up, Itold him. We got a contract. I yanked the curtains shut and walkedover to the bar. I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in theplace. At first glance they looked okay—a hard-faced, muscular bunchof miners in dirty shirts and high boots. Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they neverdid any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else. The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartenderwas a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white haircoiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy. I leaned on the bar. Lhak , I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of agreen bottle. I reached for it, casually. That guy we brought in, I said. He sure has a skinful. Passed outcold. What's he been spiking his drinks with? Selak , said a voice in my ear. As if you didn't know. I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standingbehind me. And I remembered him, then. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The first encounter between Beamish and the two occurred when Jig and Bucky were at the point of a fight. Beamish prevented them from this unnecessary action, and soon he saved the circus. The circus was broke, the performers were discontent with not getting their bills, the construction was loose, etc. There would be no tour and existence of the circus overall without this encounter. Being able to pay the gang, Jig and Bucky could show up without being afraid or ashamed to show up in their circus and keep doing business. This encounter was also somehow connected with the attempt to kill the two by letting the vapor snakes out. The trip to Venus in the end was also caused by this encounter, as it was the place where Beamish awaited for his partners and the gang. Therefore, he was somehow connected with them meeting Sam, a hunter supplying animals for the circus, and his eventual weird death. Beamish listening to their dialogue and overall investing in a broke circus creates a suspicion of his actions having some hidden reason. Together with the unhappiness of the gang and one creature smelling death, Beamish's unclear intentions seem scheming and threatening, adding to the intrigue of the whole story.

<s> The Blue Behemoth By LEIGH BRACKETT Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed space-carny leased for a mysterious tour of the inner worlds. It made a one-night pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to find that death stalked it from the jungle in a tiny ball of flame. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of thil , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them. We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute. I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding! Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments.... It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks! I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame. Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry. I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be. I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I.... Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon? Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently: Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel? I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer. The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad. There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's. He said, I don't think you understand. I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc. Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand. I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed. Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him. Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money! The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you? Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity. The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal. I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole. The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus. <doc-sep>I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn'tsay anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a freshpitcher of thil on the table. Then I cleared my throat. What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish? Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. I haveindependent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lightenthe burden of life for those less fortunate.... Bucky got red around the ears. Just a minute, he murmured, andstarted to get up. I kicked him under the table. Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish. He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamishignored him. He went on, quietly, I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the mostvaluable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation oftoil and boredom.... I said, Sure, sure. But what was your idea? There are many towns along the Venusian frontiers where noentertainment of the— proper sort has been available. I propose toremedy that. I propose to charter your circus, Mister Shannon, to makea tour of several settlements along the Tehara Belt. Bucky had relaxed. His grey-green eyes began to gleam. He started tospeak, and I kicked him again. That would be expensive, Mister Beamish, I said. We'd have to cancelseveral engagements.... He looked at me. I was lying, and he knew it. But he said, I quite understand that. I would be prepared.... The curtains were yanked back suddenly. Beamish shut up. Bucky and Iglared at the head and shoulders poking in between the drapes. It was Gow, our zoo-man—a big, ugly son-of-a-gun from a Terrancolony on Mercury. I was there once. Gow looks a lot like thescenery—scowling, unapproachable, and tough. His hands, holding thecurtains apart, had thick black hair on them and were not much largerthan the hams of a Venusian swamp-rhino. He said, Boss, Gertrude's actin' up again. Gertrude be blowed, growled Bucky. Can't you see I'm busy? Gow's black eyes were unpleasant. I'm tellin' you, Boss, Gertrudeain't happy. She ain't had the right food. If something.... I said, That'll all be taken care of, Gow. Run along now. He looked at me like he was thinking it wouldn't take much timber tofit me for a coffin. Okay! But Gertrude's unhappy. She's lonesome,see? And if she don't get happier pretty soon I ain't sure your tin-potship'll hold her. He pulled the curtains to and departed. Bucky Shannon groaned. Beamishcleared his throat and said, rather stiffly, Gertrude? Yeah. She's kind of temperamental. Bucky took a quick drink. Ifinished for him. She's the star attraction of our show, Mr. Beamish. A real blue-swampVenusian cansin . The only other one on the Triangle belongs to SavittBrothers, and she's much smaller than Gertrude. She was also much younger, but I didn't go into that. Gertrude may bea little creaky, but she's still pretty impressive. I only hoped shewouldn't die on us, because without her we'd have a sicker-lookingcircus than even I could stand. Beamish looked impressed. A cansin . Well, well! The mysterysurrounding the origin and species of the cansin is a fascinatingsubject. The extreme rarity of the animal.... We were getting off the subject. I said tactfully, We'd have to haveat least a hundred U.C.'s. It was twice what we had any right to ask. I was prepared to dicker.Beamish looked at me with that innocent dead pan. For a fraction of asecond I thought I saw something back of his round blue eyes, and mystomach jumped like it was shot. Beamish smiled sweetly. I'm not much of a bargainer. One hundred Universal Credits will beagreeable to me. He dragged out a roll as big as my two fists, peeledoff half a dozen credit slips, and laid them on the table. By way of a retainer, gentleman. My attorney and I will call on you inthe morning with a contract and itinerary. Good night. We said good night, trying not to drool. Beamish went away. Bucky madegrab for the money, but I beat him to it. Scram, I said. There are guys waiting for this. Big guys with clubs.Here. I gave him a small-denomination slip I'd been holding out. Wecan get lushed enough on this. Shannon has a good vocabulary. He used it. When he got his breath backhe said suddenly, Beamish is pulling some kind of a game. Yeah. It may be crooked. Sure. And he may be screwball and on the level. For Pete's sake! Iyelled. You want to sit here till we all dry up and blow away? Shannon looked at me, kind of funny. He looked at the bulge in my tunicwhere the roll was. He raked back his thick light hair. Yeah, he said. I hope there'll be enough left to bribe the jury. Hepoked his head outside. Hey, boy! More thildatum ! <doc-sep>It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport whereShannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Lateas it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sittingaround and smoking and looking very ugly. It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restlessunder the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead anddried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blownred dust gritted in my teeth. Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance tothe roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on hisfeet. He waved and said, Hiya, boys. They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. Igrinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot morethan money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out ofhis own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time inweeks we'd come in at the front door. I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly,Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts.Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily. Now? he said. Now, I said. We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to joinin. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all wenthome happy. They had their money, and we had their blood. The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and thegreen girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt themuscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkersand joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in thepassageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings. Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose.They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I'verewarded them. I said, Sure, rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed. Let's go see Gertrude. I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny goinginto the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a cityguy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. ButBucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged. Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye. You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'.... The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall downthe ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't....Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends? It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there wasa dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started downthe long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks andcompression units. Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn'tnear as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It'sthe smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them,breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walledaround them as strong as the cage bars. Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, andthen wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again.A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell,ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall. It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the sametime. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name Icould think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a greatmetallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gowhad them nicely conditioned to that gong. <doc-sep>But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden.... Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome. That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled. I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a cansin . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference. They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The cansins were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils. I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big. I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire. The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began. Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one. Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male cansin . There may not even be any. Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain.... Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts. He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude. I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time.... He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child. This time, he said, I ain't sure. Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'. He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed. You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love.... Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck. We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller. Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire. I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake! I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream. I thought, Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us! I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me. One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder. The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes. Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared! Then I went out. II Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed thak -weed. It smelt. You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell. He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he? Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell! I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick. Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said: Beamish is here with his lawyer. I picked up my shirt. Right with you. Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door. Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose. I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head. Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why? Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped. One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out? I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors. Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I.... I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all! We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens. Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way. Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute. Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look. I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned. A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one! I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship. While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming. <doc-sep>The canvasmen were busy setting up the annex, slopping and cursing inthe mud. The paste brigade was heading for the shacks. Shannon and Istood with the hot rain running off our slickers, looking. I heard a noise behind me and looked around. Ahra the Nahali woman wasstanding in the mud with her arms up and her head thrown back, and hertriangular mouth open like a thirsty dog. She didn't have anything onbut her blue-green, hard scaled hide, and she was chuckling. It didn'tsound nice. You find a lot of Nahali people in side-shows, doing tricks withthe electric power they carry in their own bodies. They're Venusianmiddle-swampers, they're not human, and they never forget it. Ahra opened her slitted red eyes and looked at me and laughed withwhite reptilian teeth. Death, she whispered. Death and trouble. The jungle tells me. I cansmell it in the swamp wind. The hot rain sluiced over her. She shivered, and the pale skin underher jaw pulsed like a toad's, and her eyes were red. The deep swamps are angry, she whispered. Something has been taken.They are angry, and I smell death in the wind! She turned away, laughing, and I cursed her, and my stomach was tightand cold. Bucky said, Let's eat if they have a bar in this dump. We weren't half way across the mud puddle that passed as a landingfield when a man came out of a shack on the edge of the settlement. Wecould see him plainly, because he was off to one side of the crowd. He fell on his knees in the mud, making noises. It took him three orfour tries to get our names out clear enough to understand. Bucky said, Jig—it's Sam Kapper. We started to run. The crowd, mostly big unshaken miners, wheeledaround to see what was happening. People began to close in on the manwho crawled and whimpered in the mud. Sam Kapper was a hunter, supplying animals to zoos and circuses andcarnivals. He'd given us good deals a couple of times, when we weren'ttoo broke, and we were pretty friendly. I hadn't seen him for three seasons. I remembered him as a bronzed,hard-bitten guy, lean and tough as a twist of tung wire. I felt sick,looking down at him. Bucky started to help him up. Kapper was crying, and he jerked all overlike animals I've seen that were scared to death. Some guy leaned overand put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it for him. I was thinking about Kapper, then, and I didn't pay much attention. Ionly caught a glimpse of the man's face as he straightened up. I didn'trealize until later that he looked familiar. We got Kapper inside the shack. It turned out to be a cheap bar, with acouple of curtained booths at the back. We got him into one and pulledthe curtain in a lot of curious faces. Kapper dragged hard on thecigarette. The man that gave it to him was gone. Bucky said gently, Okay, Sam. Relax. What's the trouble? <doc-sep>Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard linesof his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was coveredwith mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's. He said thickly, I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found itand brought it out. The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. Helpme, he said simply. I'm scared. His mouth drooled. I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It'sgot to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but theywouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it.... He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. I don't knowhow they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back.I've got to.... Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared,suddenly. I said, Get what back where? Bucky got up. I'll get a doctor, he said. Stick with him. Kappergrabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his handsstood out like guy wires. Don't leave me. Got to tell you—where it is. Got to take it back.Promise you'll take it back. He gasped and struggled over hisbreathing. Sure, said Bucky. Sure, well take it back. What is it? Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight forair. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was nouse. Kapper whispered, Cansin . Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back. Where is it, Sam? I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamishwas standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kappermade a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table. Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky feltKapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew. Heart? said Beamish finally. Yeah, said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. Poor Sam. I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked atBeamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon andpushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap. Keep this guy here till I get back, I said. Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. Shut up, Itold him. We got a contract. I yanked the curtains shut and walkedover to the bar. I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in theplace. At first glance they looked okay—a hard-faced, muscular bunchof miners in dirty shirts and high boots. Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they neverdid any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else. The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartenderwas a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white haircoiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy. I leaned on the bar. Lhak , I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of agreen bottle. I reached for it, casually. That guy we brought in, I said. He sure has a skinful. Passed outcold. What's he been spiking his drinks with? Selak , said a voice in my ear. As if you didn't know. I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standingbehind me. And I remembered him, then. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story begins in the middle of some bar or club with a girl playing piano and drinks being served. When Beamish joined them, the three moved to a booth - a quieter place there. After the conversation, Jig and Bucky go to circus. At first, they meet the whole gang, coming through the main entrance. Then they move to the tank of a huge special creature, Gertrude, which is located a bit afar. On the way back home, outside the tank, the two were attacked by snakes. They woke up in different rooms, taken care of by Kanza the Martian croaker after being bitten by snakes and brought there by Gow, a member of the circus gang. Very soon they all together with the gang set off to Venus on a space ship to meet Beamish. On Venus the gang walked towards a local bar and the story ends there.

<s> SPACEMAN ON A SPREE BY MACK REYNOLDS Illustrated by Nodel [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's more important—Man's conquest of space, or one spaceman's life? I They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension. They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all. In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much. The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard. He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft. No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth. They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn. <doc-sep>The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses. That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State. Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed. Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has. That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny. His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't. At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did? Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes. Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips? But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for.... <doc-sep>Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman. He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond. His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in our minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration. So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently. So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement! Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means? Gubelin blinked at him. The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life? Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it? You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go. Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again. He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah, con you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg? The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap. <doc-sep>II Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated. When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run. Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed. Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer. He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need? It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force. In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient. The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held. All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market. Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for. He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly. Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head. Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him. Si was going to do it differently this time. Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best. <doc-sep>To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles. Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please. In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead. One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years. He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city. He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown. He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial. Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud. The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed. Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room. A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes. Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis. He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was. He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress. He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed. For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond. He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen. He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room. The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room. <doc-sep>At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar. There was actually a bartender. Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour. Yes, sir. The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him. Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present. To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities. He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed. Zo-ro-as-ter , he breathed. She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but every pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West. His stare couldn't be ignored. She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive. There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink. Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me? Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out. The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir.... The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin? Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure. Good Heavens, you're a spaceman? Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run. She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou. Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si. She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that. Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour. I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him. Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it. Academician Gubelin? she said. You just call him Doc ? Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried? <doc-sep>She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,as though avoiding his face. I ... I suppose it was that speechDoctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight inyour space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to theplanets.... Well, Si said modestly, two of my runs were only to the Moon. ... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. Andthe dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the factthat you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the wholeworld trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring. Si grunted. Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me totake on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll bedropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic PlanningBoard. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying topressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space ExplorationDepartment, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot theirships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of thosespaceships costs? Funny? she said. Why, I don't think it's funny at all. Si said, Look, how about another drink? Natalie Paskov said, Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr.... Si, Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist ofthe hand indicating their need for two more of the same. How come youknow so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interestedin space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot ofmaterials and all and keep the economy going. Natalie said earnestly, Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I'veread all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilotsand everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'dsay I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about. Si chuckled. A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I wasnever much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interestedafter my first run and I found out what space cafard was. She frowned. I don't believe I know much about that. Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he hadever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. Old Gubelinkeeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaperarticles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space explorationalready. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammedtight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there'sprecious little room in the conning tower and you're the only manaboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a wholeflock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,but.... Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to ticand he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back. <doc-sep></s>

Seymour Pond has just retired from his career as the last astronaut from the Ultrawelfare State at the age of thirty. At his going away party he is given a watch, and academics like Lifting Gubelin and Dr Hans Girarad-Perregaux speak on his behalf. Si has decided to take the money he has saved up from his time working, which most people in the Ultrawelfare state don't, and live a simple comfortable life. He intends to never work again, after his six space flights. The currency used in the state was universal, controlled by a personal credit card. Because most jobs were automated, few people had to work, so most people lived off of a set welfare, and those selected to work were given a little extra compensation. Si was one of these people. Gubelin and Perregaux are both horrified by the fact that Pond has decided to take an early retirement. He was their only pilot for their space program, and if they were to get another, it would take at least a year of training. Without a pilot, they are worried that their funding will be cut, and the space program will be shut down. They scheme together as to how to get Pond back in the space program. They think that the only way to get him back would be to make sure he was left without any money, and therefore would have no choice but to return to his former position. Si is planning a big night out. He has always gone and celebrated when there was a cause, and tonight, he was planning to spend at least half of all the money in his account. He gets dressed in his retirement rank suit to go out, checks his balance, and then takes his vacuum tube to New york city. Before he leaves, he books a room at a swanky hotel for the rich and famous, and after a few moments, his car transports him to his room. There is an amazing view of the city, and from his room, gets ready to go to the bar. At the bar he orders a drink, before noticing a beautiful woman beside him. They get to talking and before long, she tells him she recognises him, telling him about how moved she found his whole retirement ceremony. Making it very clear she wasn't happy he was retiring. He asks why she has an interest in space, to which she replies that she always has. He begins to explain the aspects of space flight, when the right side of his mouth begins to tick, and he knocks his drink back.

<s> SPACEMAN ON A SPREE BY MACK REYNOLDS Illustrated by Nodel [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's more important—Man's conquest of space, or one spaceman's life? I They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension. They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all. In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much. The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard. He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft. No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth. They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn. <doc-sep>The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses. That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State. Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed. Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has. That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny. His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't. At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did? Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes. Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips? But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for.... <doc-sep>Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman. He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond. His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in our minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration. So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently. So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement! Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means? Gubelin blinked at him. The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life? Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it? You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go. Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again. He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah, con you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg? The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap. <doc-sep>II Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated. When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run. Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed. Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer. He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need? It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force. In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient. The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held. All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market. Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for. He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly. Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head. Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him. Si was going to do it differently this time. Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best. <doc-sep>To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles. Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please. In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead. One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years. He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city. He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown. He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial. Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud. The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed. Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room. A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes. Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis. He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was. He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress. He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed. For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond. He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen. He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room. The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room. <doc-sep>At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar. There was actually a bartender. Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour. Yes, sir. The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him. Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present. To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities. He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed. Zo-ro-as-ter , he breathed. She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but every pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West. His stare couldn't be ignored. She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive. There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink. Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me? Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out. The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir.... The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin? Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure. Good Heavens, you're a spaceman? Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run. She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou. Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si. She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that. Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour. I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him. Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it. Academician Gubelin? she said. You just call him Doc ? Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried? <doc-sep>She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,as though avoiding his face. I ... I suppose it was that speechDoctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight inyour space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to theplanets.... Well, Si said modestly, two of my runs were only to the Moon. ... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. Andthe dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the factthat you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the wholeworld trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring. Si grunted. Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me totake on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll bedropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic PlanningBoard. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying topressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space ExplorationDepartment, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot theirships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of thosespaceships costs? Funny? she said. Why, I don't think it's funny at all. Si said, Look, how about another drink? Natalie Paskov said, Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr.... Si, Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist ofthe hand indicating their need for two more of the same. How come youknow so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interestedin space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot ofmaterials and all and keep the economy going. Natalie said earnestly, Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I'veread all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilotsand everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'dsay I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about. Si chuckled. A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I wasnever much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interestedafter my first run and I found out what space cafard was. She frowned. I don't believe I know much about that. Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he hadever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. Old Gubelinkeeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaperarticles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space explorationalready. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammedtight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there'sprecious little room in the conning tower and you're the only manaboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a wholeflock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,but.... Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to ticand he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back. <doc-sep></s>

The Ultrawelfare State is a distant future society, based upon the main ideas of communism. Every person in the state is guaranteed shares in the society, which translates to money, food, clothes, housing, medical care and education. The money of the nation is doled out by the economic planning board, who determine how the communal wealth is spent. Everyone is given a universal credit card, which only they can access, and they can check their balances on the teevee phones. The way in which people are selected to work in the state is very interesting. In this society, most jobs are automated, so very few people are unfortunate enough to have to work. People are selected for different jobs based on their physical and mental qualifications. People who don't work have their assigned shares to live off of, and those that are selected to work are given a little extra as compensation. When the society was first formed, they tried to give everyone work, but they realised that it was no good to have people working for two hours, two days a week, so they created the draft lottery. Most people live in small apartments, and the fortunate living Si, are able to afford vacuum tubes, which can take you anywhere in an instant. It is only the swankiest of places that have real people working in them. All payment is automated, and different settings of rooms can be changed in an instant in fancy hotels.

<s> SPACEMAN ON A SPREE BY MACK REYNOLDS Illustrated by Nodel [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's more important—Man's conquest of space, or one spaceman's life? I They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension. They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all. In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much. The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard. He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft. No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth. They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn. <doc-sep>The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses. That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State. Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed. Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has. That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny. His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't. At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did? Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes. Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips? But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for.... <doc-sep>Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman. He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond. His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in our minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration. So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently. So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement! Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means? Gubelin blinked at him. The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life? Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it? You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go. Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again. He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah, con you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg? The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap. <doc-sep>II Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated. When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run. Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed. Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer. He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need? It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force. In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient. The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held. All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market. Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for. He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly. Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head. Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him. Si was going to do it differently this time. Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best. <doc-sep>To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles. Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please. In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead. One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years. He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city. He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown. He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial. Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud. The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed. Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room. A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes. Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis. He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was. He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress. He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed. For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond. He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen. He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room. The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room. <doc-sep>At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar. There was actually a bartender. Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour. Yes, sir. The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him. Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present. To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities. He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed. Zo-ro-as-ter , he breathed. She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but every pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West. His stare couldn't be ignored. She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive. There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink. Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me? Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out. The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir.... The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin? Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure. Good Heavens, you're a spaceman? Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run. She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou. Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si. She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that. Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour. I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him. Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it. Academician Gubelin? she said. You just call him Doc ? Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried? <doc-sep>She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,as though avoiding his face. I ... I suppose it was that speechDoctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight inyour space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to theplanets.... Well, Si said modestly, two of my runs were only to the Moon. ... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. Andthe dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the factthat you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the wholeworld trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring. Si grunted. Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me totake on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll bedropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic PlanningBoard. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying topressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space ExplorationDepartment, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot theirships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of thosespaceships costs? Funny? she said. Why, I don't think it's funny at all. Si said, Look, how about another drink? Natalie Paskov said, Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr.... Si, Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist ofthe hand indicating their need for two more of the same. How come youknow so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interestedin space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot ofmaterials and all and keep the economy going. Natalie said earnestly, Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I'veread all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilotsand everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'dsay I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about. Si chuckled. A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I wasnever much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interestedafter my first run and I found out what space cafard was. She frowned. I don't believe I know much about that. Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he hadever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. Old Gubelinkeeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaperarticles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space explorationalready. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammedtight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there'sprecious little room in the conning tower and you're the only manaboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a wholeflock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,but.... Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to ticand he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back. <doc-sep></s>

Gubelin and Perregaux know that they must get Pond back into their program, if they are going to save it from their funding being cut. Perregaux tells Gubelin about a theory, where a sailor, who has been out at sea for many months, will always blow his hard earned money on one night out the minute he's back in town, no matter how much he wanted to save it. This is because of the loneliness of the sailor, and their need to make up for all the experiences that he has missed out on while he was at sea. The sailor will wake up the next morning, having spent all his money, without a cent to his name. Then, he will have to go back out to sea, to make back the money he has lost, so the cycle continues. Perregaux believes that Pond is this sailor, and if only they could set a trap for him, in which it would cause him to lose all his money in one night, he would have to go back to work for them. They plant Natalie Paskov, a beautiful woman at the bar where Pond goes. She interacts with him as if he's famous, stroking his ego. She then goes on to show her disdain for the idea that he has retired, and he orders them drinks. And so the night begins, with Pond starting to get drunk, and lose all his money to Natalie.

<s> SPACEMAN ON A SPREE BY MACK REYNOLDS Illustrated by Nodel [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's more important—Man's conquest of space, or one spaceman's life? I They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension. They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all. In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much. The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard. He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft. No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth. They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn. <doc-sep>The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses. That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State. Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed. Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has. That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny. His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't. At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did? Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes. Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips? But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for.... <doc-sep>Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman. He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond. His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in our minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration. So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently. So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement! Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means? Gubelin blinked at him. The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life? Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it? You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go. Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again. He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah, con you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg? The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap. <doc-sep>II Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated. When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run. Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed. Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer. He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need? It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force. In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient. The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held. All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market. Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for. He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly. Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head. Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him. Si was going to do it differently this time. Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best. <doc-sep>To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles. Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please. In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead. One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years. He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city. He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown. He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial. Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud. The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed. Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room. A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes. Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis. He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was. He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress. He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed. For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond. He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen. He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room. The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room. <doc-sep>At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar. There was actually a bartender. Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour. Yes, sir. The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him. Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present. To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities. He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed. Zo-ro-as-ter , he breathed. She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but every pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West. His stare couldn't be ignored. She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive. There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink. Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me? Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out. The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir.... The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin? Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure. Good Heavens, you're a spaceman? Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run. She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou. Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si. She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that. Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour. I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him. Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it. Academician Gubelin? she said. You just call him Doc ? Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried? <doc-sep>She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,as though avoiding his face. I ... I suppose it was that speechDoctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight inyour space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to theplanets.... Well, Si said modestly, two of my runs were only to the Moon. ... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. Andthe dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the factthat you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the wholeworld trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring. Si grunted. Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me totake on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll bedropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic PlanningBoard. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying topressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space ExplorationDepartment, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot theirships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of thosespaceships costs? Funny? she said. Why, I don't think it's funny at all. Si said, Look, how about another drink? Natalie Paskov said, Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr.... Si, Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist ofthe hand indicating their need for two more of the same. How come youknow so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interestedin space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot ofmaterials and all and keep the economy going. Natalie said earnestly, Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I'veread all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilotsand everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'dsay I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about. Si chuckled. A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I wasnever much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interestedafter my first run and I found out what space cafard was. She frowned. I don't believe I know much about that. Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he hadever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. Old Gubelinkeeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaperarticles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space explorationalready. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammedtight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there'sprecious little room in the conning tower and you're the only manaboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a wholeflock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,but.... Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to ticand he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back. <doc-sep></s>

Ponds was a space pilot for the department of space exploration. he had completed six space runs to the Moon, Mars, Venus, and Jupiter. He hated every minute of it. Initially, he was drafted into the workforce reserves. He was soon. selected for the job based on his physical attributes and mental qualifications. He had to go through rigorous training once he was selected. This training took several years. After this he was put into the field. He was crammed in a small little space cafard for what seemed like endless amounts of time.

<s> SPACEMAN ON A SPREE BY MACK REYNOLDS Illustrated by Nodel [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's more important—Man's conquest of space, or one spaceman's life? I They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension. They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all. In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much. The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard. He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft. No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth. They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn. <doc-sep>The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses. That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State. Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed. Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has. That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny. His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't. At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did? Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes. Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips? But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for.... <doc-sep>Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman. He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond. His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in our minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration. So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently. So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement! Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means? Gubelin blinked at him. The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life? Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it? You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go. Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again. He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah, con you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg? The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap. <doc-sep>II Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated. When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run. Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed. Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer. He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need? It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force. In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient. The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held. All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market. Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for. He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly. Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head. Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him. Si was going to do it differently this time. Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best. <doc-sep>To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles. Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please. In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead. One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years. He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city. He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown. He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial. Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud. The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed. Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room. A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes. Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis. He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was. He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress. He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed. For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond. He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen. He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room. The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room. <doc-sep>At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar. There was actually a bartender. Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour. Yes, sir. The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him. Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present. To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities. He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed. Zo-ro-as-ter , he breathed. She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but every pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West. His stare couldn't be ignored. She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive. There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink. Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me? Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out. The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir.... The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin? Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure. Good Heavens, you're a spaceman? Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run. She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou. Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si. She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that. Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour. I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him. Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it. Academician Gubelin? she said. You just call him Doc ? Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried? <doc-sep>She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,as though avoiding his face. I ... I suppose it was that speechDoctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight inyour space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to theplanets.... Well, Si said modestly, two of my runs were only to the Moon. ... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. Andthe dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the factthat you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the wholeworld trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring. Si grunted. Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me totake on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll bedropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic PlanningBoard. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying topressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space ExplorationDepartment, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot theirships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of thosespaceships costs? Funny? she said. Why, I don't think it's funny at all. Si said, Look, how about another drink? Natalie Paskov said, Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr.... Si, Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist ofthe hand indicating their need for two more of the same. How come youknow so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interestedin space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot ofmaterials and all and keep the economy going. Natalie said earnestly, Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I'veread all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilotsand everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'dsay I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about. Si chuckled. A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I wasnever much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interestedafter my first run and I found out what space cafard was. She frowned. I don't believe I know much about that. Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he hadever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. Old Gubelinkeeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaperarticles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space explorationalready. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammedtight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there'sprecious little room in the conning tower and you're the only manaboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a wholeflock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,but.... Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to ticand he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back. <doc-sep></s>

Pond seems to be obsessed with money. At his retirement, he is given a gold watch. He thinks to himself how much better it would have been if they had simply given him money instead. He vows to live a simple, comfortable life, keeping an eye on his money so it will last him for the rest of his days. He is very proud of the fact that he can afford a luxury like his vacuum tube. Whenever something goes well in Pond's life, he loves to splurge on a night out. He ends up spending enormous amounts of money on things that he sometimes deems as "sub-par" for a man of his status. On this one fateful night, he decides that he deserves the best of everything. He is obsessed with the idea of wealth and fame, and checks himself into the nicest hotel he can think of in New York City, partially because he presumes he might see some celebrities there. He checks the balance on his credit card often, and when he goes down to the hotel bar, he has to restrain himself from checking how much a single drink costs. He looks around for signs of famous people, but is disappointed when he sees none. He gives into the flattery of Natalie when she gushes over him, as if he were famous, believing her obvious depciet, and buying her a drink. Fame and money are everything to Pond.

<s> My Lady Greensleeves By FREDERIK POHL Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This guard smelled trouble and it could be counted on to come—for a nose for trouble was one of the many talents bred here! I His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy. And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R. He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in. He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell? The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie! O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the CivilService Guide to Prison Administration : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book. She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop. The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is— Shut up, Sodaro. <doc-sep>Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She wasattractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got offto a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in thedisciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear andlooked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting forhim to judge their cases. He said patiently: Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out yourcell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, youshould have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time— Hey, Cap'n, wait! Sodaro was looking alarmed. This isn't a firstoffense. Look at the rap sheet. Yesterday she pulled the same thing inthe mess hall. He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. Theblock guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench,and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when theother one asked her to move along. He added virtuously: The guardwarned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure. Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: Idon't care. I don't care! O'Leary stopped her. That's enough! Three days in Block O! It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. Hehad managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omittedto say sir every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it upforever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria wasclearly the next step for her. All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheetto Sodaro and said absently: Too bad a kid like her has to be here.What's she in for? You didn't know, Cap'n? Sodaro leered. She's in for conspiracy toviolate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her,Cap'n. She's a figger-lover! Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain markedCivil Service. But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, thesmell from his nose. What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirtybusiness? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across theyard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent CivilService parents, a good education, everything a girl could wish for. Ifanything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, andlook what she had made of it. The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is noexception, but with the difference that his is the one species thatcreates its own environment in which to specialize. From the momentthat clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weaponsmade by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by theceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame. Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. Fromthe born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolvedto the point of smaller contact and less communication between thespecializations, until now they could understand each other on only themost basic physical necessities—and not even always then. But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degreeof civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregationof each specialization—social and genetic measures to make thembreed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man,or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting thespecializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laboreror Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized,would be good at no specialization. And the basis of this specialization society was: The aptitude groupsare the true races of mankind. Putting it into law was only the legalenforcement of a demonstrable fact. Evening, Cap'n. A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight andtouched his cap as O'Leary passed by. Evening. <doc-sep>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't. There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He was proud of it. It was right that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig—a clerk , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how comfortable it must be to be a wipe—a laborer .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't meant to be— Evening, Cap'n. He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate. Evening, Conan, he said. Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place. So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers? II Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment. And punishment is what you get. Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock. Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling. Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other. The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside. The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves. The outside guard shrugged. Detail, halt ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards. The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up. Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready. Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed. Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses. The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves. However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch. <doc-sep>Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They werelaborers—wipes, for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard evenfor them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithefive-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupideyes of a calf. Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. Hey, Flock! What do you want, Sauer? called Flock from his own cell. We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling soas not to disturb the lady! He screeched with howling, maniacallaughter. Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,Flock! Oh, you think so? shrieked Flock. Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell! The howling started all over again. The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned offthe tangler field once more. He licked his lips. Say, you want to takea turn in here for a while? Uh-uh. The outside guard shook his head. You're yellow, the inside guard said moodily. Ah, I don't know why Idon't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beatyour head off! Ee-ee-ee! screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. I'm scared! Then hegrinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. Don't you knowyou can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss? Shut up ! yelled the inside guard. Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not helpit. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was gettingunder her skin. They weren't even—even human , she told herselfmiserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards thesatisfaction of hearing her—they were animals! Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedlythat resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectlynormal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion againstthe vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was good thatSauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicioussystem— But did they have to scream so? The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself toweeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless! It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner verylong. III I smell trouble, said O'Leary to the warden. Trouble? Trouble? Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and hislittle round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. WardenGodfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates inthe Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto thelast decent job he would have in his life. Trouble? What trouble? O'Leary shrugged. Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? Thisafternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard. The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: O'Leary, whatdid you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ballin the yard. That's what recreation periods are for. You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on theoutside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipesdon't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things. O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden thatit didn't smell right? For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She'sa pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's alifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because shetold Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. NowMathias wouldn't— The warden raised his hand. Please, O'Leary, don't bother me aboutthat kind of stuff. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in adesk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then droppeda pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring thescalding heat. He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured. O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You haveyour job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job isjust as important as my job, he said piously. Everybody's job isjust as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick toour own jobs. We don't want to try to pass . O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way wasthat for the warden to talk to him? Excuse the expression, O'Leary, the warden said anxiously. I mean,after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right? He wasa great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier. You know youdon't want to worry about my end of running the prison. And I don'twant to worry about yours . You see? And he folded his hands andsmiled like a civil-service Buddha. <doc-sep>O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs. Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last. But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose— It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time. He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect. Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing. His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably. That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge. Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did what ?You're going to WHAT? He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer. O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake. And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers. The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O. Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves. His name was Flock. He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man. The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten! Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment. Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it. <doc-sep>At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet. Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance. The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live quite like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken. Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove. Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over. The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I— Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching. It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time. Every time but this. For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close. The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked. All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain. But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours. No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid. All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear? He was nearly fainting with the pain. But he hadn't let go. He didn't let go. And he didn't stop. IV It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards. Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear? And he snapped the connection. O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble! The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast. Riot! The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots. It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole. It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real. It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug. Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved. A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison. For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together. <doc-sep>Forty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a blaze of light. Theairmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech ofthe alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretchedand yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complainedand their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduledfor tonight; no, they didn't know where Daddy was going; no, the kidscouldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night. And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothersstruggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefingarea to hear. They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. Riot!gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. The wipes! I told Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. Youknow how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a cluband stand right by the door and— Club! snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two childrenquerulously awake in her nursery at home. What in God's name is theuse of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'dbetter come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need itbefore this night is over. But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over thescramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter oftrouble in the wipe quarters. The Jug! The governor himself had calledthem out; they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-suchlevels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison. The rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off with awhistling roar; and last of all, the helicopters took off ... and theywere the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took uptheir picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiersin each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below. They were ready for the breakout. But there wasn't any breakout. The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home for fuel. Thehelicopters hung on—still ready, still waiting. The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about, and went away again.They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed.The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts onthe walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights ofthe guard squadrons surrounding the walls. North of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of reclaimedland, the matchbox row houses of the clerical neighborhoods showedlights in every window as the figgers stood ready to repel invasionfrom their undesired neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowdedtenements of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from window towindow; and there were crowds in the bright streets. The whole bloody thing's going to blow up! a helicopter bombardieryelled bitterly to his pilot, above the flutter and roar of thewhirling blades. Look at the mobs in Greaserville! The first breakoutfrom the Jug's going to start a fight like you never saw and we'll beright in the middle of it! He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for everyman, woman and child in the city-state would be right in the middle ofit. There was no place anywhere that would be spared. No mixing. Thatwas the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm ina family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborersa clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer tiesthan blood or skin? But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; andonce they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. Thebreakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had everknown. But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming tocome. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Liam O’Leary is the captain of the guards at the Estates-General Correctional Institution (also known as the Jug). He starts off seeing a prisoner called Sue-Ann Bradley, who is having problems with a block guard named Sandro. She explains to him that Mathias, another prisoner, did not give her proper instructions and called the guards on her after ten minutes. O’Leary gives Sue-Ann a warning, but Sandro informs him that she has already received a similar warning the day before. He changes his mind and sends her to three days in Block O. O’Leary then begins to think about his job and how it is a good civil-service job. He then thinks about the figs (clerks) and how they are still important members of society even if there should not regularly be a cross between the barriers of the two classes. Sue-Ann, on the other hand, is taken to the Block O disciplinary block. The leading citizens, Flock, and Sauer begin shrieking at her as soon as she arrives. The guards exchange some words regarding the new additions to the block, and Sue-Ann walks through the gate to reach her cell. The two of them begin screaming and howling again. The guards are annoyed, and Sue-Ann starts to weep for real. Meanwhile, O’Leary informs Warden Godfrey Schluckebier of the upcoming trouble he senses, but the warden brushes his concerns as nothing dangerous. The warden reminds O’Leary that they each have their jobs to worry about. Suddenly, the warden gets a phone call, and he realizes that the call is made from Cell Block O by Flock. The events preceding this call cut back to Sue-Ann, who is still in her cell when Flock initially screams in agony. The guard issues a ten-minute rest period, and the tangler fields are turned off. While the inmates are getting up, the guard notices that Flock is still doubled over in pain due to his cramps. He unties the prisoner, but he sees a strange smell that is reminiscent of scorched meat. To his surprise, Flock threatens him with a hidden handmade shiv. Sauer and Flock take the guards hostage, and they threaten the warden to send a medic down for first aid for Flock. The warden then requests to speak to the governor, which triggers a huge effect on various events. Jets, rockets, and helicopters are sent to contain the possible breakout. There is also the possibility of riots starting. Everybody is fearful of what will happen once the inmates break out. However, even with this fearful anticipation from the outside world, the breakout does not seem to happen.

<s> My Lady Greensleeves By FREDERIK POHL Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This guard smelled trouble and it could be counted on to come—for a nose for trouble was one of the many talents bred here! I His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy. And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R. He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in. He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell? The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie! O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the CivilService Guide to Prison Administration : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book. She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop. The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is— Shut up, Sodaro. <doc-sep>Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She wasattractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got offto a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in thedisciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear andlooked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting forhim to judge their cases. He said patiently: Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out yourcell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, youshould have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time— Hey, Cap'n, wait! Sodaro was looking alarmed. This isn't a firstoffense. Look at the rap sheet. Yesterday she pulled the same thing inthe mess hall. He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. Theblock guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench,and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when theother one asked her to move along. He added virtuously: The guardwarned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure. Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: Idon't care. I don't care! O'Leary stopped her. That's enough! Three days in Block O! It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. Hehad managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omittedto say sir every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it upforever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria wasclearly the next step for her. All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheetto Sodaro and said absently: Too bad a kid like her has to be here.What's she in for? You didn't know, Cap'n? Sodaro leered. She's in for conspiracy toviolate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her,Cap'n. She's a figger-lover! Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain markedCivil Service. But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, thesmell from his nose. What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirtybusiness? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across theyard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent CivilService parents, a good education, everything a girl could wish for. Ifanything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, andlook what she had made of it. The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is noexception, but with the difference that his is the one species thatcreates its own environment in which to specialize. From the momentthat clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weaponsmade by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by theceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame. Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. Fromthe born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolvedto the point of smaller contact and less communication between thespecializations, until now they could understand each other on only themost basic physical necessities—and not even always then. But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degreeof civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregationof each specialization—social and genetic measures to make thembreed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man,or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting thespecializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laboreror Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized,would be good at no specialization. And the basis of this specialization society was: The aptitude groupsare the true races of mankind. Putting it into law was only the legalenforcement of a demonstrable fact. Evening, Cap'n. A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight andtouched his cap as O'Leary passed by. Evening. <doc-sep>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't. There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He was proud of it. It was right that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig—a clerk , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how comfortable it must be to be a wipe—a laborer .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't meant to be— Evening, Cap'n. He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate. Evening, Conan, he said. Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place. So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers? II Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment. And punishment is what you get. Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock. Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling. Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other. The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside. The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves. The outside guard shrugged. Detail, halt ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards. The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up. Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready. Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed. Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses. The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves. However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch. <doc-sep>Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They werelaborers—wipes, for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard evenfor them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithefive-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupideyes of a calf. Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. Hey, Flock! What do you want, Sauer? called Flock from his own cell. We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling soas not to disturb the lady! He screeched with howling, maniacallaughter. Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,Flock! Oh, you think so? shrieked Flock. Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell! The howling started all over again. The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned offthe tangler field once more. He licked his lips. Say, you want to takea turn in here for a while? Uh-uh. The outside guard shook his head. You're yellow, the inside guard said moodily. Ah, I don't know why Idon't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beatyour head off! Ee-ee-ee! screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. I'm scared! Then hegrinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. Don't you knowyou can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss? Shut up ! yelled the inside guard. Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not helpit. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was gettingunder her skin. They weren't even—even human , she told herselfmiserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards thesatisfaction of hearing her—they were animals! Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedlythat resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectlynormal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion againstthe vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was good thatSauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicioussystem— But did they have to scream so? The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself toweeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless! It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner verylong. III I smell trouble, said O'Leary to the warden. Trouble? Trouble? Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and hislittle round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. WardenGodfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates inthe Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto thelast decent job he would have in his life. Trouble? What trouble? O'Leary shrugged. Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? Thisafternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard. The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: O'Leary, whatdid you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ballin the yard. That's what recreation periods are for. You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on theoutside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipesdon't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things. O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden thatit didn't smell right? For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She'sa pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's alifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because shetold Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. NowMathias wouldn't— The warden raised his hand. Please, O'Leary, don't bother me aboutthat kind of stuff. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in adesk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then droppeda pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring thescalding heat. He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured. O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You haveyour job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job isjust as important as my job, he said piously. Everybody's job isjust as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick toour own jobs. We don't want to try to pass . O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way wasthat for the warden to talk to him? Excuse the expression, O'Leary, the warden said anxiously. I mean,after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right? He wasa great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier. You know youdon't want to worry about my end of running the prison. And I don'twant to worry about yours . You see? And he folded his hands andsmiled like a civil-service Buddha. <doc-sep>O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs. Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last. But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose— It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time. He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect. Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing. His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably. That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge. Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did what ?You're going to WHAT? He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer. O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake. And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers. The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O. Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves. His name was Flock. He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man. The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten! Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment. Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it. <doc-sep>At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet. Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance. The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live quite like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken. Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove. Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over. The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I— Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching. It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time. Every time but this. For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close. The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked. All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain. But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours. No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid. All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear? He was nearly fainting with the pain. But he hadn't let go. He didn't let go. And he didn't stop. IV It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards. Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear? And he snapped the connection. O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble! The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast. Riot! The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots. It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole. It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real. It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug. Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved. A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison. For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together. <doc-sep>Forty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a blaze of light. Theairmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech ofthe alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretchedand yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complainedand their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduledfor tonight; no, they didn't know where Daddy was going; no, the kidscouldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night. And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothersstruggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefingarea to hear. They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. Riot!gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. The wipes! I told Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. Youknow how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a cluband stand right by the door and— Club! snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two childrenquerulously awake in her nursery at home. What in God's name is theuse of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'dbetter come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need itbefore this night is over. But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over thescramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter oftrouble in the wipe quarters. The Jug! The governor himself had calledthem out; they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-suchlevels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison. The rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off with awhistling roar; and last of all, the helicopters took off ... and theywere the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took uptheir picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiersin each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below. They were ready for the breakout. But there wasn't any breakout. The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home for fuel. Thehelicopters hung on—still ready, still waiting. The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about, and went away again.They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed.The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts onthe walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights ofthe guard squadrons surrounding the walls. North of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of reclaimedland, the matchbox row houses of the clerical neighborhoods showedlights in every window as the figgers stood ready to repel invasionfrom their undesired neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowdedtenements of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from window towindow; and there were crowds in the bright streets. The whole bloody thing's going to blow up! a helicopter bombardieryelled bitterly to his pilot, above the flutter and roar of thewhirling blades. Look at the mobs in Greaserville! The first breakoutfrom the Jug's going to start a fight like you never saw and we'll beright in the middle of it! He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for everyman, woman and child in the city-state would be right in the middle ofit. There was no place anywhere that would be spared. No mixing. Thatwas the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm ina family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborersa clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer tiesthan blood or skin? But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; andonce they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. Thebreakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had everknown. But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming tocome. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The conversation between Liam O'Leary and Warden Godfrey Schluckebier reveals that their society heavily relies on specialization to thrive. It is initially said that the direction of evolution is towards specialization, and this also includes mankind. However, humans can create whatever environment they want to specialize in. The warden tells O'Leary that he should not involve himself in the warden's affairs and that he had his own job to do too. He emphasizes that everybody's jobs are important, but it is even more essential to stick to one's own and not pass on another person's occupation. Although O'Leary is upset at how the warden ignores his warnings, Schluckebier reminds him that 'specialization is the goal for civilization,' which means he does not want to worry about O'Leary's job nor should O'Leary worry about his. This goal also reveals how extreme the belief that a specialized society is one of a higher degree. Letting any specialization mix will only result in half-specialists, who fall in the same category as people who cannot specialize and ultimately serve no purpose to the future of humanity.

<s> My Lady Greensleeves By FREDERIK POHL Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This guard smelled trouble and it could be counted on to come—for a nose for trouble was one of the many talents bred here! I His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy. And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R. He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in. He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell? The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie! O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the CivilService Guide to Prison Administration : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book. She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop. The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is— Shut up, Sodaro. <doc-sep>Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She wasattractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got offto a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in thedisciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear andlooked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting forhim to judge their cases. He said patiently: Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out yourcell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, youshould have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time— Hey, Cap'n, wait! Sodaro was looking alarmed. This isn't a firstoffense. Look at the rap sheet. Yesterday she pulled the same thing inthe mess hall. He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. Theblock guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench,and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when theother one asked her to move along. He added virtuously: The guardwarned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure. Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: Idon't care. I don't care! O'Leary stopped her. That's enough! Three days in Block O! It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. Hehad managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omittedto say sir every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it upforever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria wasclearly the next step for her. All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheetto Sodaro and said absently: Too bad a kid like her has to be here.What's she in for? You didn't know, Cap'n? Sodaro leered. She's in for conspiracy toviolate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her,Cap'n. She's a figger-lover! Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain markedCivil Service. But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, thesmell from his nose. What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirtybusiness? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across theyard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent CivilService parents, a good education, everything a girl could wish for. Ifanything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, andlook what she had made of it. The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is noexception, but with the difference that his is the one species thatcreates its own environment in which to specialize. From the momentthat clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weaponsmade by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by theceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame. Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. Fromthe born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolvedto the point of smaller contact and less communication between thespecializations, until now they could understand each other on only themost basic physical necessities—and not even always then. But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degreeof civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregationof each specialization—social and genetic measures to make thembreed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man,or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting thespecializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laboreror Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized,would be good at no specialization. And the basis of this specialization society was: The aptitude groupsare the true races of mankind. Putting it into law was only the legalenforcement of a demonstrable fact. Evening, Cap'n. A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight andtouched his cap as O'Leary passed by. Evening. <doc-sep>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't. There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He was proud of it. It was right that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig—a clerk , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how comfortable it must be to be a wipe—a laborer .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't meant to be— Evening, Cap'n. He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate. Evening, Conan, he said. Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place. So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers? II Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment. And punishment is what you get. Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock. Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling. Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other. The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside. The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves. The outside guard shrugged. Detail, halt ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards. The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up. Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready. Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed. Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses. The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves. However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch. <doc-sep>Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They werelaborers—wipes, for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard evenfor them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithefive-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupideyes of a calf. Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. Hey, Flock! What do you want, Sauer? called Flock from his own cell. We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling soas not to disturb the lady! He screeched with howling, maniacallaughter. Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,Flock! Oh, you think so? shrieked Flock. Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell! The howling started all over again. The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned offthe tangler field once more. He licked his lips. Say, you want to takea turn in here for a while? Uh-uh. The outside guard shook his head. You're yellow, the inside guard said moodily. Ah, I don't know why Idon't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beatyour head off! Ee-ee-ee! screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. I'm scared! Then hegrinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. Don't you knowyou can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss? Shut up ! yelled the inside guard. Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not helpit. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was gettingunder her skin. They weren't even—even human , she told herselfmiserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards thesatisfaction of hearing her—they were animals! Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedlythat resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectlynormal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion againstthe vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was good thatSauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicioussystem— But did they have to scream so? The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself toweeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless! It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner verylong. III I smell trouble, said O'Leary to the warden. Trouble? Trouble? Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and hislittle round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. WardenGodfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates inthe Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto thelast decent job he would have in his life. Trouble? What trouble? O'Leary shrugged. Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? Thisafternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard. The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: O'Leary, whatdid you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ballin the yard. That's what recreation periods are for. You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on theoutside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipesdon't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things. O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden thatit didn't smell right? For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She'sa pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's alifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because shetold Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. NowMathias wouldn't— The warden raised his hand. Please, O'Leary, don't bother me aboutthat kind of stuff. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in adesk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then droppeda pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring thescalding heat. He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured. O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You haveyour job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job isjust as important as my job, he said piously. Everybody's job isjust as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick toour own jobs. We don't want to try to pass . O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way wasthat for the warden to talk to him? Excuse the expression, O'Leary, the warden said anxiously. I mean,after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right? He wasa great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier. You know youdon't want to worry about my end of running the prison. And I don'twant to worry about yours . You see? And he folded his hands andsmiled like a civil-service Buddha. <doc-sep>O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs. Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last. But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose— It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time. He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect. Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing. His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably. That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge. Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did what ?You're going to WHAT? He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer. O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake. And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers. The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O. Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves. His name was Flock. He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man. The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten! Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment. Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it. <doc-sep>At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet. Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance. The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live quite like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken. Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove. Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over. The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I— Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching. It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time. Every time but this. For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close. The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked. All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain. But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours. No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid. All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear? He was nearly fainting with the pain. But he hadn't let go. He didn't let go. And he didn't stop. IV It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards. Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear? And he snapped the connection. O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble! The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast. Riot! The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots. It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole. It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real. It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug. Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved. A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison. For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together. <doc-sep>Forty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a blaze of light. Theairmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech ofthe alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretchedand yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complainedand their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduledfor tonight; no, they didn't know where Daddy was going; no, the kidscouldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night. And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothersstruggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefingarea to hear. They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. Riot!gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. The wipes! I told Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. Youknow how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a cluband stand right by the door and— Club! snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two childrenquerulously awake in her nursery at home. What in God's name is theuse of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'dbetter come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need itbefore this night is over. But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over thescramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter oftrouble in the wipe quarters. The Jug! The governor himself had calledthem out; they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-suchlevels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison. The rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off with awhistling roar; and last of all, the helicopters took off ... and theywere the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took uptheir picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiersin each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below. They were ready for the breakout. But there wasn't any breakout. The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home for fuel. Thehelicopters hung on—still ready, still waiting. The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about, and went away again.They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed.The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts onthe walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights ofthe guard squadrons surrounding the walls. North of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of reclaimedland, the matchbox row houses of the clerical neighborhoods showedlights in every window as the figgers stood ready to repel invasionfrom their undesired neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowdedtenements of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from window towindow; and there were crowds in the bright streets. The whole bloody thing's going to blow up! a helicopter bombardieryelled bitterly to his pilot, above the flutter and roar of thewhirling blades. Look at the mobs in Greaserville! The first breakoutfrom the Jug's going to start a fight like you never saw and we'll beright in the middle of it! He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for everyman, woman and child in the city-state would be right in the middle ofit. There was no place anywhere that would be spared. No mixing. Thatwas the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm ina family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborersa clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer tiesthan blood or skin? But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; andonce they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. Thebreakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had everknown. But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming tocome. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Sue-Ann Bradley is also known as Detainee No. WFA-656R at the Estates-General Correctional Institution. She is a recent prisoner and has not been in prison for as long as many other inmates. Her parents both work in Civil Service. She has an excellent educational background and basically whatever a girl could want. However, she chooses to abandon all of that when she lets herself get tangled in dirty business that leads to her arrest. The main reason for her arrest is for conspiracy to violate the Categoried Class laws. She is also described to be a figger-lover because of her actions. Sue-Ann comes off as defiant and courageous when she first steps forward to confront Sandro and O’Leary to explain her side regarding the offense that Mathias reports her for doing. Inside Block O, she tries to walk bravely across the tanglefoot electronic fields only to fall on her face. Even though Sue-Ann is grateful to the guard for letting her attend to her affairs, she does make an effort to ignore him proudly. Despite this brave exterior that Sue-Ann exhibits, she does have moments of weakness. She begins to weep sincerely once the howling and screaming get worse. Although she initially refuses to let the guards hear her, she is eventually driven crazy by the senseless yelling and begins to weep freely.

<s> My Lady Greensleeves By FREDERIK POHL Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This guard smelled trouble and it could be counted on to come—for a nose for trouble was one of the many talents bred here! I His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy. And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R. He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in. He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell? The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie! O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the CivilService Guide to Prison Administration : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book. She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop. The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is— Shut up, Sodaro. <doc-sep>Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She wasattractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got offto a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in thedisciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear andlooked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting forhim to judge their cases. He said patiently: Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out yourcell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, youshould have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time— Hey, Cap'n, wait! Sodaro was looking alarmed. This isn't a firstoffense. Look at the rap sheet. Yesterday she pulled the same thing inthe mess hall. He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. Theblock guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench,and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when theother one asked her to move along. He added virtuously: The guardwarned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure. Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: Idon't care. I don't care! O'Leary stopped her. That's enough! Three days in Block O! It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. Hehad managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omittedto say sir every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it upforever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria wasclearly the next step for her. All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheetto Sodaro and said absently: Too bad a kid like her has to be here.What's she in for? You didn't know, Cap'n? Sodaro leered. She's in for conspiracy toviolate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her,Cap'n. She's a figger-lover! Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain markedCivil Service. But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, thesmell from his nose. What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirtybusiness? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across theyard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent CivilService parents, a good education, everything a girl could wish for. Ifanything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, andlook what she had made of it. The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is noexception, but with the difference that his is the one species thatcreates its own environment in which to specialize. From the momentthat clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weaponsmade by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by theceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame. Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. Fromthe born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolvedto the point of smaller contact and less communication between thespecializations, until now they could understand each other on only themost basic physical necessities—and not even always then. But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degreeof civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregationof each specialization—social and genetic measures to make thembreed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man,or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting thespecializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laboreror Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized,would be good at no specialization. And the basis of this specialization society was: The aptitude groupsare the true races of mankind. Putting it into law was only the legalenforcement of a demonstrable fact. Evening, Cap'n. A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight andtouched his cap as O'Leary passed by. Evening. <doc-sep>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't. There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He was proud of it. It was right that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig—a clerk , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how comfortable it must be to be a wipe—a laborer .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't meant to be— Evening, Cap'n. He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate. Evening, Conan, he said. Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place. So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers? II Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment. And punishment is what you get. Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock. Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling. Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other. The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside. The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves. The outside guard shrugged. Detail, halt ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards. The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up. Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready. Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed. Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses. The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves. However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch. <doc-sep>Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They werelaborers—wipes, for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard evenfor them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithefive-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupideyes of a calf. Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. Hey, Flock! What do you want, Sauer? called Flock from his own cell. We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling soas not to disturb the lady! He screeched with howling, maniacallaughter. Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,Flock! Oh, you think so? shrieked Flock. Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell! The howling started all over again. The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned offthe tangler field once more. He licked his lips. Say, you want to takea turn in here for a while? Uh-uh. The outside guard shook his head. You're yellow, the inside guard said moodily. Ah, I don't know why Idon't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beatyour head off! Ee-ee-ee! screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. I'm scared! Then hegrinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. Don't you knowyou can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss? Shut up ! yelled the inside guard. Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not helpit. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was gettingunder her skin. They weren't even—even human , she told herselfmiserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards thesatisfaction of hearing her—they were animals! Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedlythat resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectlynormal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion againstthe vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was good thatSauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicioussystem— But did they have to scream so? The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself toweeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless! It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner verylong. III I smell trouble, said O'Leary to the warden. Trouble? Trouble? Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and hislittle round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. WardenGodfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates inthe Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto thelast decent job he would have in his life. Trouble? What trouble? O'Leary shrugged. Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? Thisafternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard. The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: O'Leary, whatdid you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ballin the yard. That's what recreation periods are for. You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on theoutside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipesdon't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things. O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden thatit didn't smell right? For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She'sa pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's alifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because shetold Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. NowMathias wouldn't— The warden raised his hand. Please, O'Leary, don't bother me aboutthat kind of stuff. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in adesk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then droppeda pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring thescalding heat. He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured. O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You haveyour job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job isjust as important as my job, he said piously. Everybody's job isjust as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick toour own jobs. We don't want to try to pass . O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way wasthat for the warden to talk to him? Excuse the expression, O'Leary, the warden said anxiously. I mean,after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right? He wasa great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier. You know youdon't want to worry about my end of running the prison. And I don'twant to worry about yours . You see? And he folded his hands andsmiled like a civil-service Buddha. <doc-sep>O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs. Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last. But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose— It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time. He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect. Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing. His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably. That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge. Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did what ?You're going to WHAT? He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer. O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake. And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers. The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O. Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves. His name was Flock. He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man. The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten! Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment. Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it. <doc-sep>At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet. Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance. The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live quite like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken. Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove. Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over. The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I— Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching. It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time. Every time but this. For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close. The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked. All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain. But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours. No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid. All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear? He was nearly fainting with the pain. But he hadn't let go. He didn't let go. And he didn't stop. IV It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards. Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear? And he snapped the connection. O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble! The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast. Riot! The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots. It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole. It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real. It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug. Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved. A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison. For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together. <doc-sep>Forty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a blaze of light. Theairmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech ofthe alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretchedand yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complainedand their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduledfor tonight; no, they didn't know where Daddy was going; no, the kidscouldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night. And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothersstruggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefingarea to hear. They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. Riot!gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. The wipes! I told Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. Youknow how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a cluband stand right by the door and— Club! snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two childrenquerulously awake in her nursery at home. What in God's name is theuse of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'dbetter come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need itbefore this night is over. But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over thescramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter oftrouble in the wipe quarters. The Jug! The governor himself had calledthem out; they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-suchlevels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison. The rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off with awhistling roar; and last of all, the helicopters took off ... and theywere the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took uptheir picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiersin each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below. They were ready for the breakout. But there wasn't any breakout. The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home for fuel. Thehelicopters hung on—still ready, still waiting. The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about, and went away again.They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed.The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts onthe walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights ofthe guard squadrons surrounding the walls. North of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of reclaimedland, the matchbox row houses of the clerical neighborhoods showedlights in every window as the figgers stood ready to repel invasionfrom their undesired neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowdedtenements of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from window towindow; and there were crowds in the bright streets. The whole bloody thing's going to blow up! a helicopter bombardieryelled bitterly to his pilot, above the flutter and roar of thewhirling blades. Look at the mobs in Greaserville! The first breakoutfrom the Jug's going to start a fight like you never saw and we'll beright in the middle of it! He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for everyman, woman and child in the city-state would be right in the middle ofit. There was no place anywhere that would be spared. No mixing. Thatwas the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm ina family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborersa clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer tiesthan blood or skin? But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; andonce they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. Thebreakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had everknown. But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming tocome. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The main setting of the story is inside of a prison. The cells need to be mopped out, and there is also a mess hall. There is also a water fountain that is marked as “Civil Service” that O’Leary drinks out of. Outside, the prison also has a cobblestone yard that the spray machines and sweeperdozers constantly clean. Some prisoners, however, still clean as a means of keeping themselves busy. Apart from the courtyard, there is a car pool inside the prison gates too. The Block O portion of the prison, also known as Greensleeves, has cells with green straitjackets for the prisoners to wear and steel-slat beds. Prisoners must take steel steps up to the block and walk through a gate. The most impressive feature of Block O is the tanglefoot electronic fields that can be turned on by a switch. Prisoners are unable to move against the electronic drag of the field, which makes them essentially harmless. There is a telephone in Block O as well, that one can use to call the warden.

<s> My Lady Greensleeves By FREDERIK POHL Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This guard smelled trouble and it could be counted on to come—for a nose for trouble was one of the many talents bred here! I His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy. And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R. He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in. He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell? The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie! O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the CivilService Guide to Prison Administration : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book. She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop. The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is— Shut up, Sodaro. <doc-sep>Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She wasattractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got offto a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in thedisciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear andlooked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting forhim to judge their cases. He said patiently: Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out yourcell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, youshould have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time— Hey, Cap'n, wait! Sodaro was looking alarmed. This isn't a firstoffense. Look at the rap sheet. Yesterday she pulled the same thing inthe mess hall. He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. Theblock guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench,and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when theother one asked her to move along. He added virtuously: The guardwarned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure. Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: Idon't care. I don't care! O'Leary stopped her. That's enough! Three days in Block O! It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. Hehad managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omittedto say sir every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it upforever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria wasclearly the next step for her. All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheetto Sodaro and said absently: Too bad a kid like her has to be here.What's she in for? You didn't know, Cap'n? Sodaro leered. She's in for conspiracy toviolate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her,Cap'n. She's a figger-lover! Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain markedCivil Service. But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, thesmell from his nose. What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirtybusiness? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across theyard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent CivilService parents, a good education, everything a girl could wish for. Ifanything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, andlook what she had made of it. The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is noexception, but with the difference that his is the one species thatcreates its own environment in which to specialize. From the momentthat clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weaponsmade by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by theceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame. Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. Fromthe born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolvedto the point of smaller contact and less communication between thespecializations, until now they could understand each other on only themost basic physical necessities—and not even always then. But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degreeof civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregationof each specialization—social and genetic measures to make thembreed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man,or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting thespecializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laboreror Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized,would be good at no specialization. And the basis of this specialization society was: The aptitude groupsare the true races of mankind. Putting it into law was only the legalenforcement of a demonstrable fact. Evening, Cap'n. A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight andtouched his cap as O'Leary passed by. Evening. <doc-sep>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't. There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He was proud of it. It was right that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig—a clerk , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how comfortable it must be to be a wipe—a laborer .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't meant to be— Evening, Cap'n. He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate. Evening, Conan, he said. Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place. So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers? II Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment. And punishment is what you get. Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock. Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling. Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other. The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside. The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves. The outside guard shrugged. Detail, halt ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards. The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up. Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready. Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed. Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses. The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves. However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch. <doc-sep>Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They werelaborers—wipes, for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard evenfor them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithefive-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupideyes of a calf. Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. Hey, Flock! What do you want, Sauer? called Flock from his own cell. We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling soas not to disturb the lady! He screeched with howling, maniacallaughter. Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,Flock! Oh, you think so? shrieked Flock. Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell! The howling started all over again. The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned offthe tangler field once more. He licked his lips. Say, you want to takea turn in here for a while? Uh-uh. The outside guard shook his head. You're yellow, the inside guard said moodily. Ah, I don't know why Idon't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beatyour head off! Ee-ee-ee! screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. I'm scared! Then hegrinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. Don't you knowyou can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss? Shut up ! yelled the inside guard. Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not helpit. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was gettingunder her skin. They weren't even—even human , she told herselfmiserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards thesatisfaction of hearing her—they were animals! Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedlythat resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectlynormal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion againstthe vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was good thatSauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicioussystem— But did they have to scream so? The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself toweeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless! It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner verylong. III I smell trouble, said O'Leary to the warden. Trouble? Trouble? Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and hislittle round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. WardenGodfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates inthe Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto thelast decent job he would have in his life. Trouble? What trouble? O'Leary shrugged. Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? Thisafternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard. The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: O'Leary, whatdid you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ballin the yard. That's what recreation periods are for. You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on theoutside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipesdon't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things. O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden thatit didn't smell right? For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She'sa pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's alifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because shetold Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. NowMathias wouldn't— The warden raised his hand. Please, O'Leary, don't bother me aboutthat kind of stuff. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in adesk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then droppeda pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring thescalding heat. He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured. O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You haveyour job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job isjust as important as my job, he said piously. Everybody's job isjust as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick toour own jobs. We don't want to try to pass . O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way wasthat for the warden to talk to him? Excuse the expression, O'Leary, the warden said anxiously. I mean,after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right? He wasa great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier. You know youdon't want to worry about my end of running the prison. And I don'twant to worry about yours . You see? And he folded his hands andsmiled like a civil-service Buddha. <doc-sep>O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs. Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last. But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose— It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time. He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect. Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing. His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably. That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge. Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did what ?You're going to WHAT? He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer. O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake. And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers. The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O. Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves. His name was Flock. He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man. The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten! Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment. Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it. <doc-sep>At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet. Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance. The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live quite like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken. Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove. Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over. The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I— Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching. It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time. Every time but this. For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close. The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked. All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain. But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours. No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid. All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear? He was nearly fainting with the pain. But he hadn't let go. He didn't let go. And he didn't stop. IV It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards. Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear? And he snapped the connection. O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble! The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast. Riot! The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots. It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole. It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real. It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug. Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved. A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison. For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together. <doc-sep>Forty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a blaze of light. Theairmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech ofthe alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretchedand yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complainedand their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduledfor tonight; no, they didn't know where Daddy was going; no, the kidscouldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night. And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothersstruggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefingarea to hear. They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. Riot!gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. The wipes! I told Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. Youknow how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a cluband stand right by the door and— Club! snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two childrenquerulously awake in her nursery at home. What in God's name is theuse of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'dbetter come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need itbefore this night is over. But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over thescramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter oftrouble in the wipe quarters. The Jug! The governor himself had calledthem out; they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-suchlevels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison. The rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off with awhistling roar; and last of all, the helicopters took off ... and theywere the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took uptheir picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiersin each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below. They were ready for the breakout. But there wasn't any breakout. The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home for fuel. Thehelicopters hung on—still ready, still waiting. The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about, and went away again.They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed.The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts onthe walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights ofthe guard squadrons surrounding the walls. North of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of reclaimedland, the matchbox row houses of the clerical neighborhoods showedlights in every window as the figgers stood ready to repel invasionfrom their undesired neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowdedtenements of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from window towindow; and there were crowds in the bright streets. The whole bloody thing's going to blow up! a helicopter bombardieryelled bitterly to his pilot, above the flutter and roar of thewhirling blades. Look at the mobs in Greaserville! The first breakoutfrom the Jug's going to start a fight like you never saw and we'll beright in the middle of it! He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for everyman, woman and child in the city-state would be right in the middle ofit. There was no place anywhere that would be spared. No mixing. Thatwas the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm ina family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborersa clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer tiesthan blood or skin? But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; andonce they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. Thebreakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had everknown. But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming tocome. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

To the outside world, the Jug is a symbol of the lack of organization and control in the specialist society. Unlike normal street brawls or bar-room fights within the individual classes, the civilians see the Jug as where all classes end up together. This fact is extremely dangerous, because it goes against the values and goals of a higher civilization that the specialization society tries so hard to maintain. While most of the bonds that people form with one another are in their specialization classes, people from the Jug do not have to uphold this same obligation. There is also fear that once these criminals break out of the Jug, the neatly organized class order will become disrupted, and a riot larger than any prison can handle will occur amongst the people in the outside world. In the story, many already begin to prepare for the riots that will inevitably happen when the criminals break out of the Jug.

<s> CALL HIM NEMESIS By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and, for that matter, so do the cops! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup. There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers. The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous. The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney. It was just like the movies. The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel. The man by the door said, Hurry up. The man with the satchel said, One more drawer. The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on. That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door. <doc-sep>The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, Hey! The manwith the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'dbeen moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was thebrass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk. The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly didher best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scootingout the front door and running down the street toward the policestation in the next block, shouting, Help! Help! Robbery! The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel camerunning around from behind the counter, and the man by the door triedto keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man withthe gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to thefloor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine. Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch. Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars camedriving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb anddrove straight down the street toward the police station. The policecars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shootinglike the ships in pirate movies. There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robberswere going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrongway and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clearpath behind them. Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenlystarted jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. Andall the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robberswhen they crawled dazedly out of their car. Hey, said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. Hey, that was something,huh, Mom? Come along home, said his mother, grabbing his hand. We don't wantto be involved. <doc-sep>It was the nuttiest thing, said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. Anoperation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to theirgetaway car, you know what I mean? Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. They always slip up, he said.Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up. Yes, but their tires . Well, said Pauling, it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbedwhatever was handiest. What I can't figure out, said Stevenson, is exactly what made thosetires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't that hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fastenough to melt your tires down. Pauling shrugged again. We got them. That's the important thing. Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling outRockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubesblow out and there they are. Stevenson shook his head. I can't figureit. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, suggested Pauling. They pickedthe wrong car to steal. And that doesn't make sense, either, said Stevenson. Why steal acar that could be identified as easily as that one? Why? What was it, a foreign make? No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like halfthe cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner hadburned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half ablock away. Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car, said Pauling. For a well-planned operation like this one, said Stevenson, theymade a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense. What do they have to say about it? Pauling demanded. Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all. The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his headin. The owner of that Chevvy's here, he said. Right, said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to thefront desk. The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, talland paunchy. John Hastings, he said. They say you have my car here. I believe so, yes, said Stevenson. I'm afraid it's in pretty badshape. So I was told over the phone, said Hastings grimly. I've contactedmy insurance company. Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd comewith me? <doc-sep>On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened. That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone. You left the keys in it? Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not? The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him. Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow. Yes, sir. In here. Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires? Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup. Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets? Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman. Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of kids had stolen the car. It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup. Then why did they do that ? Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen? Of course not! Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that? I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that. Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully.... That was on Wednesday. The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the Daily News brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address. The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point: Dear Mr. Editor: The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS! Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper. II The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk. It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins. Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand. As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom. Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep? At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder. Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards. <doc-sep>By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the BeltParkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at IdlewildAirport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up aposition across the street from the scene of carnage and went to workwith a Zoomar lens. In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,firing at anything that moved. The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. Oneconcentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighborsand ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens tosearch for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-homeaudience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers andundershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of thehouse. The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at thecorner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. Thepolice used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, theyhad the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challengeanyone present to hand-to-hand combat. The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy dayand all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again. The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly anddramatically. Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose ofshooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped andthrew the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithereddown to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fellbarrel first onto the lawn. Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like awounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fallinto the arms of the waiting police. They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actuallytrying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he wasshouting: My hands! My hands! They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingerswere red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There wasanother burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder. Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burnointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. Theneighbors went home and telephoned their friends. On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of theprecincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant WilliamStevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappyindividual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all. He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of thestock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, TheScorpion. <doc-sep>You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks. The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded. I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'. He says he put that on there himself, said the captain. Stevenson shook his head. His lawyer says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense. He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove? I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting? They were defective, said Hanks promptly. All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk? How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do they say? They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere. The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove? I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind. What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me? All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see. And all I know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so. And what made it so hot? Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou think made it hot? All of a sudden? He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him. How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately. How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people? But there's no explanation— started Stevenson. What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just gave you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember? I remember, said Stevenson. Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him. Yes, sir, said Stevenson.... The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the Daily News : Dear Mr. Editor, You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS. Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten. III Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD. The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war. The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances. The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through. Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street. Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited. At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started. At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson. They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off. One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us? Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way. The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask. Who cares? You go around the other way. <doc-sep>Listen, lady, said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, we got a longway to go to get home. Yeah, said another kid, in a black mask, and we're late as it is. I couldn't care less, Judy told them callously. You can't go downthat street. Why not? demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most completeand elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirtand a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had ablack knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. Why can't we go downthere? this apparition demanded. Because I said so, Judy told him. Now, you kids get away from here.Take off. Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. Hey, they'refighting down there! It's a rumble, said Judy proudly. You twerps don't want to beinvolved. Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he wentrunning around Judy and dashing off down the street. Hey, Eddie! shouted one of the other kids. Eddie, come back! Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chasethe one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them wouldcome running along after her. She didn't know what to do. A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.Cheez, said one of the kids. The cops! Fuzz! screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward theschoolyard, shouting, Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz! But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in theschoolyard. The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, wavingtheir arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pullingoff their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy'swarning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once bothschoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judyand the rumble was over. Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one greatbig blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid inthe yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street. And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault. <doc-sep>Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again. I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper? So what? Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan? Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what? Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers. So they changed their name, said Hanks. Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name? Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over. It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight. A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word? Captain, did you read the article in the paper? I glanced through it. All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.' Now, let me tell you something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody. That's what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson. Yes, sir, said Stevenson. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story opens up on a bank robbery. Three men, wearing identical outfits and masks, walk in and threaten the citizens in the bank, raising a weapon. As the men are taking money from behind the counter, a woman, Miss English, makes a run for the door. She is shot at but missed, caught by one of the men at the door, and another citizen, Mr. Anderson, manages to escape and call for help. The men flee the bank and hop into a stolen car, just missing the incoming police. As the men get away, the car suddenly malfunctions and crashes into another car, and they are eventually caught by the police. Detective Stevenson discusses the incident with Detective Pauling, and he is perplexed by how the tires of the stolen car seemed to melt instantly, and how the words "The Scorpion" were branded into the car. The owner of the stolen car, John Hastings, arrives, and he confirms that the words were not on the car before it was stolen. Two days later, the Daily News receives a crank letter, addressed from "The Scorpion" and explaining that he fights crime, threatening criminals. The letter was not published. About a month after the robbery, another incident occurs in Brooklyn, where Jerome Higgins murders his wife and injures his sister after spending days in his bedroom. Police and cameramen arrive at his home, where a standoff occurs for an hour before Higgins suddenly throws his rifle and runs outside, his hands burned severely. Stevenson finds the rifle and sees "The Scorpion" burned into the side of it. Stevenson goes to Captain Hanks, questioning the similarities between the two events, and Hanks dismisses his conspiracies. The Daily Mail receives another letter, but still does not publish it. On Halloween, two gangs, the Challengers and the Scarlet Raiders, plan a rumble over territory. Judy Canzanetti is a lookout for the Scarlet Raiders, and she is guarding the street when a group of children approach her. Judy warns them to leave, but one of the children goes around her and runs down the street. Suddenly, the police arrive, and Judy warns the gang, but then sees them jumping around and throwing their weapons and jackets. Again, the words "The Scorpion" are found on the jackets of both gangs. Stevenson brings this up to Hanks again, but he denies it and tells him to stop bringing the theory up.

<s> CALL HIM NEMESIS By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and, for that matter, so do the cops! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup. There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers. The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous. The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney. It was just like the movies. The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel. The man by the door said, Hurry up. The man with the satchel said, One more drawer. The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on. That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door. <doc-sep>The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, Hey! The manwith the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'dbeen moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was thebrass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk. The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly didher best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scootingout the front door and running down the street toward the policestation in the next block, shouting, Help! Help! Robbery! The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel camerunning around from behind the counter, and the man by the door triedto keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man withthe gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to thefloor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine. Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch. Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars camedriving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb anddrove straight down the street toward the police station. The policecars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shootinglike the ships in pirate movies. There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robberswere going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrongway and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clearpath behind them. Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenlystarted jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. Andall the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robberswhen they crawled dazedly out of their car. Hey, said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. Hey, that was something,huh, Mom? Come along home, said his mother, grabbing his hand. We don't wantto be involved. <doc-sep>It was the nuttiest thing, said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. Anoperation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to theirgetaway car, you know what I mean? Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. They always slip up, he said.Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up. Yes, but their tires . Well, said Pauling, it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbedwhatever was handiest. What I can't figure out, said Stevenson, is exactly what made thosetires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't that hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fastenough to melt your tires down. Pauling shrugged again. We got them. That's the important thing. Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling outRockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubesblow out and there they are. Stevenson shook his head. I can't figureit. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, suggested Pauling. They pickedthe wrong car to steal. And that doesn't make sense, either, said Stevenson. Why steal acar that could be identified as easily as that one? Why? What was it, a foreign make? No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like halfthe cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner hadburned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half ablock away. Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car, said Pauling. For a well-planned operation like this one, said Stevenson, theymade a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense. What do they have to say about it? Pauling demanded. Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all. The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his headin. The owner of that Chevvy's here, he said. Right, said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to thefront desk. The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, talland paunchy. John Hastings, he said. They say you have my car here. I believe so, yes, said Stevenson. I'm afraid it's in pretty badshape. So I was told over the phone, said Hastings grimly. I've contactedmy insurance company. Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd comewith me? <doc-sep>On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened. That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone. You left the keys in it? Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not? The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him. Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow. Yes, sir. In here. Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires? Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup. Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets? Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman. Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of kids had stolen the car. It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup. Then why did they do that ? Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen? Of course not! Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that? I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that. Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully.... That was on Wednesday. The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the Daily News brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address. The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point: Dear Mr. Editor: The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS! Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper. II The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk. It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins. Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand. As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom. Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep? At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder. Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards. <doc-sep>By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the BeltParkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at IdlewildAirport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up aposition across the street from the scene of carnage and went to workwith a Zoomar lens. In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,firing at anything that moved. The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. Oneconcentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighborsand ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens tosearch for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-homeaudience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers andundershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of thehouse. The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at thecorner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. Thepolice used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, theyhad the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challengeanyone present to hand-to-hand combat. The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy dayand all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again. The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly anddramatically. Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose ofshooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped andthrew the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithereddown to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fellbarrel first onto the lawn. Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like awounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fallinto the arms of the waiting police. They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actuallytrying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he wasshouting: My hands! My hands! They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingerswere red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There wasanother burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder. Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burnointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. Theneighbors went home and telephoned their friends. On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of theprecincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant WilliamStevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappyindividual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all. He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of thestock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, TheScorpion. <doc-sep>You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks. The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded. I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'. He says he put that on there himself, said the captain. Stevenson shook his head. His lawyer says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense. He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove? I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting? They were defective, said Hanks promptly. All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk? How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do they say? They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere. The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove? I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind. What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me? All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see. And all I know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so. And what made it so hot? Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou think made it hot? All of a sudden? He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him. How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately. How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people? But there's no explanation— started Stevenson. What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just gave you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember? I remember, said Stevenson. Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him. Yes, sir, said Stevenson.... The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the Daily News : Dear Mr. Editor, You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS. Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten. III Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD. The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war. The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances. The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through. Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street. Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited. At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started. At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson. They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off. One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us? Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way. The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask. Who cares? You go around the other way. <doc-sep>Listen, lady, said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, we got a longway to go to get home. Yeah, said another kid, in a black mask, and we're late as it is. I couldn't care less, Judy told them callously. You can't go downthat street. Why not? demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most completeand elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirtand a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had ablack knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. Why can't we go downthere? this apparition demanded. Because I said so, Judy told him. Now, you kids get away from here.Take off. Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. Hey, they'refighting down there! It's a rumble, said Judy proudly. You twerps don't want to beinvolved. Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he wentrunning around Judy and dashing off down the street. Hey, Eddie! shouted one of the other kids. Eddie, come back! Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chasethe one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them wouldcome running along after her. She didn't know what to do. A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.Cheez, said one of the kids. The cops! Fuzz! screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward theschoolyard, shouting, Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz! But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in theschoolyard. The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, wavingtheir arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pullingoff their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy'swarning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once bothschoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judyand the rumble was over. Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one greatbig blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid inthe yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street. And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault. <doc-sep>Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again. I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper? So what? Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan? Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what? Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers. So they changed their name, said Hanks. Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name? Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over. It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight. A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word? Captain, did you read the article in the paper? I glanced through it. All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.' Now, let me tell you something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody. That's what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson. Yes, sir, said Stevenson. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

In all three incidents that take place in the story, the criminals were stopped and caught by the police. They all seemed to be mysteriously burned in one way or another: the tires on the car melted off, Higgins' hands were burned by the rifle, and the jackets and weapons of the gang members seemed to have the same effect. Additionally, all three events were tagged by "The Scorpion": the words were branded on the car, the rifle, and the jackets.

<s> CALL HIM NEMESIS By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and, for that matter, so do the cops! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup. There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers. The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous. The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney. It was just like the movies. The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel. The man by the door said, Hurry up. The man with the satchel said, One more drawer. The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on. That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door. <doc-sep>The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, Hey! The manwith the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'dbeen moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was thebrass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk. The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly didher best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scootingout the front door and running down the street toward the policestation in the next block, shouting, Help! Help! Robbery! The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel camerunning around from behind the counter, and the man by the door triedto keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man withthe gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to thefloor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine. Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch. Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars camedriving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb anddrove straight down the street toward the police station. The policecars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shootinglike the ships in pirate movies. There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robberswere going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrongway and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clearpath behind them. Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenlystarted jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. Andall the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robberswhen they crawled dazedly out of their car. Hey, said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. Hey, that was something,huh, Mom? Come along home, said his mother, grabbing his hand. We don't wantto be involved. <doc-sep>It was the nuttiest thing, said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. Anoperation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to theirgetaway car, you know what I mean? Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. They always slip up, he said.Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up. Yes, but their tires . Well, said Pauling, it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbedwhatever was handiest. What I can't figure out, said Stevenson, is exactly what made thosetires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't that hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fastenough to melt your tires down. Pauling shrugged again. We got them. That's the important thing. Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling outRockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubesblow out and there they are. Stevenson shook his head. I can't figureit. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, suggested Pauling. They pickedthe wrong car to steal. And that doesn't make sense, either, said Stevenson. Why steal acar that could be identified as easily as that one? Why? What was it, a foreign make? No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like halfthe cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner hadburned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half ablock away. Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car, said Pauling. For a well-planned operation like this one, said Stevenson, theymade a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense. What do they have to say about it? Pauling demanded. Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all. The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his headin. The owner of that Chevvy's here, he said. Right, said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to thefront desk. The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, talland paunchy. John Hastings, he said. They say you have my car here. I believe so, yes, said Stevenson. I'm afraid it's in pretty badshape. So I was told over the phone, said Hastings grimly. I've contactedmy insurance company. Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd comewith me? <doc-sep>On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened. That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone. You left the keys in it? Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not? The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him. Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow. Yes, sir. In here. Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires? Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup. Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets? Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman. Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of kids had stolen the car. It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup. Then why did they do that ? Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen? Of course not! Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that? I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that. Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully.... That was on Wednesday. The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the Daily News brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address. The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point: Dear Mr. Editor: The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS! Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper. II The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk. It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins. Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand. As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom. Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep? At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder. Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards. <doc-sep>By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the BeltParkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at IdlewildAirport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up aposition across the street from the scene of carnage and went to workwith a Zoomar lens. In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,firing at anything that moved. The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. Oneconcentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighborsand ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens tosearch for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-homeaudience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers andundershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of thehouse. The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at thecorner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. Thepolice used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, theyhad the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challengeanyone present to hand-to-hand combat. The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy dayand all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again. The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly anddramatically. Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose ofshooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped andthrew the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithereddown to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fellbarrel first onto the lawn. Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like awounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fallinto the arms of the waiting police. They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actuallytrying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he wasshouting: My hands! My hands! They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingerswere red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There wasanother burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder. Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burnointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. Theneighbors went home and telephoned their friends. On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of theprecincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant WilliamStevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappyindividual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all. He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of thestock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, TheScorpion. <doc-sep>You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks. The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded. I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'. He says he put that on there himself, said the captain. Stevenson shook his head. His lawyer says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense. He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove? I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting? They were defective, said Hanks promptly. All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk? How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do they say? They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere. The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove? I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind. What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me? All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see. And all I know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so. And what made it so hot? Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou think made it hot? All of a sudden? He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him. How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately. How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people? But there's no explanation— started Stevenson. What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just gave you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember? I remember, said Stevenson. Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him. Yes, sir, said Stevenson.... The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the Daily News : Dear Mr. Editor, You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS. Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten. III Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD. The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war. The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances. The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through. Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street. Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited. At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started. At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson. They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off. One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us? Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way. The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask. Who cares? You go around the other way. <doc-sep>Listen, lady, said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, we got a longway to go to get home. Yeah, said another kid, in a black mask, and we're late as it is. I couldn't care less, Judy told them callously. You can't go downthat street. Why not? demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most completeand elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirtand a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had ablack knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. Why can't we go downthere? this apparition demanded. Because I said so, Judy told him. Now, you kids get away from here.Take off. Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. Hey, they'refighting down there! It's a rumble, said Judy proudly. You twerps don't want to beinvolved. Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he wentrunning around Judy and dashing off down the street. Hey, Eddie! shouted one of the other kids. Eddie, come back! Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chasethe one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them wouldcome running along after her. She didn't know what to do. A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.Cheez, said one of the kids. The cops! Fuzz! screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward theschoolyard, shouting, Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz! But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in theschoolyard. The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, wavingtheir arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pullingoff their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy'swarning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once bothschoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judyand the rumble was over. Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one greatbig blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid inthe yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street. And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault. <doc-sep>Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again. I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper? So what? Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan? Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what? Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers. So they changed their name, said Hanks. Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name? Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over. It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight. A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word? Captain, did you read the article in the paper? I glanced through it. All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.' Now, let me tell you something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody. That's what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson. Yes, sir, said Stevenson. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story takes place in New York City. The first scene takes place in a bank, where a police station is a few blocks away. The second crime takes place in Canarsie, a part of Brooklyn, at the home of Jerome Higgins, which is located in a residential neighborhood. The third crime takes place on Halloween in Manhattan, this time in a schoolyard, a neutral territory up for grabs between the Scarlet Raiders and the Challengers.

<s> CALL HIM NEMESIS By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and, for that matter, so do the cops! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup. There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers. The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous. The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney. It was just like the movies. The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel. The man by the door said, Hurry up. The man with the satchel said, One more drawer. The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on. That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door. <doc-sep>The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, Hey! The manwith the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'dbeen moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was thebrass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk. The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly didher best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scootingout the front door and running down the street toward the policestation in the next block, shouting, Help! Help! Robbery! The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel camerunning around from behind the counter, and the man by the door triedto keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man withthe gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to thefloor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine. Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch. Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars camedriving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb anddrove straight down the street toward the police station. The policecars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shootinglike the ships in pirate movies. There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robberswere going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrongway and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clearpath behind them. Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenlystarted jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. Andall the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robberswhen they crawled dazedly out of their car. Hey, said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. Hey, that was something,huh, Mom? Come along home, said his mother, grabbing his hand. We don't wantto be involved. <doc-sep>It was the nuttiest thing, said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. Anoperation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to theirgetaway car, you know what I mean? Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. They always slip up, he said.Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up. Yes, but their tires . Well, said Pauling, it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbedwhatever was handiest. What I can't figure out, said Stevenson, is exactly what made thosetires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't that hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fastenough to melt your tires down. Pauling shrugged again. We got them. That's the important thing. Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling outRockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubesblow out and there they are. Stevenson shook his head. I can't figureit. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, suggested Pauling. They pickedthe wrong car to steal. And that doesn't make sense, either, said Stevenson. Why steal acar that could be identified as easily as that one? Why? What was it, a foreign make? No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like halfthe cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner hadburned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half ablock away. Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car, said Pauling. For a well-planned operation like this one, said Stevenson, theymade a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense. What do they have to say about it? Pauling demanded. Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all. The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his headin. The owner of that Chevvy's here, he said. Right, said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to thefront desk. The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, talland paunchy. John Hastings, he said. They say you have my car here. I believe so, yes, said Stevenson. I'm afraid it's in pretty badshape. So I was told over the phone, said Hastings grimly. I've contactedmy insurance company. Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd comewith me? <doc-sep>On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened. That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone. You left the keys in it? Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not? The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him. Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow. Yes, sir. In here. Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires? Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup. Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets? Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman. Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of kids had stolen the car. It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup. Then why did they do that ? Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen? Of course not! Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that? I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that. Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully.... That was on Wednesday. The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the Daily News brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address. The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point: Dear Mr. Editor: The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS! Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper. II The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk. It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins. Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand. As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom. Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep? At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder. Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards. <doc-sep>By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the BeltParkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at IdlewildAirport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up aposition across the street from the scene of carnage and went to workwith a Zoomar lens. In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,firing at anything that moved. The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. Oneconcentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighborsand ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens tosearch for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-homeaudience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers andundershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of thehouse. The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at thecorner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. Thepolice used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, theyhad the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challengeanyone present to hand-to-hand combat. The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy dayand all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again. The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly anddramatically. Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose ofshooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped andthrew the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithereddown to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fellbarrel first onto the lawn. Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like awounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fallinto the arms of the waiting police. They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actuallytrying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he wasshouting: My hands! My hands! They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingerswere red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There wasanother burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder. Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burnointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. Theneighbors went home and telephoned their friends. On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of theprecincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant WilliamStevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappyindividual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all. He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of thestock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, TheScorpion. <doc-sep>You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks. The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded. I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'. He says he put that on there himself, said the captain. Stevenson shook his head. His lawyer says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense. He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove? I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting? They were defective, said Hanks promptly. All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk? How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do they say? They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere. The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove? I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind. What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me? All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see. And all I know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so. And what made it so hot? Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou think made it hot? All of a sudden? He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him. How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately. How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people? But there's no explanation— started Stevenson. What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just gave you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember? I remember, said Stevenson. Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him. Yes, sir, said Stevenson.... The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the Daily News : Dear Mr. Editor, You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS. Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten. III Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD. The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war. The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances. The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through. Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street. Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited. At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started. At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson. They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off. One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us? Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way. The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask. Who cares? You go around the other way. <doc-sep>Listen, lady, said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, we got a longway to go to get home. Yeah, said another kid, in a black mask, and we're late as it is. I couldn't care less, Judy told them callously. You can't go downthat street. Why not? demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most completeand elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirtand a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had ablack knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. Why can't we go downthere? this apparition demanded. Because I said so, Judy told him. Now, you kids get away from here.Take off. Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. Hey, they'refighting down there! It's a rumble, said Judy proudly. You twerps don't want to beinvolved. Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he wentrunning around Judy and dashing off down the street. Hey, Eddie! shouted one of the other kids. Eddie, come back! Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chasethe one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them wouldcome running along after her. She didn't know what to do. A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.Cheez, said one of the kids. The cops! Fuzz! screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward theschoolyard, shouting, Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz! But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in theschoolyard. The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, wavingtheir arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pullingoff their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy'swarning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once bothschoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judyand the rumble was over. Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one greatbig blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid inthe yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street. And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault. <doc-sep>Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again. I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper? So what? Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan? Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what? Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers. So they changed their name, said Hanks. Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name? Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over. It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight. A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word? Captain, did you read the article in the paper? I glanced through it. All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.' Now, let me tell you something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody. That's what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson. Yes, sir, said Stevenson. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Stevenson and Hanks have a tense relationship. Though they are both in high positions at the police precinct, Hanks is the Captain, Stevenson's superior. This power dynamic is evident throughout the story, particularly when Stevenson tries to bring up his theories and suspicions about The Scorpion. Instead of hearing him out, Hanks refuses to listen, becoming increasingly frustrated and calling Stevenson's thoughts childlike nonsense. Despite this, Stevenson is still determined to get his idea through to Hanks.

<s> CALL HIM NEMESIS By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and, for that matter, so do the cops! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup. There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers. The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous. The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney. It was just like the movies. The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel. The man by the door said, Hurry up. The man with the satchel said, One more drawer. The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on. That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door. <doc-sep>The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, Hey! The manwith the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'dbeen moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was thebrass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk. The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly didher best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scootingout the front door and running down the street toward the policestation in the next block, shouting, Help! Help! Robbery! The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel camerunning around from behind the counter, and the man by the door triedto keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man withthe gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to thefloor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine. Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch. Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars camedriving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb anddrove straight down the street toward the police station. The policecars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shootinglike the ships in pirate movies. There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robberswere going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrongway and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clearpath behind them. Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenlystarted jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. Andall the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robberswhen they crawled dazedly out of their car. Hey, said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. Hey, that was something,huh, Mom? Come along home, said his mother, grabbing his hand. We don't wantto be involved. <doc-sep>It was the nuttiest thing, said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. Anoperation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to theirgetaway car, you know what I mean? Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. They always slip up, he said.Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up. Yes, but their tires . Well, said Pauling, it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbedwhatever was handiest. What I can't figure out, said Stevenson, is exactly what made thosetires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't that hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fastenough to melt your tires down. Pauling shrugged again. We got them. That's the important thing. Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling outRockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubesblow out and there they are. Stevenson shook his head. I can't figureit. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, suggested Pauling. They pickedthe wrong car to steal. And that doesn't make sense, either, said Stevenson. Why steal acar that could be identified as easily as that one? Why? What was it, a foreign make? No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like halfthe cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner hadburned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half ablock away. Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car, said Pauling. For a well-planned operation like this one, said Stevenson, theymade a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense. What do they have to say about it? Pauling demanded. Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all. The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his headin. The owner of that Chevvy's here, he said. Right, said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to thefront desk. The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, talland paunchy. John Hastings, he said. They say you have my car here. I believe so, yes, said Stevenson. I'm afraid it's in pretty badshape. So I was told over the phone, said Hastings grimly. I've contactedmy insurance company. Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd comewith me? <doc-sep>On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened. That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone. You left the keys in it? Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not? The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him. Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow. Yes, sir. In here. Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires? Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup. Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets? Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman. Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of kids had stolen the car. It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup. Then why did they do that ? Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen? Of course not! Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that? I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that. Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully.... That was on Wednesday. The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the Daily News brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address. The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point: Dear Mr. Editor: The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS! Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper. II The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk. It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins. Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand. As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom. Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep? At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder. Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards. <doc-sep>By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the BeltParkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at IdlewildAirport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up aposition across the street from the scene of carnage and went to workwith a Zoomar lens. In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,firing at anything that moved. The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. Oneconcentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighborsand ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens tosearch for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-homeaudience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers andundershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of thehouse. The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at thecorner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. Thepolice used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, theyhad the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challengeanyone present to hand-to-hand combat. The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy dayand all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again. The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly anddramatically. Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose ofshooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped andthrew the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithereddown to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fellbarrel first onto the lawn. Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like awounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fallinto the arms of the waiting police. They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actuallytrying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he wasshouting: My hands! My hands! They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingerswere red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There wasanother burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder. Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burnointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. Theneighbors went home and telephoned their friends. On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of theprecincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant WilliamStevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappyindividual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all. He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of thestock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, TheScorpion. <doc-sep>You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks. The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded. I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'. He says he put that on there himself, said the captain. Stevenson shook his head. His lawyer says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense. He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove? I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting? They were defective, said Hanks promptly. All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk? How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do they say? They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere. The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove? I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind. What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me? All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see. And all I know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so. And what made it so hot? Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou think made it hot? All of a sudden? He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him. How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately. How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people? But there's no explanation— started Stevenson. What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just gave you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember? I remember, said Stevenson. Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him. Yes, sir, said Stevenson.... The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the Daily News : Dear Mr. Editor, You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS. Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten. III Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD. The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war. The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances. The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through. Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street. Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited. At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started. At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson. They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off. One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us? Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way. The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask. Who cares? You go around the other way. <doc-sep>Listen, lady, said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, we got a longway to go to get home. Yeah, said another kid, in a black mask, and we're late as it is. I couldn't care less, Judy told them callously. You can't go downthat street. Why not? demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most completeand elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirtand a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had ablack knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. Why can't we go downthere? this apparition demanded. Because I said so, Judy told him. Now, you kids get away from here.Take off. Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. Hey, they'refighting down there! It's a rumble, said Judy proudly. You twerps don't want to beinvolved. Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he wentrunning around Judy and dashing off down the street. Hey, Eddie! shouted one of the other kids. Eddie, come back! Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chasethe one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them wouldcome running along after her. She didn't know what to do. A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.Cheez, said one of the kids. The cops! Fuzz! screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward theschoolyard, shouting, Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz! But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in theschoolyard. The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, wavingtheir arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pullingoff their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy'swarning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once bothschoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judyand the rumble was over. Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one greatbig blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid inthe yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street. And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault. <doc-sep>Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again. I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper? So what? Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan? Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what? Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers. So they changed their name, said Hanks. Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name? Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over. It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight. A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word? Captain, did you read the article in the paper? I glanced through it. All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.' Now, let me tell you something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody. That's what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson. Yes, sir, said Stevenson. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The Scorpion is a mysterious figure, self-proclaimed to be fighting crime, as stated in the crank letters to the Daily Mail. The true identity of The Scorpion is unknown, and no one has ever seen him. However, The Scorpion is a powerful force in the story, as he ends up being responsible for the capturing of several criminals. The Scorpion makes his presence known by tagging his signature at different crime scenes through branding, but the characters in the story, especially Stevenson, are determined to know who he is.

<s> THE BIG HEADACHE BY JIM HARMON What's the principal cause of headaches? Why, having a head, of course! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly. How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to me for helpagainst that repatriated fullback. Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down. I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research. When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches. Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—? No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself. Our discovery, Mitchell said politely. That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine. You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin— Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets. For the past seven years Macklin—who was the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of Adastra per aspirin . The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health. Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus. <doc-sep>Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly. Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride. I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings. He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces. Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment. There came a discreet knock on the door. Please come in, Mitchell said. Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention. He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven. Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold? Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor. Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know. Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk. The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about? Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine. That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it? No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches? Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is? I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches. <doc-sep>Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches. Yes, Macklin said. But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches forever by one simple injection. I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else. Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said. I see. Are you two saying you have such a shot? Can you cureheadaches? We think we can, Ferris said. How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject. There are a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one effect of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced. We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added. That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is? The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin. That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels. The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain. The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe. I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work. <doc-sep>Will work, Macklin said thoughtfully. The operative word. It hasn't worked then? Certainly it has, Ferris said. On rats, on chimps.... But not on humans? Macklin asked. Not yet, Mitchell admitted. Well, Macklin said. Well. He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectorsfrom the Army. We want you, Ferris told him. Macklin coughed. I don't want to overestimate my value but thegovernment wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of thisproject. My wife would like it even less. Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see himmouthing the word yellow . Doctor, Mitchell said quickly, I know it's a tremendous favor toask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of ourstudies we can get no more financial backing. We should run alarge-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of ourresources. I'm tempted, Macklin said hesitantly, but the answer is go. I mean' no '. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much toothers to take the rest—the risk, I mean. Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. I reallywould like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that itmeans another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain throughmy temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the riotingpools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh. Ferris smiled. Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Producesnausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn'tit? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I'veheard some say they preferred the migraine. Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used totend it in a worn leather case. Tell me, he said, what is the worstthat could happen to me? Low blood pressure, Ferris said. That's not so bad, Macklin said. How low can it get? When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,Mitchell said. A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. Is there muchrisk of that? Practically none, Mitchell said. We have to give you the worstpossibilities. All our test animals survived and seem perfectly happyand contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and Iare confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong. Macklin held his head in both hands. Why did you two select me ? You're an important man, doctor, Ferris said. Nobody would care ifMitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believeus if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a manof your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronicmigraine. You do. Yes, I do, Macklin said. Very well. Go ahead. Give me yourinjection. Mitchell cleared his throat. Are you positive, doctor? he askeduncertainly. Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over. No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now. There's a simple release, Ferris said smoothly. Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen. II Ferris! Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him. Right here, the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a worktable, penciling notes. I've been expecting you. Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to thenewspapers, Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against thefolded paper. On the contrary, I should and I did, Ferris answered. We wantedsomething dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is. Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcastunverified results to the press. It's too early for that! Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn'the? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell rightnow, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces. It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to thenewspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn'tenough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The publicwill hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded theSalk vaccine and the Grennell serum. But— The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections. Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered itand listened for a moment, his face growing impatient. It's Macklin's wife, Ferris said. Do you want to talk to her? I'm nogood with hysterical women. Hysterical? Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone. Hello? Mitchell said reluctantly. Mrs. Macklin? You are the other one, the clear feminine voice said. Your name isMitchell. She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchellthought. That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris'sassociate. Do you have a license to dispense narcotics? What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said sharply. I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husbandheroin. That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that? The—trance he's in now. Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near yourhusband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn offby this time. Most known narcotics, she admitted, but evidently you havediscovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferrishave to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied? Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you arecalmer. Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. What could be wrong withMacklin? he asked without removing his hand from the telephone. Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. Let's have alook at the test animals. Together they marched over to the cages and peered through thehoneycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sittingpeacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of hisknuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practicallyDean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,worrying the lock on the cage. Jerry is a great deal more active than Dean, Mitchell said. Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervousenergy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either. They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,Bud and Lou, much the same. I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood, Mitchell ventured. Iron deficiency anemia? Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better seeexactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin. There's nothing wrong with him, Ferris snapped. He's probably justtrying to get us in trouble, the ingrate! <doc-sep>Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive inaqua-tinted aluminum. Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum . As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completelyundisturbed, perhaps slightly curious. The door unlatched and swung back. Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said quickly, I'm sure we can help if thereis anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.Mitchell. You had certainly better help him, gentlemen. She stood out of thedoorway for them to pass. Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She worean expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline. The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them. You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorizedinjection, he said. It wasn't a question. I don't like that 'unauthorized', Ferris snapped. The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifteda heavy eyebrow. No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized totreat illnesses? We weren't treating an illness, Mitchell said. We were discovering amethod of treatment. What concern is it of yours? The colonel smiled thinly. Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everythingthat happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him. Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man. Can we see him? Mitchell asked. Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might bejust as well. We have laws to cover that. The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchellsuddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest tohis home surroundings. On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped buildingblocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformedman—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medicalcorps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effectcarpet. The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from thescrupulously clean rug. What's wrong with him, Sidney? the other officer asked the doctor. Not a thing, Sidney said. He's the healthiest, happiest, mostwell-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson. But— Colonel Carson protested. Oh, he's changed all right, the Army doctor answered. He's not thesame man as he used to be. How is he different? Mitchell demanded. The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. Heused to be a mathematical genius. And now? Mitchell said impatiently. Now he is a moron, the medic said. III Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctormumbled he had a report to make. Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at eachother. What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot? Mitchell asked. Not an idiot, Colonel Carson corrected primly. Dr. Macklin is amoron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid. I'm not so dumb, Macklin said defensively. I beg your pardon, sir, Carson said. I didn't intend any offense.But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron. That's just on book learning, Macklin said. There's a lot you learnin life that you don't get out of books, son. I'm confident that's true, sir, Colonel Carson said. He turned to thetwo biologists. Perhaps we had better speak outside. But— Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. Verywell. Let's step into the hall. Ferris followed them docilely. What have you done to him? the colonel asked straightforwardly. We merely cured him of his headaches, Mitchell said. How? Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus. You mean, the Army officer said levelly you have infected him withsome kind of a disease to rot his brain? No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can makehim understand. All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as ifhe had been kicked in the head by a mule, Colonel Carson said. I think I can explain, Ferris interrupted. You can? Mitchell said. Ferris nodded. We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if thevirus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract inthe cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But thatnecessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the braincells to function properly. Why won't they function? Carson roared. They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin, Ferrisexplained. The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump theblood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The braincells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying. The colonel yelled. Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct. <doc-sep>The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race. Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin. You can ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees. Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary. Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees. Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it. What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir? I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be. Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be. With my headaches, like before? Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure. I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully. Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head. No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying. You mean wondering, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry? Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it. That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid. It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now. No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't think you can. No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't. Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him. Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her. <doc-sep>They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picturewindow an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached. Mrs. Macklin, the colonel began, these gentlemen believe they cancure your husband of his present condition. Really? she said. Did you speak to Elliot about that? Y-yes, Colonel Carson said, but he's not himself. He refused thetreatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence. She nodded. If those are his wishes, I can't go against them. But Mrs. Macklin! Mitchell protested. You will have to get a courtorder overruling your husband's wishes. She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. Thatwas my original thought. But I've redecided. Redecided! Carson burst out almost hysterically. Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to puthim back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happynow. Like a child, but happy. Mrs. Macklin, the Army man said levelly, if you don't help usrestore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court orderdeclaring him incompetent. But he is not! Legally, I mean, the woman stormed. Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give usthe edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Oncehe's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell andFerris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklinto sanity. I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner, she said. The colonel looked smug. Why not? Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, isinvolved. There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But— It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history ofvascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want togive those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. Toparalyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority. I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatmentthere is no chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.Macklin, Mitchell interjected. Her mouth grew petulant. I don't care. I would rather have a livehusband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make himcomfortable.... Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell ledhim back into the hall. I'm no psychiatrist, Mitchell said, but I think she wants Macklinstupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,and now she can dominate him completely. What is she? A monster? the Army officer muttered. No, Mitchell said. She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealousof her husband's genius. Maybe, Carson said. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tellthe Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk. I'll go with you, Ferris said. Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist. Carson squinted. Any particular reason, doctor? To celebrate, Ferris said. The colonel shrugged. That's as good a reason as any. On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together inbewilderment. IV Macklin was playing jacks. He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a greatcurving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Plutoand the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Nothis head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed M so it was all thesame. Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty. He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to hisheart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver fromthe nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger. After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer. Hello? Elliot Macklin said. Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered thephone instead of his wife. Can you speak freely, doctor? Mitchell asked. Of course, the mathematician said. I can talk fine. I mean, are you alone? Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Armydoctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him giveme anything, though. Good boy, the biologist said. Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you goback to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,don't you? There was a slight hesitation. Sure, Macklin said, if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you? But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second ifI could have some reason for not telling you the truth. I suppose so, Macklin said humbly. You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of otherproblems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind ofscientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used tohave time to think about. If you say so. Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of thoseworries just as you got rid of the others? Mitchell asked. I guess I'd like that, the mathematician replied. Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don'tyou? No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put meback where I was instead of helping me more? I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal! If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army iswatching me pretty close. That's alright, Mitchell said quickly. You can bring along ColonelCarson. But he won't like you fixing me up more. But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—Iwant you to come right on over here, El. If you say so, Macklin said uncertainly. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Ferris and Mitchell discuss the struggles they are experiencing with their research. They are eager to test their new research and want the test subject to be Elliot Macklin, a well-known and attractive scientist with a reputation akin to Albert Einstein. Macklin experiences migraines and the two believe that their injection shot could cure them. The two want Macklin to participate because it could ensure that their research will have strong financial support.Macklin soon enters their laboratory and begins to ask about what they’re looking to do with their research. Ferris and Mitchell discuss their theory with Macklin and how their supposed cure works. They mention to Macklin, to his dismay, that it has only been tested on animals. Macklin is skeptical and considers the injection too risky and initially does not agree to take the treatment. Macklin begins to start experiencing a migraine. As he suffers through a migraine, Ferris and Mitchell use the opportunity to try again to convince him to participate in the research. They further emphasize the very minimal potential risk. Macklin finally agrees to take the injection due to the immense pain he is experiencing. Later on, Mitchell is upset with Ferris for sharing their unverified results with the press. Ferris exclaims to Mitchell that the experiment with Macklin was a success and that he should not be concerned. The phone rings and Ferris answers it but quickly passes it to Mitchell. Macklin’s wife is on the phone accusing them of giving her husband heroin as Macklin appears to be in a trance. The doctors are concerned by the news and decide to check on the test animals. They do not find anything of concern with the test animals and go to Macklin’s house. Ferris does not seem worried to Mitchell as they wait to be let into the house. When they enter the house, an army Colonel meets them and expresses his unhappiness with their actions. As the group heads into the living room, they greet an army physician that tells them that medically there is nothing wrong with Macklin’s health the only difference is that Macklin is no longer a mathematical genius. The three go into the hallway and discuss how the experiment most likely went wrong. The Colonel becomes upset because Macklin was very important to many missions because of his invaluable research. Mitchell suddenly exclaims that he thinks that Macklin can be cured. However, Macklin overhears the possibility of a cure and protests receiving the treatment. The Colonel is upset at Macklin’s reaction and tries to convince Macklin’s wife to force him to be cured. Macklin’s wife does not wish to go against her husband’s wishes. They leave the house without convincing Macklin or his wife. Later on, Mitchell wakes up and calls Macklin. Mitchell attempts to get Macklin to trust him and goes about luring Macklin back to the laboratory by saying that he can help with the new types of worries that Macklin experiences.

<s> THE BIG HEADACHE BY JIM HARMON What's the principal cause of headaches? Why, having a head, of course! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly. How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to me for helpagainst that repatriated fullback. Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down. I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research. When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches. Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—? No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself. Our discovery, Mitchell said politely. That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine. You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin— Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets. For the past seven years Macklin—who was the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of Adastra per aspirin . The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health. Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus. <doc-sep>Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly. Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride. I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings. He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces. Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment. There came a discreet knock on the door. Please come in, Mitchell said. Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention. He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven. Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold? Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor. Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know. Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk. The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about? Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine. That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it? No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches? Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is? I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches. <doc-sep>Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches. Yes, Macklin said. But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches forever by one simple injection. I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else. Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said. I see. Are you two saying you have such a shot? Can you cureheadaches? We think we can, Ferris said. How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject. There are a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one effect of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced. We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added. That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is? The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin. That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels. The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain. The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe. I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work. <doc-sep>Will work, Macklin said thoughtfully. The operative word. It hasn't worked then? Certainly it has, Ferris said. On rats, on chimps.... But not on humans? Macklin asked. Not yet, Mitchell admitted. Well, Macklin said. Well. He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectorsfrom the Army. We want you, Ferris told him. Macklin coughed. I don't want to overestimate my value but thegovernment wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of thisproject. My wife would like it even less. Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see himmouthing the word yellow . Doctor, Mitchell said quickly, I know it's a tremendous favor toask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of ourstudies we can get no more financial backing. We should run alarge-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of ourresources. I'm tempted, Macklin said hesitantly, but the answer is go. I mean' no '. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much toothers to take the rest—the risk, I mean. Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. I reallywould like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that itmeans another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain throughmy temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the riotingpools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh. Ferris smiled. Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Producesnausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn'tit? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I'veheard some say they preferred the migraine. Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used totend it in a worn leather case. Tell me, he said, what is the worstthat could happen to me? Low blood pressure, Ferris said. That's not so bad, Macklin said. How low can it get? When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,Mitchell said. A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. Is there muchrisk of that? Practically none, Mitchell said. We have to give you the worstpossibilities. All our test animals survived and seem perfectly happyand contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and Iare confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong. Macklin held his head in both hands. Why did you two select me ? You're an important man, doctor, Ferris said. Nobody would care ifMitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believeus if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a manof your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronicmigraine. You do. Yes, I do, Macklin said. Very well. Go ahead. Give me yourinjection. Mitchell cleared his throat. Are you positive, doctor? he askeduncertainly. Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over. No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now. There's a simple release, Ferris said smoothly. Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen. II Ferris! Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him. Right here, the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a worktable, penciling notes. I've been expecting you. Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to thenewspapers, Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against thefolded paper. On the contrary, I should and I did, Ferris answered. We wantedsomething dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is. Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcastunverified results to the press. It's too early for that! Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn'the? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell rightnow, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces. It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to thenewspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn'tenough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The publicwill hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded theSalk vaccine and the Grennell serum. But— The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections. Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered itand listened for a moment, his face growing impatient. It's Macklin's wife, Ferris said. Do you want to talk to her? I'm nogood with hysterical women. Hysterical? Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone. Hello? Mitchell said reluctantly. Mrs. Macklin? You are the other one, the clear feminine voice said. Your name isMitchell. She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchellthought. That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris'sassociate. Do you have a license to dispense narcotics? What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said sharply. I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husbandheroin. That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that? The—trance he's in now. Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near yourhusband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn offby this time. Most known narcotics, she admitted, but evidently you havediscovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferrishave to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied? Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you arecalmer. Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. What could be wrong withMacklin? he asked without removing his hand from the telephone. Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. Let's have alook at the test animals. Together they marched over to the cages and peered through thehoneycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sittingpeacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of hisknuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practicallyDean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,worrying the lock on the cage. Jerry is a great deal more active than Dean, Mitchell said. Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervousenergy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either. They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,Bud and Lou, much the same. I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood, Mitchell ventured. Iron deficiency anemia? Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better seeexactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin. There's nothing wrong with him, Ferris snapped. He's probably justtrying to get us in trouble, the ingrate! <doc-sep>Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive inaqua-tinted aluminum. Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum . As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completelyundisturbed, perhaps slightly curious. The door unlatched and swung back. Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said quickly, I'm sure we can help if thereis anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.Mitchell. You had certainly better help him, gentlemen. She stood out of thedoorway for them to pass. Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She worean expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline. The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them. You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorizedinjection, he said. It wasn't a question. I don't like that 'unauthorized', Ferris snapped. The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifteda heavy eyebrow. No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized totreat illnesses? We weren't treating an illness, Mitchell said. We were discovering amethod of treatment. What concern is it of yours? The colonel smiled thinly. Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everythingthat happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him. Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man. Can we see him? Mitchell asked. Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might bejust as well. We have laws to cover that. The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchellsuddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest tohis home surroundings. On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped buildingblocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformedman—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medicalcorps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effectcarpet. The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from thescrupulously clean rug. What's wrong with him, Sidney? the other officer asked the doctor. Not a thing, Sidney said. He's the healthiest, happiest, mostwell-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson. But— Colonel Carson protested. Oh, he's changed all right, the Army doctor answered. He's not thesame man as he used to be. How is he different? Mitchell demanded. The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. Heused to be a mathematical genius. And now? Mitchell said impatiently. Now he is a moron, the medic said. III Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctormumbled he had a report to make. Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at eachother. What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot? Mitchell asked. Not an idiot, Colonel Carson corrected primly. Dr. Macklin is amoron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid. I'm not so dumb, Macklin said defensively. I beg your pardon, sir, Carson said. I didn't intend any offense.But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron. That's just on book learning, Macklin said. There's a lot you learnin life that you don't get out of books, son. I'm confident that's true, sir, Colonel Carson said. He turned to thetwo biologists. Perhaps we had better speak outside. But— Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. Verywell. Let's step into the hall. Ferris followed them docilely. What have you done to him? the colonel asked straightforwardly. We merely cured him of his headaches, Mitchell said. How? Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus. You mean, the Army officer said levelly you have infected him withsome kind of a disease to rot his brain? No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can makehim understand. All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as ifhe had been kicked in the head by a mule, Colonel Carson said. I think I can explain, Ferris interrupted. You can? Mitchell said. Ferris nodded. We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if thevirus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract inthe cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But thatnecessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the braincells to function properly. Why won't they function? Carson roared. They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin, Ferrisexplained. The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump theblood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The braincells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying. The colonel yelled. Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct. <doc-sep>The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race. Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin. You can ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees. Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary. Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees. Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it. What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir? I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be. Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be. With my headaches, like before? Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure. I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully. Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head. No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying. You mean wondering, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry? Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it. That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid. It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now. No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't think you can. No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't. Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him. Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her. <doc-sep>They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picturewindow an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached. Mrs. Macklin, the colonel began, these gentlemen believe they cancure your husband of his present condition. Really? she said. Did you speak to Elliot about that? Y-yes, Colonel Carson said, but he's not himself. He refused thetreatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence. She nodded. If those are his wishes, I can't go against them. But Mrs. Macklin! Mitchell protested. You will have to get a courtorder overruling your husband's wishes. She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. Thatwas my original thought. But I've redecided. Redecided! Carson burst out almost hysterically. Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to puthim back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happynow. Like a child, but happy. Mrs. Macklin, the Army man said levelly, if you don't help usrestore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court orderdeclaring him incompetent. But he is not! Legally, I mean, the woman stormed. Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give usthe edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Oncehe's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell andFerris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklinto sanity. I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner, she said. The colonel looked smug. Why not? Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, isinvolved. There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But— It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history ofvascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want togive those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. Toparalyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority. I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatmentthere is no chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.Macklin, Mitchell interjected. Her mouth grew petulant. I don't care. I would rather have a livehusband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make himcomfortable.... Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell ledhim back into the hall. I'm no psychiatrist, Mitchell said, but I think she wants Macklinstupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,and now she can dominate him completely. What is she? A monster? the Army officer muttered. No, Mitchell said. She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealousof her husband's genius. Maybe, Carson said. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tellthe Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk. I'll go with you, Ferris said. Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist. Carson squinted. Any particular reason, doctor? To celebrate, Ferris said. The colonel shrugged. That's as good a reason as any. On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together inbewilderment. IV Macklin was playing jacks. He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a greatcurving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Plutoand the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Nothis head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed M so it was all thesame. Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty. He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to hisheart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver fromthe nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger. After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer. Hello? Elliot Macklin said. Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered thephone instead of his wife. Can you speak freely, doctor? Mitchell asked. Of course, the mathematician said. I can talk fine. I mean, are you alone? Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Armydoctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him giveme anything, though. Good boy, the biologist said. Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you goback to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,don't you? There was a slight hesitation. Sure, Macklin said, if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you? But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second ifI could have some reason for not telling you the truth. I suppose so, Macklin said humbly. You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of otherproblems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind ofscientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used tohave time to think about. If you say so. Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of thoseworries just as you got rid of the others? Mitchell asked. I guess I'd like that, the mathematician replied. Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don'tyou? No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put meback where I was instead of helping me more? I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal! If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army iswatching me pretty close. That's alright, Mitchell said quickly. You can bring along ColonelCarson. But he won't like you fixing me up more. But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—Iwant you to come right on over here, El. If you say so, Macklin said uncertainly. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story begins with the two doctors, Ferris and Mitchell, discussing their research in a laboratory in the biology building. Macklin comes into their office to discuss their potential cure for headaches. It is in the office that Macklin agrees and is administered the experimental cure. Later, Mitchell is angry at Ferris and goes to scold him in the laboratory. After they receive a concerning call from Macklin’s wife, the two examine their test animals kept in cages. With no significant revelations found, they head to Macklin’s house. Macklin’s house is described as a traditional ranch style home. At the house, they see Macklin sitting in a very femininely decorated living room. Ferris, Mitchell, and the Colonel have discussions throughout the house about the possibility of a cure and how they might be able to get Macklin to take the cure. They leave the house without any success. The next section of the story begins with Mitchell waking up in his bed where he suddenly calls Macklin in an attempt to lure him back to the laboratory.

<s> THE BIG HEADACHE BY JIM HARMON What's the principal cause of headaches? Why, having a head, of course! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly. How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to me for helpagainst that repatriated fullback. Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down. I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research. When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches. Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—? No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself. Our discovery, Mitchell said politely. That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine. You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin— Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets. For the past seven years Macklin—who was the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of Adastra per aspirin . The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health. Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus. <doc-sep>Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly. Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride. I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings. He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces. Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment. There came a discreet knock on the door. Please come in, Mitchell said. Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention. He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven. Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold? Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor. Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know. Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk. The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about? Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine. That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it? No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches? Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is? I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches. <doc-sep>Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches. Yes, Macklin said. But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches forever by one simple injection. I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else. Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said. I see. Are you two saying you have such a shot? Can you cureheadaches? We think we can, Ferris said. How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject. There are a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one effect of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced. We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added. That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is? The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin. That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels. The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain. The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe. I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work. <doc-sep>Will work, Macklin said thoughtfully. The operative word. It hasn't worked then? Certainly it has, Ferris said. On rats, on chimps.... But not on humans? Macklin asked. Not yet, Mitchell admitted. Well, Macklin said. Well. He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectorsfrom the Army. We want you, Ferris told him. Macklin coughed. I don't want to overestimate my value but thegovernment wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of thisproject. My wife would like it even less. Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see himmouthing the word yellow . Doctor, Mitchell said quickly, I know it's a tremendous favor toask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of ourstudies we can get no more financial backing. We should run alarge-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of ourresources. I'm tempted, Macklin said hesitantly, but the answer is go. I mean' no '. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much toothers to take the rest—the risk, I mean. Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. I reallywould like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that itmeans another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain throughmy temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the riotingpools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh. Ferris smiled. Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Producesnausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn'tit? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I'veheard some say they preferred the migraine. Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used totend it in a worn leather case. Tell me, he said, what is the worstthat could happen to me? Low blood pressure, Ferris said. That's not so bad, Macklin said. How low can it get? When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,Mitchell said. A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. Is there muchrisk of that? Practically none, Mitchell said. We have to give you the worstpossibilities. All our test animals survived and seem perfectly happyand contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and Iare confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong. Macklin held his head in both hands. Why did you two select me ? You're an important man, doctor, Ferris said. Nobody would care ifMitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believeus if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a manof your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronicmigraine. You do. Yes, I do, Macklin said. Very well. Go ahead. Give me yourinjection. Mitchell cleared his throat. Are you positive, doctor? he askeduncertainly. Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over. No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now. There's a simple release, Ferris said smoothly. Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen. II Ferris! Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him. Right here, the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a worktable, penciling notes. I've been expecting you. Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to thenewspapers, Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against thefolded paper. On the contrary, I should and I did, Ferris answered. We wantedsomething dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is. Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcastunverified results to the press. It's too early for that! Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn'the? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell rightnow, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces. It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to thenewspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn'tenough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The publicwill hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded theSalk vaccine and the Grennell serum. But— The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections. Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered itand listened for a moment, his face growing impatient. It's Macklin's wife, Ferris said. Do you want to talk to her? I'm nogood with hysterical women. Hysterical? Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone. Hello? Mitchell said reluctantly. Mrs. Macklin? You are the other one, the clear feminine voice said. Your name isMitchell. She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchellthought. That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris'sassociate. Do you have a license to dispense narcotics? What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said sharply. I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husbandheroin. That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that? The—trance he's in now. Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near yourhusband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn offby this time. Most known narcotics, she admitted, but evidently you havediscovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferrishave to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied? Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you arecalmer. Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. What could be wrong withMacklin? he asked without removing his hand from the telephone. Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. Let's have alook at the test animals. Together they marched over to the cages and peered through thehoneycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sittingpeacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of hisknuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practicallyDean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,worrying the lock on the cage. Jerry is a great deal more active than Dean, Mitchell said. Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervousenergy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either. They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,Bud and Lou, much the same. I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood, Mitchell ventured. Iron deficiency anemia? Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better seeexactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin. There's nothing wrong with him, Ferris snapped. He's probably justtrying to get us in trouble, the ingrate! <doc-sep>Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive inaqua-tinted aluminum. Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum . As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completelyundisturbed, perhaps slightly curious. The door unlatched and swung back. Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said quickly, I'm sure we can help if thereis anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.Mitchell. You had certainly better help him, gentlemen. She stood out of thedoorway for them to pass. Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She worean expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline. The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them. You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorizedinjection, he said. It wasn't a question. I don't like that 'unauthorized', Ferris snapped. The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifteda heavy eyebrow. No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized totreat illnesses? We weren't treating an illness, Mitchell said. We were discovering amethod of treatment. What concern is it of yours? The colonel smiled thinly. Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everythingthat happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him. Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man. Can we see him? Mitchell asked. Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might bejust as well. We have laws to cover that. The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchellsuddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest tohis home surroundings. On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped buildingblocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformedman—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medicalcorps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effectcarpet. The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from thescrupulously clean rug. What's wrong with him, Sidney? the other officer asked the doctor. Not a thing, Sidney said. He's the healthiest, happiest, mostwell-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson. But— Colonel Carson protested. Oh, he's changed all right, the Army doctor answered. He's not thesame man as he used to be. How is he different? Mitchell demanded. The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. Heused to be a mathematical genius. And now? Mitchell said impatiently. Now he is a moron, the medic said. III Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctormumbled he had a report to make. Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at eachother. What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot? Mitchell asked. Not an idiot, Colonel Carson corrected primly. Dr. Macklin is amoron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid. I'm not so dumb, Macklin said defensively. I beg your pardon, sir, Carson said. I didn't intend any offense.But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron. That's just on book learning, Macklin said. There's a lot you learnin life that you don't get out of books, son. I'm confident that's true, sir, Colonel Carson said. He turned to thetwo biologists. Perhaps we had better speak outside. But— Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. Verywell. Let's step into the hall. Ferris followed them docilely. What have you done to him? the colonel asked straightforwardly. We merely cured him of his headaches, Mitchell said. How? Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus. You mean, the Army officer said levelly you have infected him withsome kind of a disease to rot his brain? No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can makehim understand. All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as ifhe had been kicked in the head by a mule, Colonel Carson said. I think I can explain, Ferris interrupted. You can? Mitchell said. Ferris nodded. We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if thevirus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract inthe cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But thatnecessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the braincells to function properly. Why won't they function? Carson roared. They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin, Ferrisexplained. The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump theblood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The braincells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying. The colonel yelled. Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct. <doc-sep>The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race. Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin. You can ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees. Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary. Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees. Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it. What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir? I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be. Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be. With my headaches, like before? Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure. I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully. Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head. No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying. You mean wondering, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry? Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it. That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid. It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now. No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't think you can. No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't. Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him. Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her. <doc-sep>They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picturewindow an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached. Mrs. Macklin, the colonel began, these gentlemen believe they cancure your husband of his present condition. Really? she said. Did you speak to Elliot about that? Y-yes, Colonel Carson said, but he's not himself. He refused thetreatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence. She nodded. If those are his wishes, I can't go against them. But Mrs. Macklin! Mitchell protested. You will have to get a courtorder overruling your husband's wishes. She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. Thatwas my original thought. But I've redecided. Redecided! Carson burst out almost hysterically. Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to puthim back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happynow. Like a child, but happy. Mrs. Macklin, the Army man said levelly, if you don't help usrestore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court orderdeclaring him incompetent. But he is not! Legally, I mean, the woman stormed. Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give usthe edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Oncehe's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell andFerris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklinto sanity. I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner, she said. The colonel looked smug. Why not? Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, isinvolved. There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But— It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history ofvascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want togive those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. Toparalyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority. I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatmentthere is no chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.Macklin, Mitchell interjected. Her mouth grew petulant. I don't care. I would rather have a livehusband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make himcomfortable.... Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell ledhim back into the hall. I'm no psychiatrist, Mitchell said, but I think she wants Macklinstupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,and now she can dominate him completely. What is she? A monster? the Army officer muttered. No, Mitchell said. She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealousof her husband's genius. Maybe, Carson said. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tellthe Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk. I'll go with you, Ferris said. Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist. Carson squinted. Any particular reason, doctor? To celebrate, Ferris said. The colonel shrugged. That's as good a reason as any. On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together inbewilderment. IV Macklin was playing jacks. He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a greatcurving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Plutoand the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Nothis head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed M so it was all thesame. Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty. He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to hisheart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver fromthe nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger. After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer. Hello? Elliot Macklin said. Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered thephone instead of his wife. Can you speak freely, doctor? Mitchell asked. Of course, the mathematician said. I can talk fine. I mean, are you alone? Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Armydoctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him giveme anything, though. Good boy, the biologist said. Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you goback to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,don't you? There was a slight hesitation. Sure, Macklin said, if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you? But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second ifI could have some reason for not telling you the truth. I suppose so, Macklin said humbly. You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of otherproblems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind ofscientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used tohave time to think about. If you say so. Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of thoseworries just as you got rid of the others? Mitchell asked. I guess I'd like that, the mathematician replied. Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don'tyou? No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put meback where I was instead of helping me more? I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal! If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army iswatching me pretty close. That's alright, Mitchell said quickly. You can bring along ColonelCarson. But he won't like you fixing me up more. But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—Iwant you to come right on over here, El. If you say so, Macklin said uncertainly. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

It is well-known that Macklin succumbs to migraines from time to time in his life. Physically, Macklin is very fit and is regarded as having a built, athletic frame. However, internally he does suffer from various ailments. His migraine symptoms involve incorrectly substituting words with others, overstimulation of color and light between his eyes, and a concrete pain through his temples. In addition to the migraines, Macklin has a history of vascular spasms. He had even experienced a pseudo stroke in the past.

<s> THE BIG HEADACHE BY JIM HARMON What's the principal cause of headaches? Why, having a head, of course! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly. How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to me for helpagainst that repatriated fullback. Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down. I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research. When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches. Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—? No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself. Our discovery, Mitchell said politely. That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine. You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin— Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets. For the past seven years Macklin—who was the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of Adastra per aspirin . The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health. Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus. <doc-sep>Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly. Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride. I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings. He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces. Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment. There came a discreet knock on the door. Please come in, Mitchell said. Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention. He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven. Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold? Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor. Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know. Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk. The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about? Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine. That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it? No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches? Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is? I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches. <doc-sep>Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches. Yes, Macklin said. But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches forever by one simple injection. I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else. Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said. I see. Are you two saying you have such a shot? Can you cureheadaches? We think we can, Ferris said. How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject. There are a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one effect of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced. We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added. That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is? The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin. That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels. The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain. The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe. I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work. <doc-sep>Will work, Macklin said thoughtfully. The operative word. It hasn't worked then? Certainly it has, Ferris said. On rats, on chimps.... But not on humans? Macklin asked. Not yet, Mitchell admitted. Well, Macklin said. Well. He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectorsfrom the Army. We want you, Ferris told him. Macklin coughed. I don't want to overestimate my value but thegovernment wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of thisproject. My wife would like it even less. Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see himmouthing the word yellow . Doctor, Mitchell said quickly, I know it's a tremendous favor toask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of ourstudies we can get no more financial backing. We should run alarge-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of ourresources. I'm tempted, Macklin said hesitantly, but the answer is go. I mean' no '. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much toothers to take the rest—the risk, I mean. Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. I reallywould like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that itmeans another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain throughmy temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the riotingpools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh. Ferris smiled. Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Producesnausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn'tit? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I'veheard some say they preferred the migraine. Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used totend it in a worn leather case. Tell me, he said, what is the worstthat could happen to me? Low blood pressure, Ferris said. That's not so bad, Macklin said. How low can it get? When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,Mitchell said. A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. Is there muchrisk of that? Practically none, Mitchell said. We have to give you the worstpossibilities. All our test animals survived and seem perfectly happyand contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and Iare confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong. Macklin held his head in both hands. Why did you two select me ? You're an important man, doctor, Ferris said. Nobody would care ifMitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believeus if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a manof your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronicmigraine. You do. Yes, I do, Macklin said. Very well. Go ahead. Give me yourinjection. Mitchell cleared his throat. Are you positive, doctor? he askeduncertainly. Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over. No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now. There's a simple release, Ferris said smoothly. Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen. II Ferris! Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him. Right here, the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a worktable, penciling notes. I've been expecting you. Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to thenewspapers, Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against thefolded paper. On the contrary, I should and I did, Ferris answered. We wantedsomething dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is. Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcastunverified results to the press. It's too early for that! Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn'the? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell rightnow, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces. It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to thenewspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn'tenough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The publicwill hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded theSalk vaccine and the Grennell serum. But— The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections. Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered itand listened for a moment, his face growing impatient. It's Macklin's wife, Ferris said. Do you want to talk to her? I'm nogood with hysterical women. Hysterical? Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone. Hello? Mitchell said reluctantly. Mrs. Macklin? You are the other one, the clear feminine voice said. Your name isMitchell. She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchellthought. That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris'sassociate. Do you have a license to dispense narcotics? What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said sharply. I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husbandheroin. That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that? The—trance he's in now. Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near yourhusband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn offby this time. Most known narcotics, she admitted, but evidently you havediscovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferrishave to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied? Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you arecalmer. Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. What could be wrong withMacklin? he asked without removing his hand from the telephone. Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. Let's have alook at the test animals. Together they marched over to the cages and peered through thehoneycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sittingpeacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of hisknuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practicallyDean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,worrying the lock on the cage. Jerry is a great deal more active than Dean, Mitchell said. Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervousenergy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either. They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,Bud and Lou, much the same. I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood, Mitchell ventured. Iron deficiency anemia? Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better seeexactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin. There's nothing wrong with him, Ferris snapped. He's probably justtrying to get us in trouble, the ingrate! <doc-sep>Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive inaqua-tinted aluminum. Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum . As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completelyundisturbed, perhaps slightly curious. The door unlatched and swung back. Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said quickly, I'm sure we can help if thereis anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.Mitchell. You had certainly better help him, gentlemen. She stood out of thedoorway for them to pass. Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She worean expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline. The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them. You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorizedinjection, he said. It wasn't a question. I don't like that 'unauthorized', Ferris snapped. The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifteda heavy eyebrow. No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized totreat illnesses? We weren't treating an illness, Mitchell said. We were discovering amethod of treatment. What concern is it of yours? The colonel smiled thinly. Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everythingthat happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him. Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man. Can we see him? Mitchell asked. Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might bejust as well. We have laws to cover that. The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchellsuddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest tohis home surroundings. On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped buildingblocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformedman—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medicalcorps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effectcarpet. The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from thescrupulously clean rug. What's wrong with him, Sidney? the other officer asked the doctor. Not a thing, Sidney said. He's the healthiest, happiest, mostwell-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson. But— Colonel Carson protested. Oh, he's changed all right, the Army doctor answered. He's not thesame man as he used to be. How is he different? Mitchell demanded. The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. Heused to be a mathematical genius. And now? Mitchell said impatiently. Now he is a moron, the medic said. III Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctormumbled he had a report to make. Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at eachother. What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot? Mitchell asked. Not an idiot, Colonel Carson corrected primly. Dr. Macklin is amoron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid. I'm not so dumb, Macklin said defensively. I beg your pardon, sir, Carson said. I didn't intend any offense.But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron. That's just on book learning, Macklin said. There's a lot you learnin life that you don't get out of books, son. I'm confident that's true, sir, Colonel Carson said. He turned to thetwo biologists. Perhaps we had better speak outside. But— Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. Verywell. Let's step into the hall. Ferris followed them docilely. What have you done to him? the colonel asked straightforwardly. We merely cured him of his headaches, Mitchell said. How? Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus. You mean, the Army officer said levelly you have infected him withsome kind of a disease to rot his brain? No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can makehim understand. All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as ifhe had been kicked in the head by a mule, Colonel Carson said. I think I can explain, Ferris interrupted. You can? Mitchell said. Ferris nodded. We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if thevirus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract inthe cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But thatnecessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the braincells to function properly. Why won't they function? Carson roared. They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin, Ferrisexplained. The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump theblood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The braincells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying. The colonel yelled. Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct. <doc-sep>The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race. Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin. You can ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees. Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary. Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees. Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it. What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir? I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be. Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be. With my headaches, like before? Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure. I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully. Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head. No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying. You mean wondering, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry? Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it. That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid. It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now. No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't think you can. No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't. Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him. Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her. <doc-sep>They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picturewindow an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached. Mrs. Macklin, the colonel began, these gentlemen believe they cancure your husband of his present condition. Really? she said. Did you speak to Elliot about that? Y-yes, Colonel Carson said, but he's not himself. He refused thetreatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence. She nodded. If those are his wishes, I can't go against them. But Mrs. Macklin! Mitchell protested. You will have to get a courtorder overruling your husband's wishes. She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. Thatwas my original thought. But I've redecided. Redecided! Carson burst out almost hysterically. Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to puthim back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happynow. Like a child, but happy. Mrs. Macklin, the Army man said levelly, if you don't help usrestore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court orderdeclaring him incompetent. But he is not! Legally, I mean, the woman stormed. Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give usthe edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Oncehe's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell andFerris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklinto sanity. I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner, she said. The colonel looked smug. Why not? Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, isinvolved. There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But— It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history ofvascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want togive those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. Toparalyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority. I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatmentthere is no chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.Macklin, Mitchell interjected. Her mouth grew petulant. I don't care. I would rather have a livehusband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make himcomfortable.... Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell ledhim back into the hall. I'm no psychiatrist, Mitchell said, but I think she wants Macklinstupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,and now she can dominate him completely. What is she? A monster? the Army officer muttered. No, Mitchell said. She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealousof her husband's genius. Maybe, Carson said. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tellthe Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk. I'll go with you, Ferris said. Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist. Carson squinted. Any particular reason, doctor? To celebrate, Ferris said. The colonel shrugged. That's as good a reason as any. On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together inbewilderment. IV Macklin was playing jacks. He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a greatcurving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Plutoand the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Nothis head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed M so it was all thesame. Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty. He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to hisheart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver fromthe nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger. After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer. Hello? Elliot Macklin said. Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered thephone instead of his wife. Can you speak freely, doctor? Mitchell asked. Of course, the mathematician said. I can talk fine. I mean, are you alone? Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Armydoctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him giveme anything, though. Good boy, the biologist said. Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you goback to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,don't you? There was a slight hesitation. Sure, Macklin said, if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you? But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second ifI could have some reason for not telling you the truth. I suppose so, Macklin said humbly. You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of otherproblems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind ofscientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used tohave time to think about. If you say so. Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of thoseworries just as you got rid of the others? Mitchell asked. I guess I'd like that, the mathematician replied. Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don'tyou? No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put meback where I was instead of helping me more? I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal! If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army iswatching me pretty close. That's alright, Mitchell said quickly. You can bring along ColonelCarson. But he won't like you fixing me up more. But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—Iwant you to come right on over here, El. If you say so, Macklin said uncertainly. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Ferris and Mitchell believe they have an injection that can cure headaches forever. They acknowledge during their initial discussion with Macklin that there is a potential risk with the injection, but they heavily downplay the risk. From their research, the two doctors believe that the over-production in the pituitary gland creates a pressure effect that constricts blood vessels in a section of the frontal lobe. Their injection is synthetically made that is meant to feed on the pituitrin that causes the pressure effect. They believe their virus is safe because it is able to target a specific area and remain stabilized within the brain cells. After they give Macklin the injection, they later receive news that he has become a moron and is no longer a mathematical genius. The injection was successful in stopping the pain but in doing so it stopped the brain cells from functioning properly because the vessels cannot pump the necessary amount of blood through the brain to maintain an active and alert mind.

<s> THE BIG HEADACHE BY JIM HARMON What's the principal cause of headaches? Why, having a head, of course! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly. How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to me for helpagainst that repatriated fullback. Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down. I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research. When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches. Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—? No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself. Our discovery, Mitchell said politely. That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine. You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin— Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets. For the past seven years Macklin—who was the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of Adastra per aspirin . The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health. Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus. <doc-sep>Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly. Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride. I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings. He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces. Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment. There came a discreet knock on the door. Please come in, Mitchell said. Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention. He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven. Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold? Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor. Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know. Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk. The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about? Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine. That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it? No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches? Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is? I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches. <doc-sep>Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches. Yes, Macklin said. But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches forever by one simple injection. I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else. Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said. I see. Are you two saying you have such a shot? Can you cureheadaches? We think we can, Ferris said. How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject. There are a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one effect of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced. We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added. That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is? The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin. That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels. The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain. The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe. I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work. <doc-sep>Will work, Macklin said thoughtfully. The operative word. It hasn't worked then? Certainly it has, Ferris said. On rats, on chimps.... But not on humans? Macklin asked. Not yet, Mitchell admitted. Well, Macklin said. Well. He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectorsfrom the Army. We want you, Ferris told him. Macklin coughed. I don't want to overestimate my value but thegovernment wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of thisproject. My wife would like it even less. Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see himmouthing the word yellow . Doctor, Mitchell said quickly, I know it's a tremendous favor toask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of ourstudies we can get no more financial backing. We should run alarge-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of ourresources. I'm tempted, Macklin said hesitantly, but the answer is go. I mean' no '. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much toothers to take the rest—the risk, I mean. Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. I reallywould like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that itmeans another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain throughmy temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the riotingpools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh. Ferris smiled. Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Producesnausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn'tit? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I'veheard some say they preferred the migraine. Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used totend it in a worn leather case. Tell me, he said, what is the worstthat could happen to me? Low blood pressure, Ferris said. That's not so bad, Macklin said. How low can it get? When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,Mitchell said. A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. Is there muchrisk of that? Practically none, Mitchell said. We have to give you the worstpossibilities. All our test animals survived and seem perfectly happyand contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and Iare confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong. Macklin held his head in both hands. Why did you two select me ? You're an important man, doctor, Ferris said. Nobody would care ifMitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believeus if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a manof your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronicmigraine. You do. Yes, I do, Macklin said. Very well. Go ahead. Give me yourinjection. Mitchell cleared his throat. Are you positive, doctor? he askeduncertainly. Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over. No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now. There's a simple release, Ferris said smoothly. Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen. II Ferris! Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him. Right here, the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a worktable, penciling notes. I've been expecting you. Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to thenewspapers, Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against thefolded paper. On the contrary, I should and I did, Ferris answered. We wantedsomething dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is. Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcastunverified results to the press. It's too early for that! Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn'the? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell rightnow, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces. It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to thenewspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn'tenough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The publicwill hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded theSalk vaccine and the Grennell serum. But— The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections. Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered itand listened for a moment, his face growing impatient. It's Macklin's wife, Ferris said. Do you want to talk to her? I'm nogood with hysterical women. Hysterical? Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone. Hello? Mitchell said reluctantly. Mrs. Macklin? You are the other one, the clear feminine voice said. Your name isMitchell. She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchellthought. That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris'sassociate. Do you have a license to dispense narcotics? What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said sharply. I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husbandheroin. That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that? The—trance he's in now. Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near yourhusband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn offby this time. Most known narcotics, she admitted, but evidently you havediscovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferrishave to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied? Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you arecalmer. Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. What could be wrong withMacklin? he asked without removing his hand from the telephone. Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. Let's have alook at the test animals. Together they marched over to the cages and peered through thehoneycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sittingpeacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of hisknuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practicallyDean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,worrying the lock on the cage. Jerry is a great deal more active than Dean, Mitchell said. Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervousenergy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either. They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,Bud and Lou, much the same. I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood, Mitchell ventured. Iron deficiency anemia? Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better seeexactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin. There's nothing wrong with him, Ferris snapped. He's probably justtrying to get us in trouble, the ingrate! <doc-sep>Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive inaqua-tinted aluminum. Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum . As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completelyundisturbed, perhaps slightly curious. The door unlatched and swung back. Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said quickly, I'm sure we can help if thereis anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.Mitchell. You had certainly better help him, gentlemen. She stood out of thedoorway for them to pass. Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She worean expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline. The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them. You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorizedinjection, he said. It wasn't a question. I don't like that 'unauthorized', Ferris snapped. The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifteda heavy eyebrow. No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized totreat illnesses? We weren't treating an illness, Mitchell said. We were discovering amethod of treatment. What concern is it of yours? The colonel smiled thinly. Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everythingthat happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him. Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man. Can we see him? Mitchell asked. Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might bejust as well. We have laws to cover that. The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchellsuddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest tohis home surroundings. On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped buildingblocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformedman—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medicalcorps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effectcarpet. The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from thescrupulously clean rug. What's wrong with him, Sidney? the other officer asked the doctor. Not a thing, Sidney said. He's the healthiest, happiest, mostwell-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson. But— Colonel Carson protested. Oh, he's changed all right, the Army doctor answered. He's not thesame man as he used to be. How is he different? Mitchell demanded. The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. Heused to be a mathematical genius. And now? Mitchell said impatiently. Now he is a moron, the medic said. III Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctormumbled he had a report to make. Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at eachother. What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot? Mitchell asked. Not an idiot, Colonel Carson corrected primly. Dr. Macklin is amoron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid. I'm not so dumb, Macklin said defensively. I beg your pardon, sir, Carson said. I didn't intend any offense.But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron. That's just on book learning, Macklin said. There's a lot you learnin life that you don't get out of books, son. I'm confident that's true, sir, Colonel Carson said. He turned to thetwo biologists. Perhaps we had better speak outside. But— Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. Verywell. Let's step into the hall. Ferris followed them docilely. What have you done to him? the colonel asked straightforwardly. We merely cured him of his headaches, Mitchell said. How? Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus. You mean, the Army officer said levelly you have infected him withsome kind of a disease to rot his brain? No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can makehim understand. All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as ifhe had been kicked in the head by a mule, Colonel Carson said. I think I can explain, Ferris interrupted. You can? Mitchell said. Ferris nodded. We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if thevirus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract inthe cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But thatnecessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the braincells to function properly. Why won't they function? Carson roared. They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin, Ferrisexplained. The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump theblood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The braincells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying. The colonel yelled. Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct. <doc-sep>The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race. Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin. You can ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees. Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary. Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees. Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it. What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir? I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be. Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be. With my headaches, like before? Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure. I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully. Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head. No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying. You mean wondering, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry? Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it. That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid. It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now. No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't think you can. No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't. Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him. Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her. <doc-sep>They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picturewindow an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached. Mrs. Macklin, the colonel began, these gentlemen believe they cancure your husband of his present condition. Really? she said. Did you speak to Elliot about that? Y-yes, Colonel Carson said, but he's not himself. He refused thetreatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence. She nodded. If those are his wishes, I can't go against them. But Mrs. Macklin! Mitchell protested. You will have to get a courtorder overruling your husband's wishes. She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. Thatwas my original thought. But I've redecided. Redecided! Carson burst out almost hysterically. Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to puthim back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happynow. Like a child, but happy. Mrs. Macklin, the Army man said levelly, if you don't help usrestore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court orderdeclaring him incompetent. But he is not! Legally, I mean, the woman stormed. Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give usthe edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Oncehe's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell andFerris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklinto sanity. I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner, she said. The colonel looked smug. Why not? Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, isinvolved. There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But— It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history ofvascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want togive those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. Toparalyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority. I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatmentthere is no chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.Macklin, Mitchell interjected. Her mouth grew petulant. I don't care. I would rather have a livehusband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make himcomfortable.... Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell ledhim back into the hall. I'm no psychiatrist, Mitchell said, but I think she wants Macklinstupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,and now she can dominate him completely. What is she? A monster? the Army officer muttered. No, Mitchell said. She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealousof her husband's genius. Maybe, Carson said. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tellthe Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk. I'll go with you, Ferris said. Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist. Carson squinted. Any particular reason, doctor? To celebrate, Ferris said. The colonel shrugged. That's as good a reason as any. On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together inbewilderment. IV Macklin was playing jacks. He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a greatcurving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Plutoand the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Nothis head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed M so it was all thesame. Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty. He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to hisheart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver fromthe nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger. After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer. Hello? Elliot Macklin said. Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered thephone instead of his wife. Can you speak freely, doctor? Mitchell asked. Of course, the mathematician said. I can talk fine. I mean, are you alone? Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Armydoctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him giveme anything, though. Good boy, the biologist said. Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you goback to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,don't you? There was a slight hesitation. Sure, Macklin said, if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you? But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second ifI could have some reason for not telling you the truth. I suppose so, Macklin said humbly. You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of otherproblems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind ofscientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used tohave time to think about. If you say so. Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of thoseworries just as you got rid of the others? Mitchell asked. I guess I'd like that, the mathematician replied. Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don'tyou? No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put meback where I was instead of helping me more? I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal! If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army iswatching me pretty close. That's alright, Mitchell said quickly. You can bring along ColonelCarson. But he won't like you fixing me up more. But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—Iwant you to come right on over here, El. If you say so, Macklin said uncertainly. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

When Macklin overhears the possibility of receiving a cure to return him back to his previous state before the injection, he protests that he does not want to receive a cure. He does not want to reverse the injection because he remembers how awful the migraines were and refuses to return back to his original state where he has to experience them. He recollects how he was always worrying back then. He is perfectly content with living in a peaceful existence as he has all the money he could want and an attractive wife. The Colonel is shocked at Macklin’s revelation and is upset when he realizes he cannot force Macklin to be cured. The Colonel, Ferris, and Mitchell go to Macklin’s wife to try to convince her to get him to be cured. The Colonel is desperate as he wants to use Macklin’s intelligence since it is such a great advantage for the country. Macklin’s wife supports her husband’s decision because she recognizes the pain and suffering Macklin has experienced. She is glad that he can be peaceful and happy, even if he is childish. Ferris seems unphased and is overall happy to celebrate that the injection did work to cure headaches. Mitchell still wants to attempt to convince Macklin to take the cure.

<s> CINDERELLA STORY By ALLEN KIM LANG What a bank! The First Vice-President was a cool cat—the elevator and the money operators all wore earmuffs—was just as phony as a three-dollar bill! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit. He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold. Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked. Beg pardon? What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots. I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said. You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll. That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed. Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby? Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank. The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said. What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked. The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay? It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation? Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do? Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you— You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said. Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's Wall Street Journal , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most. Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator. <doc-sep>By lunchtime Orison had finished the Wall Street Journal and hadbegun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. The book was afantastic novel of some sort, named The Hobbit . Reading this peculiarfare into the microphone before her, Miss McCall was more certain thanever that the Taft Bank was, as her boss in Washington had told her,the front for some highly irregular goings-on. An odd business for aFederal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into amicrophone for an invisible audience. Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in thebook and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The operator wasa new man, ears concealed behind scarlet earmuffs. In the car, comingdown from the interdicted upper floors, were several gentlemen withbriefcases. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, thesegentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison steppedaboard the elevator. Each of the chivalrous men, hat pressed to hisheart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgmentof their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a pennyinto this curiousest of banks. Lunch at the stand-up counter down the street was a normal interlude.Girls from the ground-floor offices of Taft Bank chattered together,eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, andfavored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed,finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to herlonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book,reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga ofBilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on herlight coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed,silent, hat-clasping gentlemen. What I need, Orison thought, walking rapidly to the busline, is adouble Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. And what the William HowardTaft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces ofthe U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association.Earmuffs, indeed. Fairy-tales read into a microphone. A Vice-Presidentwith the vocabulary of a racetrack tout. And what goes on in thoseupper floors? Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartmenthouse—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Herboss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on TaftBank from within, might prove dangerous. Indeed it was, she thought.She was in danger of becoming a solitary drinker. Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day'sobservations in order. Presumably Washington would call tonight forher initial report. Item: some of the men at the Bank wore earmuffs,several didn't. Item: the Vice-President's name was Mr. Wanji:Oriental? Item: the top eight floors of the Taft Bank Building seemedto be off-limits to all personnel not wearing earmuffs. Item: she wasbeing employed at a very respectable salary to read newsprint andnonsense into a microphone. Let Washington make sense of that, shethought. <doc-sep>In a gloomy mood, Orison McCall showered and dressed for bed. Eleveno'clock. Washington should be calling soon, inquiring after the resultsof her first day's spying. No call. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. The clockwas set; the lights were out. Wasn't Washington going to call her?Perhaps, she thought, the Department had discovered that the Earmuffshad her phone tapped. Testing, a baritone voice muttered. Orison sat up, clutching the sheet around her throat. Beg pardon? shesaid. Testing, the male voice repeated. One, two, three; three, two, one.Do you read me? Over. Orison reached under the bed for a shoe. Gripping it like a Scout-ax,she reached for the light cord with her free hand and tugged at it. The room was empty. Testing, the voice repeated. What you're testing, Orison said in a firm voice, is my patience.Who are you? Department of Treasury Monitor J-12, the male voice said. Do youhave anything to report, Miss McCall? Where are you, Monitor? she demanded. That's classified information, the voice said. Please speak directlyto your pillow, Miss McCall. Orison lay down cautiously. All right, she whispered to her pillow. Over here, the voice instructed her, coming from the unruffled pillowbeside her. Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. A radio? sheasked. Of a sort, Monitor J-12 agreed. We have to maintain communicationssecurity. Have you anything to report? I got the job, Orison said. Are you ... in that pillow ... all thetime? No, Miss McCall, the voice said. Only at report times. Shall weestablish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time,every day? You make it sound so improper, Orison said. I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall, the monitor said.Now, tell me what happened at the bank today. Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to amicrophone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard TaftNational Bank and Trust Company. That's about it, so far, she said. Good report, J-12 said from the pillow. Sounds like you've droppedinto a real snakepit, beautiful. How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful? Orison asked. Native optimism, the voice said. Good night. J-12 signed off witha peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then sheplaced the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone. Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolvedto write Washington for permission to make her future reports byregistered mail. II At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current Wall Street Journal , Orison was interrupted by the click of a pairof leather heels. The gentleman whose heels had just slammed togetherwas bowing. And she saw with some gratification that he was notwearing earmuffs. My name, the stranger said, is Dink Gerding. I amPresident of this bank, and wish at this time to welcome you to ourlittle family. I'm Orison McCall, she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight?So tall. Could he ever be interested in a girl just five-foot-three?Maybe higher heels? We're pleased with your work, Miss McCall, Dink Gerding said. He tookthe chair to the right of her desk. It's nothing, Orison said, switching off the microphone. On the contrary, Miss McCall. Your duties are most important, he said. Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing anyreasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well, Orison said. You'll be reading silently before long, Mr. Gerding said. He smiled,as though this explained everything. By the way, your officialdesignation is Confidential Secretary. It's me whose confidences you'reto keep secret. If I ever need a letter written, may I stop down hereand dictate it? Please do, Orison said. This bank president, for all his grace andpresence, was obviously as kookie as his bank. Have you ever worked in a bank before, Miss McCall? Mr. Gerdingasked, as though following her train of thought. No, sir, she said. Though I've been associated with a rather largefinancial organization. You may find some of our methods a little strange, but you'll get usedto them, he said. Meanwhile, I'd be most grateful if you'd dispensewith calling me 'sir.' My name is Dink. It is ridiculous, but I'd enjoyyour using it. Dink? she asked. And I suppose you're to call me Orison? That's the drill, he said. One more question, Orison. Dinner thisevening? Direct, she thought. Perhaps that's why he's president of a bank, andstill so young. We've hardly met, she said. But we're on a first-name basis already, he pointed out. Dance? I'd love to, Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march,playing, from the elevator. Then I'll pick you up at seven. Windsor Arms, if I remember yourpersonnel form correctly. He stood, lean, all bone and muscle,and bowed slightly. West Point? Hardly. His manners were European.Sandhurst, perhaps, or Saint Cyr. Was she supposed to reply with acurtsy? Orison wondered. Thank you, she said. He was a soldier, or had been: the way, when he turned, his shouldersstayed square. The crisp clicking of his steps, a military metronome,to the elevator. When the door slicked open Orison, staring after Dink,saw that each of the half-dozen men aboard snapped off their hats (butnot their earmuffs) and bowed, the earmuffed operator bowing with them.Small bows, true; just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding. <doc-sep>Orison finished the Wall Street Journal by early afternoon. Apage came up a moment later with fresh reading-matter: a copy ofyesterday's Congressional Record . She launched into the Record ,thinking as she read of meeting again this evening that handsomemadman, that splendid lunatic, that unlikely bank-president. You readso well , darling, someone said across the desk. Orison looked up. Oh, hello, she said. I didn't hear you come up. I walk ever so lightly, the woman said, standing hip-shot in frontof the desk, and pounce ever so hard. She smiled. Opulent, Orisonthought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't likeher. Can't. Wouldn't if I could. Never cared for cats. I'm Orison McCall, she said, and tried to smile back without showingteeth. Delighted, the visitor said, handing over an undelighted palm. I'mAuga Vingt. Auga, to my friends. Won't you sit down, Miss Vingt? So kind of you, darling, Auga Vingt said, but I shan't have time tovisit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker.One for all, all for one. Yea, Team. You know. Thanks, Orison said. Common courtesy, Miss Vingt explained. Also, darling, I'd like todraw your attention to one little point. Dink Gerding—you know, theshoulders and muscles and crewcut? Well, he's posted property. Shouldyou throw your starveling charms at my Dink, you'd only get your littleeyes scratched out. Word to the wise, n'est-ce pas ? Sorry you have to leave so suddenly, Orison said, rolling her WallStreet Journal into a club and standing. Darling. So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here.You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts ofannoyance. Understand me, darling? You make it very clear, Orison said. Now you'd best hurry back toyour stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone. Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding rightoff? Auga asked. Well, ta-ta. She turned and walked to the elevator,displaying, Orison thought, a disgraceful amount of ungirdled rhumbamotion. The elevator stopped to pick up the odious Auga. A passenger, male,stepped off. Good morning, Mr. Gerding, Miss Vingt said, bowing. Carry on, Colonel, the stranger replied. As the elevator door closed,he stepped up to Orison's desk. Good morning. Miss McCall, he said. What is this? Orison demanded. Visiting-day at the zoo? She pausedand shook her head. Excuse me, sir, she said. It's just that ...Vingt thing.... Auga is rather intense, the new Mr. Gerding said. Yeah, intense, Orison said. Like a kidney-stone. I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bankand Trust Company family, Miss McCall, he said. I'm Kraft Gerding,Dink's elder brother. I understand you've met Dink already. Yes, sir, Orison said. The hair of this new Mr. Gerding was croppedeven closer than Dink's. His mustache was gray-tipped, like a patchof frosted furze; and his eyes, like Dink's, were cobalt blue. Thehead, Orison mused, would look quite at home in one of Kaiser Bill'sspike-topped Pickelhauben ; but the ears were in evidence, and seemednormal. Mr. Kraft Gerding bowed—what continental manners these bankershad!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-uppaper she still clutched and plant a kiss on it. <doc-sep>Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure. Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word. Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise.... N'est-ce pas? Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost. Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again? I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And bon voyage . Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor. First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the Wall Street Journal from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors. Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up. Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa. Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English. Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll? Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her. Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors. But the building had a stairway. III The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound. She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened. Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed. The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door. Into a pair of arms. I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two sumo -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes. Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed sumo -wrestlers protested. Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders. Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted. My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank. I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes! The message? Kraft Gerding demanded. Something about escudo green. Put me down! <doc-sep>Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison. They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now? All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders. Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother. I.... Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor. If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you. Samma! Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator. I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit? Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale. You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders? I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper. Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said. She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him. I'd rather not, she protested. I'd be happier if you did, Dink said. <doc-sep>Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed theMicrofabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, likea legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket andunfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm. He's like a baby crawdad, Orison said. A sort of crustacean, Dink agreed. We use them in a commercialprocess we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off andsecret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see. What do they do? Orison asked. That's still a secret, Dink said, smiling. I can't tell even youthat, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary. What's he doing now? Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratchingagainst her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae. They like gold, Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,comfortably close. They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, aschildren are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.We'd better get you down where you belong. Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearesttank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. Strange,using crawdads in a bank, she said. She stood silent for a moment. Ithought I heard music, she said. I heard it when I came in. Somethinglike the sighing of wind in winter trees. That's the hymn of the Microfabridae, Dink said. They all singtogether while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices. Hetook her arm. If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song theselittle workers sing the most beautiful music in the world. Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening tothe music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peaceand harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crashof breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, thequiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.It's an ancient song, Dink said. The Microfabridae have beensinging it for a million years. He released her, and opened awood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.Hold out your hands, he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.Throw our singers some supper for their song, he said. Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled themineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from theliquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.They're so very strange, Orison said. At the bottom of the tank shethought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubblinglife. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Orison McCall is applying for a job at the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company. She is a government spy who has been selected from the Treasury Department to work at the bank. The man who she meets for the job is Mr. Wanji, the First Vice President. He dresses strangely compared to the regular banker. Mr. Wanji also speaks to Orison in strange slang and leaves her with the job of reading newspapers into a microphone. She takes her lunch break at noon, eats a tuna salad on whole-wheat, and returns to reading at her desk until five. Orison gets the job and notes that the bank is very bizarre. All of the workers wear earmuffs, and her only task is to read into a microphone. After her dinner, she goes home and waits to receive a call from Washington. At eleven-thirty, she receives a call from Monitor J-12 from the Department of Treasury. He asks Orison for a report but flirts with her slightly by calling her beautiful and kissing the microphone. The next morning, the bank President Dink Gerding personally welcomes her. She notes that he is as crazy as the rest of the bank, and he asks her out for dinner even though they have just met. Once Orison begins reading a copy of yesterday’s Congressional Record, Auga Vingt silently comes and introduces herself. She threatens Orison to stay away from Dink, to which Orison agrees and tells her to leave. Then, Kraft Gerding introduces himself to her, and she threatens to quit because of how crazy this bank is. Orison then receives a call from Wanji, and he tells her to tell Dink that escudo green is pale. Although she is banned from taking the elevator to the upper floor, she takes the stairs to the seventh floor instead and is greeted by the sight of millions of spiders in pink liquid. Kraft threatens to toss her into the tank, but then Dink comes and rescues her. He crashes his fist into Kraft’s jaw, and the perpetrators leave him and Orison alone. He explains to her that the creatures are Microfabridae and are more closely related to shellfish than spiders. She holds one, and Dink says that the company is raising them in secret because it does not have a patent. He lets her listen to the hymn of the Microfabridae and feed the tiny creatures. Orison swears that she can see Benjamin Franklin winking at her, but she believes it is nonsense.

<s> CINDERELLA STORY By ALLEN KIM LANG What a bank! The First Vice-President was a cool cat—the elevator and the money operators all wore earmuffs—was just as phony as a three-dollar bill! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit. He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold. Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked. Beg pardon? What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots. I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said. You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll. That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed. Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby? Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank. The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said. What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked. The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay? It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation? Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do? Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you— You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said. Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's Wall Street Journal , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most. Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator. <doc-sep>By lunchtime Orison had finished the Wall Street Journal and hadbegun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. The book was afantastic novel of some sort, named The Hobbit . Reading this peculiarfare into the microphone before her, Miss McCall was more certain thanever that the Taft Bank was, as her boss in Washington had told her,the front for some highly irregular goings-on. An odd business for aFederal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into amicrophone for an invisible audience. Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in thebook and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The operator wasa new man, ears concealed behind scarlet earmuffs. In the car, comingdown from the interdicted upper floors, were several gentlemen withbriefcases. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, thesegentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison steppedaboard the elevator. Each of the chivalrous men, hat pressed to hisheart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgmentof their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a pennyinto this curiousest of banks. Lunch at the stand-up counter down the street was a normal interlude.Girls from the ground-floor offices of Taft Bank chattered together,eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, andfavored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed,finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to herlonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book,reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga ofBilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on herlight coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed,silent, hat-clasping gentlemen. What I need, Orison thought, walking rapidly to the busline, is adouble Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. And what the William HowardTaft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces ofthe U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association.Earmuffs, indeed. Fairy-tales read into a microphone. A Vice-Presidentwith the vocabulary of a racetrack tout. And what goes on in thoseupper floors? Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartmenthouse—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Herboss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on TaftBank from within, might prove dangerous. Indeed it was, she thought.She was in danger of becoming a solitary drinker. Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day'sobservations in order. Presumably Washington would call tonight forher initial report. Item: some of the men at the Bank wore earmuffs,several didn't. Item: the Vice-President's name was Mr. Wanji:Oriental? Item: the top eight floors of the Taft Bank Building seemedto be off-limits to all personnel not wearing earmuffs. Item: she wasbeing employed at a very respectable salary to read newsprint andnonsense into a microphone. Let Washington make sense of that, shethought. <doc-sep>In a gloomy mood, Orison McCall showered and dressed for bed. Eleveno'clock. Washington should be calling soon, inquiring after the resultsof her first day's spying. No call. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. The clockwas set; the lights were out. Wasn't Washington going to call her?Perhaps, she thought, the Department had discovered that the Earmuffshad her phone tapped. Testing, a baritone voice muttered. Orison sat up, clutching the sheet around her throat. Beg pardon? shesaid. Testing, the male voice repeated. One, two, three; three, two, one.Do you read me? Over. Orison reached under the bed for a shoe. Gripping it like a Scout-ax,she reached for the light cord with her free hand and tugged at it. The room was empty. Testing, the voice repeated. What you're testing, Orison said in a firm voice, is my patience.Who are you? Department of Treasury Monitor J-12, the male voice said. Do youhave anything to report, Miss McCall? Where are you, Monitor? she demanded. That's classified information, the voice said. Please speak directlyto your pillow, Miss McCall. Orison lay down cautiously. All right, she whispered to her pillow. Over here, the voice instructed her, coming from the unruffled pillowbeside her. Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. A radio? sheasked. Of a sort, Monitor J-12 agreed. We have to maintain communicationssecurity. Have you anything to report? I got the job, Orison said. Are you ... in that pillow ... all thetime? No, Miss McCall, the voice said. Only at report times. Shall weestablish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time,every day? You make it sound so improper, Orison said. I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall, the monitor said.Now, tell me what happened at the bank today. Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to amicrophone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard TaftNational Bank and Trust Company. That's about it, so far, she said. Good report, J-12 said from the pillow. Sounds like you've droppedinto a real snakepit, beautiful. How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful? Orison asked. Native optimism, the voice said. Good night. J-12 signed off witha peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then sheplaced the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone. Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolvedto write Washington for permission to make her future reports byregistered mail. II At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current Wall Street Journal , Orison was interrupted by the click of a pairof leather heels. The gentleman whose heels had just slammed togetherwas bowing. And she saw with some gratification that he was notwearing earmuffs. My name, the stranger said, is Dink Gerding. I amPresident of this bank, and wish at this time to welcome you to ourlittle family. I'm Orison McCall, she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight?So tall. Could he ever be interested in a girl just five-foot-three?Maybe higher heels? We're pleased with your work, Miss McCall, Dink Gerding said. He tookthe chair to the right of her desk. It's nothing, Orison said, switching off the microphone. On the contrary, Miss McCall. Your duties are most important, he said. Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing anyreasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well, Orison said. You'll be reading silently before long, Mr. Gerding said. He smiled,as though this explained everything. By the way, your officialdesignation is Confidential Secretary. It's me whose confidences you'reto keep secret. If I ever need a letter written, may I stop down hereand dictate it? Please do, Orison said. This bank president, for all his grace andpresence, was obviously as kookie as his bank. Have you ever worked in a bank before, Miss McCall? Mr. Gerdingasked, as though following her train of thought. No, sir, she said. Though I've been associated with a rather largefinancial organization. You may find some of our methods a little strange, but you'll get usedto them, he said. Meanwhile, I'd be most grateful if you'd dispensewith calling me 'sir.' My name is Dink. It is ridiculous, but I'd enjoyyour using it. Dink? she asked. And I suppose you're to call me Orison? That's the drill, he said. One more question, Orison. Dinner thisevening? Direct, she thought. Perhaps that's why he's president of a bank, andstill so young. We've hardly met, she said. But we're on a first-name basis already, he pointed out. Dance? I'd love to, Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march,playing, from the elevator. Then I'll pick you up at seven. Windsor Arms, if I remember yourpersonnel form correctly. He stood, lean, all bone and muscle,and bowed slightly. West Point? Hardly. His manners were European.Sandhurst, perhaps, or Saint Cyr. Was she supposed to reply with acurtsy? Orison wondered. Thank you, she said. He was a soldier, or had been: the way, when he turned, his shouldersstayed square. The crisp clicking of his steps, a military metronome,to the elevator. When the door slicked open Orison, staring after Dink,saw that each of the half-dozen men aboard snapped off their hats (butnot their earmuffs) and bowed, the earmuffed operator bowing with them.Small bows, true; just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding. <doc-sep>Orison finished the Wall Street Journal by early afternoon. Apage came up a moment later with fresh reading-matter: a copy ofyesterday's Congressional Record . She launched into the Record ,thinking as she read of meeting again this evening that handsomemadman, that splendid lunatic, that unlikely bank-president. You readso well , darling, someone said across the desk. Orison looked up. Oh, hello, she said. I didn't hear you come up. I walk ever so lightly, the woman said, standing hip-shot in frontof the desk, and pounce ever so hard. She smiled. Opulent, Orisonthought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't likeher. Can't. Wouldn't if I could. Never cared for cats. I'm Orison McCall, she said, and tried to smile back without showingteeth. Delighted, the visitor said, handing over an undelighted palm. I'mAuga Vingt. Auga, to my friends. Won't you sit down, Miss Vingt? So kind of you, darling, Auga Vingt said, but I shan't have time tovisit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker.One for all, all for one. Yea, Team. You know. Thanks, Orison said. Common courtesy, Miss Vingt explained. Also, darling, I'd like todraw your attention to one little point. Dink Gerding—you know, theshoulders and muscles and crewcut? Well, he's posted property. Shouldyou throw your starveling charms at my Dink, you'd only get your littleeyes scratched out. Word to the wise, n'est-ce pas ? Sorry you have to leave so suddenly, Orison said, rolling her WallStreet Journal into a club and standing. Darling. So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here.You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts ofannoyance. Understand me, darling? You make it very clear, Orison said. Now you'd best hurry back toyour stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone. Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding rightoff? Auga asked. Well, ta-ta. She turned and walked to the elevator,displaying, Orison thought, a disgraceful amount of ungirdled rhumbamotion. The elevator stopped to pick up the odious Auga. A passenger, male,stepped off. Good morning, Mr. Gerding, Miss Vingt said, bowing. Carry on, Colonel, the stranger replied. As the elevator door closed,he stepped up to Orison's desk. Good morning. Miss McCall, he said. What is this? Orison demanded. Visiting-day at the zoo? She pausedand shook her head. Excuse me, sir, she said. It's just that ...Vingt thing.... Auga is rather intense, the new Mr. Gerding said. Yeah, intense, Orison said. Like a kidney-stone. I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bankand Trust Company family, Miss McCall, he said. I'm Kraft Gerding,Dink's elder brother. I understand you've met Dink already. Yes, sir, Orison said. The hair of this new Mr. Gerding was croppedeven closer than Dink's. His mustache was gray-tipped, like a patchof frosted furze; and his eyes, like Dink's, were cobalt blue. Thehead, Orison mused, would look quite at home in one of Kaiser Bill'sspike-topped Pickelhauben ; but the ears were in evidence, and seemednormal. Mr. Kraft Gerding bowed—what continental manners these bankershad!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-uppaper she still clutched and plant a kiss on it. <doc-sep>Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure. Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word. Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise.... N'est-ce pas? Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost. Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again? I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And bon voyage . Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor. First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the Wall Street Journal from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors. Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up. Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa. Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English. Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll? Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her. Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors. But the building had a stairway. III The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound. She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened. Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed. The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door. Into a pair of arms. I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two sumo -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes. Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed sumo -wrestlers protested. Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders. Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted. My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank. I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes! The message? Kraft Gerding demanded. Something about escudo green. Put me down! <doc-sep>Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison. They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now? All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders. Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother. I.... Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor. If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you. Samma! Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator. I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit? Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale. You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders? I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper. Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said. She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him. I'd rather not, she protested. I'd be happier if you did, Dink said. <doc-sep>Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed theMicrofabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, likea legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket andunfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm. He's like a baby crawdad, Orison said. A sort of crustacean, Dink agreed. We use them in a commercialprocess we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off andsecret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see. What do they do? Orison asked. That's still a secret, Dink said, smiling. I can't tell even youthat, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary. What's he doing now? Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratchingagainst her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae. They like gold, Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,comfortably close. They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, aschildren are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.We'd better get you down where you belong. Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearesttank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. Strange,using crawdads in a bank, she said. She stood silent for a moment. Ithought I heard music, she said. I heard it when I came in. Somethinglike the sighing of wind in winter trees. That's the hymn of the Microfabridae, Dink said. They all singtogether while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices. Hetook her arm. If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song theselittle workers sing the most beautiful music in the world. Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening tothe music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peaceand harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crashof breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, thequiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.It's an ancient song, Dink said. The Microfabridae have beensinging it for a million years. He released her, and opened awood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.Hold out your hands, he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.Throw our singers some supper for their song, he said. Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled themineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from theliquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.They're so very strange, Orison said. At the bottom of the tank shethought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubblinglife. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The location is primarily set at the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company. Orison’s office is on the fifth floor, and it is a tiny space just large enough to hold a single desk and two chairs. There is also a telephone, a microphone, and a double-decked basket. The basket is an “In” and “Out” basket for the papers she will read. There is also an elevator, and there are always operators in earmuffs present. Although she is not allowed onto the upper floors by elevator, the building has a staircase that leads up to the upper levels. The sixth floor is locked, but the seventh floor has a glass door that is painted black and a cellar-dark landing. Inside, there is a mass of fluorescent lamps on the ceiling and boarded shut windows. One hundred and eighty steel tanks line the floor. The tanks are half-full with greenish fluid and laced together by angel-hair, delicate white lattices sparkling with pink. From the outside of the building, there is a stand-up counter down the street to eat. There is also a restaurant near Orison’s apartment called the Windsor Arms, where she grabs a meal and a single Martini. Her apartment is described as having a place to shower in and a bed. There is also a pillow, and it is where Monitor J-12 communicates with her.

<s> CINDERELLA STORY By ALLEN KIM LANG What a bank! The First Vice-President was a cool cat—the elevator and the money operators all wore earmuffs—was just as phony as a three-dollar bill! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit. He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold. Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked. Beg pardon? What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots. I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said. You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll. That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed. Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby? Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank. The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said. What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked. The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay? It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation? Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do? Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you— You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said. Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's Wall Street Journal , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most. Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator. <doc-sep>By lunchtime Orison had finished the Wall Street Journal and hadbegun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. The book was afantastic novel of some sort, named The Hobbit . Reading this peculiarfare into the microphone before her, Miss McCall was more certain thanever that the Taft Bank was, as her boss in Washington had told her,the front for some highly irregular goings-on. An odd business for aFederal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into amicrophone for an invisible audience. Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in thebook and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The operator wasa new man, ears concealed behind scarlet earmuffs. In the car, comingdown from the interdicted upper floors, were several gentlemen withbriefcases. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, thesegentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison steppedaboard the elevator. Each of the chivalrous men, hat pressed to hisheart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgmentof their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a pennyinto this curiousest of banks. Lunch at the stand-up counter down the street was a normal interlude.Girls from the ground-floor offices of Taft Bank chattered together,eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, andfavored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed,finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to herlonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book,reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga ofBilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on herlight coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed,silent, hat-clasping gentlemen. What I need, Orison thought, walking rapidly to the busline, is adouble Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. And what the William HowardTaft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces ofthe U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association.Earmuffs, indeed. Fairy-tales read into a microphone. A Vice-Presidentwith the vocabulary of a racetrack tout. And what goes on in thoseupper floors? Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartmenthouse—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Herboss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on TaftBank from within, might prove dangerous. Indeed it was, she thought.She was in danger of becoming a solitary drinker. Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day'sobservations in order. Presumably Washington would call tonight forher initial report. Item: some of the men at the Bank wore earmuffs,several didn't. Item: the Vice-President's name was Mr. Wanji:Oriental? Item: the top eight floors of the Taft Bank Building seemedto be off-limits to all personnel not wearing earmuffs. Item: she wasbeing employed at a very respectable salary to read newsprint andnonsense into a microphone. Let Washington make sense of that, shethought. <doc-sep>In a gloomy mood, Orison McCall showered and dressed for bed. Eleveno'clock. Washington should be calling soon, inquiring after the resultsof her first day's spying. No call. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. The clockwas set; the lights were out. Wasn't Washington going to call her?Perhaps, she thought, the Department had discovered that the Earmuffshad her phone tapped. Testing, a baritone voice muttered. Orison sat up, clutching the sheet around her throat. Beg pardon? shesaid. Testing, the male voice repeated. One, two, three; three, two, one.Do you read me? Over. Orison reached under the bed for a shoe. Gripping it like a Scout-ax,she reached for the light cord with her free hand and tugged at it. The room was empty. Testing, the voice repeated. What you're testing, Orison said in a firm voice, is my patience.Who are you? Department of Treasury Monitor J-12, the male voice said. Do youhave anything to report, Miss McCall? Where are you, Monitor? she demanded. That's classified information, the voice said. Please speak directlyto your pillow, Miss McCall. Orison lay down cautiously. All right, she whispered to her pillow. Over here, the voice instructed her, coming from the unruffled pillowbeside her. Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. A radio? sheasked. Of a sort, Monitor J-12 agreed. We have to maintain communicationssecurity. Have you anything to report? I got the job, Orison said. Are you ... in that pillow ... all thetime? No, Miss McCall, the voice said. Only at report times. Shall weestablish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time,every day? You make it sound so improper, Orison said. I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall, the monitor said.Now, tell me what happened at the bank today. Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to amicrophone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard TaftNational Bank and Trust Company. That's about it, so far, she said. Good report, J-12 said from the pillow. Sounds like you've droppedinto a real snakepit, beautiful. How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful? Orison asked. Native optimism, the voice said. Good night. J-12 signed off witha peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then sheplaced the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone. Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolvedto write Washington for permission to make her future reports byregistered mail. II At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current Wall Street Journal , Orison was interrupted by the click of a pairof leather heels. The gentleman whose heels had just slammed togetherwas bowing. And she saw with some gratification that he was notwearing earmuffs. My name, the stranger said, is Dink Gerding. I amPresident of this bank, and wish at this time to welcome you to ourlittle family. I'm Orison McCall, she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight?So tall. Could he ever be interested in a girl just five-foot-three?Maybe higher heels? We're pleased with your work, Miss McCall, Dink Gerding said. He tookthe chair to the right of her desk. It's nothing, Orison said, switching off the microphone. On the contrary, Miss McCall. Your duties are most important, he said. Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing anyreasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well, Orison said. You'll be reading silently before long, Mr. Gerding said. He smiled,as though this explained everything. By the way, your officialdesignation is Confidential Secretary. It's me whose confidences you'reto keep secret. If I ever need a letter written, may I stop down hereand dictate it? Please do, Orison said. This bank president, for all his grace andpresence, was obviously as kookie as his bank. Have you ever worked in a bank before, Miss McCall? Mr. Gerdingasked, as though following her train of thought. No, sir, she said. Though I've been associated with a rather largefinancial organization. You may find some of our methods a little strange, but you'll get usedto them, he said. Meanwhile, I'd be most grateful if you'd dispensewith calling me 'sir.' My name is Dink. It is ridiculous, but I'd enjoyyour using it. Dink? she asked. And I suppose you're to call me Orison? That's the drill, he said. One more question, Orison. Dinner thisevening? Direct, she thought. Perhaps that's why he's president of a bank, andstill so young. We've hardly met, she said. But we're on a first-name basis already, he pointed out. Dance? I'd love to, Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march,playing, from the elevator. Then I'll pick you up at seven. Windsor Arms, if I remember yourpersonnel form correctly. He stood, lean, all bone and muscle,and bowed slightly. West Point? Hardly. His manners were European.Sandhurst, perhaps, or Saint Cyr. Was she supposed to reply with acurtsy? Orison wondered. Thank you, she said. He was a soldier, or had been: the way, when he turned, his shouldersstayed square. The crisp clicking of his steps, a military metronome,to the elevator. When the door slicked open Orison, staring after Dink,saw that each of the half-dozen men aboard snapped off their hats (butnot their earmuffs) and bowed, the earmuffed operator bowing with them.Small bows, true; just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding. <doc-sep>Orison finished the Wall Street Journal by early afternoon. Apage came up a moment later with fresh reading-matter: a copy ofyesterday's Congressional Record . She launched into the Record ,thinking as she read of meeting again this evening that handsomemadman, that splendid lunatic, that unlikely bank-president. You readso well , darling, someone said across the desk. Orison looked up. Oh, hello, she said. I didn't hear you come up. I walk ever so lightly, the woman said, standing hip-shot in frontof the desk, and pounce ever so hard. She smiled. Opulent, Orisonthought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't likeher. Can't. Wouldn't if I could. Never cared for cats. I'm Orison McCall, she said, and tried to smile back without showingteeth. Delighted, the visitor said, handing over an undelighted palm. I'mAuga Vingt. Auga, to my friends. Won't you sit down, Miss Vingt? So kind of you, darling, Auga Vingt said, but I shan't have time tovisit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker.One for all, all for one. Yea, Team. You know. Thanks, Orison said. Common courtesy, Miss Vingt explained. Also, darling, I'd like todraw your attention to one little point. Dink Gerding—you know, theshoulders and muscles and crewcut? Well, he's posted property. Shouldyou throw your starveling charms at my Dink, you'd only get your littleeyes scratched out. Word to the wise, n'est-ce pas ? Sorry you have to leave so suddenly, Orison said, rolling her WallStreet Journal into a club and standing. Darling. So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here.You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts ofannoyance. Understand me, darling? You make it very clear, Orison said. Now you'd best hurry back toyour stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone. Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding rightoff? Auga asked. Well, ta-ta. She turned and walked to the elevator,displaying, Orison thought, a disgraceful amount of ungirdled rhumbamotion. The elevator stopped to pick up the odious Auga. A passenger, male,stepped off. Good morning, Mr. Gerding, Miss Vingt said, bowing. Carry on, Colonel, the stranger replied. As the elevator door closed,he stepped up to Orison's desk. Good morning. Miss McCall, he said. What is this? Orison demanded. Visiting-day at the zoo? She pausedand shook her head. Excuse me, sir, she said. It's just that ...Vingt thing.... Auga is rather intense, the new Mr. Gerding said. Yeah, intense, Orison said. Like a kidney-stone. I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bankand Trust Company family, Miss McCall, he said. I'm Kraft Gerding,Dink's elder brother. I understand you've met Dink already. Yes, sir, Orison said. The hair of this new Mr. Gerding was croppedeven closer than Dink's. His mustache was gray-tipped, like a patchof frosted furze; and his eyes, like Dink's, were cobalt blue. Thehead, Orison mused, would look quite at home in one of Kaiser Bill'sspike-topped Pickelhauben ; but the ears were in evidence, and seemednormal. Mr. Kraft Gerding bowed—what continental manners these bankershad!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-uppaper she still clutched and plant a kiss on it. <doc-sep>Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure. Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word. Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise.... N'est-ce pas? Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost. Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again? I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And bon voyage . Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor. First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the Wall Street Journal from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors. Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up. Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa. Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English. Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll? Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her. Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors. But the building had a stairway. III The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound. She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened. Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed. The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door. Into a pair of arms. I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two sumo -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes. Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed sumo -wrestlers protested. Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders. Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted. My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank. I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes! The message? Kraft Gerding demanded. Something about escudo green. Put me down! <doc-sep>Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison. They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now? All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders. Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother. I.... Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor. If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you. Samma! Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator. I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit? Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale. You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders? I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper. Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said. She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him. I'd rather not, she protested. I'd be happier if you did, Dink said. <doc-sep>Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed theMicrofabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, likea legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket andunfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm. He's like a baby crawdad, Orison said. A sort of crustacean, Dink agreed. We use them in a commercialprocess we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off andsecret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see. What do they do? Orison asked. That's still a secret, Dink said, smiling. I can't tell even youthat, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary. What's he doing now? Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratchingagainst her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae. They like gold, Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,comfortably close. They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, aschildren are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.We'd better get you down where you belong. Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearesttank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. Strange,using crawdads in a bank, she said. She stood silent for a moment. Ithought I heard music, she said. I heard it when I came in. Somethinglike the sighing of wind in winter trees. That's the hymn of the Microfabridae, Dink said. They all singtogether while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices. Hetook her arm. If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song theselittle workers sing the most beautiful music in the world. Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening tothe music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peaceand harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crashof breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, thequiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.It's an ancient song, Dink said. The Microfabridae have beensinging it for a million years. He released her, and opened awood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.Hold out your hands, he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.Throw our singers some supper for their song, he said. Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled themineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from theliquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.They're so very strange, Orison said. At the bottom of the tank shethought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubblinglife. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The Microfabridae are tiny, flesh-pink-colored creatures that resemble shellfish. They are stone and metal eaters. These creatures are completely harmless and have six microscopic legs. Orison notices that they feel like a legged grain of sand, crisp and hard. She finds that it is similar to a baby crawdad, to which Dink agrees that the Microfabridae are similar to a sort of crustacean. The creatures also take a liking to gold. When all of the Microfabridae sing together, it is a chorus of around twenty million voices. Orison notes that their singing sounds like the sighing of the wind in winter trees. When she listens to them sing again, it sounds like wilderness, storm, and danger. However, there also exists sounds of promises of peace and harbor that act as a counterpoint. She also hears the sound of waves and the crash of breakers against granite throughout this million-year-old song.

<s> CINDERELLA STORY By ALLEN KIM LANG What a bank! The First Vice-President was a cool cat—the elevator and the money operators all wore earmuffs—was just as phony as a three-dollar bill! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit. He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold. Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked. Beg pardon? What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots. I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said. You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll. That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed. Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby? Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank. The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said. What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked. The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay? It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation? Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do? Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you— You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said. Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's Wall Street Journal , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most. Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator. <doc-sep>By lunchtime Orison had finished the Wall Street Journal and hadbegun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. The book was afantastic novel of some sort, named The Hobbit . Reading this peculiarfare into the microphone before her, Miss McCall was more certain thanever that the Taft Bank was, as her boss in Washington had told her,the front for some highly irregular goings-on. An odd business for aFederal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into amicrophone for an invisible audience. Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in thebook and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The operator wasa new man, ears concealed behind scarlet earmuffs. In the car, comingdown from the interdicted upper floors, were several gentlemen withbriefcases. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, thesegentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison steppedaboard the elevator. Each of the chivalrous men, hat pressed to hisheart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgmentof their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a pennyinto this curiousest of banks. Lunch at the stand-up counter down the street was a normal interlude.Girls from the ground-floor offices of Taft Bank chattered together,eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, andfavored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed,finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to herlonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book,reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga ofBilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on herlight coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed,silent, hat-clasping gentlemen. What I need, Orison thought, walking rapidly to the busline, is adouble Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. And what the William HowardTaft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces ofthe U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association.Earmuffs, indeed. Fairy-tales read into a microphone. A Vice-Presidentwith the vocabulary of a racetrack tout. And what goes on in thoseupper floors? Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartmenthouse—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Herboss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on TaftBank from within, might prove dangerous. Indeed it was, she thought.She was in danger of becoming a solitary drinker. Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day'sobservations in order. Presumably Washington would call tonight forher initial report. Item: some of the men at the Bank wore earmuffs,several didn't. Item: the Vice-President's name was Mr. Wanji:Oriental? Item: the top eight floors of the Taft Bank Building seemedto be off-limits to all personnel not wearing earmuffs. Item: she wasbeing employed at a very respectable salary to read newsprint andnonsense into a microphone. Let Washington make sense of that, shethought. <doc-sep>In a gloomy mood, Orison McCall showered and dressed for bed. Eleveno'clock. Washington should be calling soon, inquiring after the resultsof her first day's spying. No call. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. The clockwas set; the lights were out. Wasn't Washington going to call her?Perhaps, she thought, the Department had discovered that the Earmuffshad her phone tapped. Testing, a baritone voice muttered. Orison sat up, clutching the sheet around her throat. Beg pardon? shesaid. Testing, the male voice repeated. One, two, three; three, two, one.Do you read me? Over. Orison reached under the bed for a shoe. Gripping it like a Scout-ax,she reached for the light cord with her free hand and tugged at it. The room was empty. Testing, the voice repeated. What you're testing, Orison said in a firm voice, is my patience.Who are you? Department of Treasury Monitor J-12, the male voice said. Do youhave anything to report, Miss McCall? Where are you, Monitor? she demanded. That's classified information, the voice said. Please speak directlyto your pillow, Miss McCall. Orison lay down cautiously. All right, she whispered to her pillow. Over here, the voice instructed her, coming from the unruffled pillowbeside her. Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. A radio? sheasked. Of a sort, Monitor J-12 agreed. We have to maintain communicationssecurity. Have you anything to report? I got the job, Orison said. Are you ... in that pillow ... all thetime? No, Miss McCall, the voice said. Only at report times. Shall weestablish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time,every day? You make it sound so improper, Orison said. I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall, the monitor said.Now, tell me what happened at the bank today. Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to amicrophone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard TaftNational Bank and Trust Company. That's about it, so far, she said. Good report, J-12 said from the pillow. Sounds like you've droppedinto a real snakepit, beautiful. How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful? Orison asked. Native optimism, the voice said. Good night. J-12 signed off witha peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then sheplaced the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone. Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolvedto write Washington for permission to make her future reports byregistered mail. II At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current Wall Street Journal , Orison was interrupted by the click of a pairof leather heels. The gentleman whose heels had just slammed togetherwas bowing. And she saw with some gratification that he was notwearing earmuffs. My name, the stranger said, is Dink Gerding. I amPresident of this bank, and wish at this time to welcome you to ourlittle family. I'm Orison McCall, she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight?So tall. Could he ever be interested in a girl just five-foot-three?Maybe higher heels? We're pleased with your work, Miss McCall, Dink Gerding said. He tookthe chair to the right of her desk. It's nothing, Orison said, switching off the microphone. On the contrary, Miss McCall. Your duties are most important, he said. Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing anyreasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well, Orison said. You'll be reading silently before long, Mr. Gerding said. He smiled,as though this explained everything. By the way, your officialdesignation is Confidential Secretary. It's me whose confidences you'reto keep secret. If I ever need a letter written, may I stop down hereand dictate it? Please do, Orison said. This bank president, for all his grace andpresence, was obviously as kookie as his bank. Have you ever worked in a bank before, Miss McCall? Mr. Gerdingasked, as though following her train of thought. No, sir, she said. Though I've been associated with a rather largefinancial organization. You may find some of our methods a little strange, but you'll get usedto them, he said. Meanwhile, I'd be most grateful if you'd dispensewith calling me 'sir.' My name is Dink. It is ridiculous, but I'd enjoyyour using it. Dink? she asked. And I suppose you're to call me Orison? That's the drill, he said. One more question, Orison. Dinner thisevening? Direct, she thought. Perhaps that's why he's president of a bank, andstill so young. We've hardly met, she said. But we're on a first-name basis already, he pointed out. Dance? I'd love to, Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march,playing, from the elevator. Then I'll pick you up at seven. Windsor Arms, if I remember yourpersonnel form correctly. He stood, lean, all bone and muscle,and bowed slightly. West Point? Hardly. His manners were European.Sandhurst, perhaps, or Saint Cyr. Was she supposed to reply with acurtsy? Orison wondered. Thank you, she said. He was a soldier, or had been: the way, when he turned, his shouldersstayed square. The crisp clicking of his steps, a military metronome,to the elevator. When the door slicked open Orison, staring after Dink,saw that each of the half-dozen men aboard snapped off their hats (butnot their earmuffs) and bowed, the earmuffed operator bowing with them.Small bows, true; just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding. <doc-sep>Orison finished the Wall Street Journal by early afternoon. Apage came up a moment later with fresh reading-matter: a copy ofyesterday's Congressional Record . She launched into the Record ,thinking as she read of meeting again this evening that handsomemadman, that splendid lunatic, that unlikely bank-president. You readso well , darling, someone said across the desk. Orison looked up. Oh, hello, she said. I didn't hear you come up. I walk ever so lightly, the woman said, standing hip-shot in frontof the desk, and pounce ever so hard. She smiled. Opulent, Orisonthought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't likeher. Can't. Wouldn't if I could. Never cared for cats. I'm Orison McCall, she said, and tried to smile back without showingteeth. Delighted, the visitor said, handing over an undelighted palm. I'mAuga Vingt. Auga, to my friends. Won't you sit down, Miss Vingt? So kind of you, darling, Auga Vingt said, but I shan't have time tovisit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker.One for all, all for one. Yea, Team. You know. Thanks, Orison said. Common courtesy, Miss Vingt explained. Also, darling, I'd like todraw your attention to one little point. Dink Gerding—you know, theshoulders and muscles and crewcut? Well, he's posted property. Shouldyou throw your starveling charms at my Dink, you'd only get your littleeyes scratched out. Word to the wise, n'est-ce pas ? Sorry you have to leave so suddenly, Orison said, rolling her WallStreet Journal into a club and standing. Darling. So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here.You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts ofannoyance. Understand me, darling? You make it very clear, Orison said. Now you'd best hurry back toyour stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone. Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding rightoff? Auga asked. Well, ta-ta. She turned and walked to the elevator,displaying, Orison thought, a disgraceful amount of ungirdled rhumbamotion. The elevator stopped to pick up the odious Auga. A passenger, male,stepped off. Good morning, Mr. Gerding, Miss Vingt said, bowing. Carry on, Colonel, the stranger replied. As the elevator door closed,he stepped up to Orison's desk. Good morning. Miss McCall, he said. What is this? Orison demanded. Visiting-day at the zoo? She pausedand shook her head. Excuse me, sir, she said. It's just that ...Vingt thing.... Auga is rather intense, the new Mr. Gerding said. Yeah, intense, Orison said. Like a kidney-stone. I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bankand Trust Company family, Miss McCall, he said. I'm Kraft Gerding,Dink's elder brother. I understand you've met Dink already. Yes, sir, Orison said. The hair of this new Mr. Gerding was croppedeven closer than Dink's. His mustache was gray-tipped, like a patchof frosted furze; and his eyes, like Dink's, were cobalt blue. Thehead, Orison mused, would look quite at home in one of Kaiser Bill'sspike-topped Pickelhauben ; but the ears were in evidence, and seemednormal. Mr. Kraft Gerding bowed—what continental manners these bankershad!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-uppaper she still clutched and plant a kiss on it. <doc-sep>Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure. Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word. Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise.... N'est-ce pas? Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost. Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again? I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And bon voyage . Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor. First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the Wall Street Journal from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors. Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up. Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa. Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English. Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll? Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her. Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors. But the building had a stairway. III The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound. She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened. Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed. The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door. Into a pair of arms. I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two sumo -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes. Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed sumo -wrestlers protested. Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders. Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted. My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank. I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes! The message? Kraft Gerding demanded. Something about escudo green. Put me down! <doc-sep>Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison. They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now? All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders. Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother. I.... Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor. If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you. Samma! Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator. I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit? Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale. You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders? I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper. Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said. She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him. I'd rather not, she protested. I'd be happier if you did, Dink said. <doc-sep>Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed theMicrofabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, likea legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket andunfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm. He's like a baby crawdad, Orison said. A sort of crustacean, Dink agreed. We use them in a commercialprocess we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off andsecret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see. What do they do? Orison asked. That's still a secret, Dink said, smiling. I can't tell even youthat, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary. What's he doing now? Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratchingagainst her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae. They like gold, Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,comfortably close. They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, aschildren are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.We'd better get you down where you belong. Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearesttank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. Strange,using crawdads in a bank, she said. She stood silent for a moment. Ithought I heard music, she said. I heard it when I came in. Somethinglike the sighing of wind in winter trees. That's the hymn of the Microfabridae, Dink said. They all singtogether while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices. Hetook her arm. If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song theselittle workers sing the most beautiful music in the world. Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening tothe music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peaceand harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crashof breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, thequiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.It's an ancient song, Dink said. The Microfabridae have beensinging it for a million years. He released her, and opened awood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.Hold out your hands, he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.Throw our singers some supper for their song, he said. Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled themineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from theliquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.They're so very strange, Orison said. At the bottom of the tank shethought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubblinglife. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Dink Gerding is the eccentric president of the bank. He is a tall, handsome man, and Orison assumes that he is around twenty-eight the first time she meets him. He has an older brother named Kraft, but he is higher in power than his brother. When Dink first meets Orison, he is courteous and personally welcomes her to the office. However, he is also rather confident. Dink casually asks her out for dinner despite never meeting her before, and he even offers to dance. However, it is noted that Dink has some form of military experience as a soldier. His shoulders are square, and the crisp clicking of his steps is similar to a military metronome. Nevertheless, Dink is protective of Orison; this is especially shown during the confrontation with his brother. He is also gentle to her around the Microfabridae and is extremely happy when she takes an interest in holding one.

<s> CINDERELLA STORY By ALLEN KIM LANG What a bank! The First Vice-President was a cool cat—the elevator and the money operators all wore earmuffs—was just as phony as a three-dollar bill! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit. He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold. Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked. Beg pardon? What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots. I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said. You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll. That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed. Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby? Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank. The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said. What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked. The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay? It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation? Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do? Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you— You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said. Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's Wall Street Journal , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most. Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator. <doc-sep>By lunchtime Orison had finished the Wall Street Journal and hadbegun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. The book was afantastic novel of some sort, named The Hobbit . Reading this peculiarfare into the microphone before her, Miss McCall was more certain thanever that the Taft Bank was, as her boss in Washington had told her,the front for some highly irregular goings-on. An odd business for aFederal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into amicrophone for an invisible audience. Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in thebook and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The operator wasa new man, ears concealed behind scarlet earmuffs. In the car, comingdown from the interdicted upper floors, were several gentlemen withbriefcases. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, thesegentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison steppedaboard the elevator. Each of the chivalrous men, hat pressed to hisheart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgmentof their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a pennyinto this curiousest of banks. Lunch at the stand-up counter down the street was a normal interlude.Girls from the ground-floor offices of Taft Bank chattered together,eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, andfavored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed,finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to herlonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book,reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga ofBilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on herlight coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed,silent, hat-clasping gentlemen. What I need, Orison thought, walking rapidly to the busline, is adouble Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. And what the William HowardTaft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces ofthe U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association.Earmuffs, indeed. Fairy-tales read into a microphone. A Vice-Presidentwith the vocabulary of a racetrack tout. And what goes on in thoseupper floors? Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartmenthouse—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Herboss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on TaftBank from within, might prove dangerous. Indeed it was, she thought.She was in danger of becoming a solitary drinker. Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day'sobservations in order. Presumably Washington would call tonight forher initial report. Item: some of the men at the Bank wore earmuffs,several didn't. Item: the Vice-President's name was Mr. Wanji:Oriental? Item: the top eight floors of the Taft Bank Building seemedto be off-limits to all personnel not wearing earmuffs. Item: she wasbeing employed at a very respectable salary to read newsprint andnonsense into a microphone. Let Washington make sense of that, shethought. <doc-sep>In a gloomy mood, Orison McCall showered and dressed for bed. Eleveno'clock. Washington should be calling soon, inquiring after the resultsof her first day's spying. No call. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. The clockwas set; the lights were out. Wasn't Washington going to call her?Perhaps, she thought, the Department had discovered that the Earmuffshad her phone tapped. Testing, a baritone voice muttered. Orison sat up, clutching the sheet around her throat. Beg pardon? shesaid. Testing, the male voice repeated. One, two, three; three, two, one.Do you read me? Over. Orison reached under the bed for a shoe. Gripping it like a Scout-ax,she reached for the light cord with her free hand and tugged at it. The room was empty. Testing, the voice repeated. What you're testing, Orison said in a firm voice, is my patience.Who are you? Department of Treasury Monitor J-12, the male voice said. Do youhave anything to report, Miss McCall? Where are you, Monitor? she demanded. That's classified information, the voice said. Please speak directlyto your pillow, Miss McCall. Orison lay down cautiously. All right, she whispered to her pillow. Over here, the voice instructed her, coming from the unruffled pillowbeside her. Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. A radio? sheasked. Of a sort, Monitor J-12 agreed. We have to maintain communicationssecurity. Have you anything to report? I got the job, Orison said. Are you ... in that pillow ... all thetime? No, Miss McCall, the voice said. Only at report times. Shall weestablish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time,every day? You make it sound so improper, Orison said. I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall, the monitor said.Now, tell me what happened at the bank today. Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to amicrophone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard TaftNational Bank and Trust Company. That's about it, so far, she said. Good report, J-12 said from the pillow. Sounds like you've droppedinto a real snakepit, beautiful. How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful? Orison asked. Native optimism, the voice said. Good night. J-12 signed off witha peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then sheplaced the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone. Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolvedto write Washington for permission to make her future reports byregistered mail. II At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current Wall Street Journal , Orison was interrupted by the click of a pairof leather heels. The gentleman whose heels had just slammed togetherwas bowing. And she saw with some gratification that he was notwearing earmuffs. My name, the stranger said, is Dink Gerding. I amPresident of this bank, and wish at this time to welcome you to ourlittle family. I'm Orison McCall, she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight?So tall. Could he ever be interested in a girl just five-foot-three?Maybe higher heels? We're pleased with your work, Miss McCall, Dink Gerding said. He tookthe chair to the right of her desk. It's nothing, Orison said, switching off the microphone. On the contrary, Miss McCall. Your duties are most important, he said. Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing anyreasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well, Orison said. You'll be reading silently before long, Mr. Gerding said. He smiled,as though this explained everything. By the way, your officialdesignation is Confidential Secretary. It's me whose confidences you'reto keep secret. If I ever need a letter written, may I stop down hereand dictate it? Please do, Orison said. This bank president, for all his grace andpresence, was obviously as kookie as his bank. Have you ever worked in a bank before, Miss McCall? Mr. Gerdingasked, as though following her train of thought. No, sir, she said. Though I've been associated with a rather largefinancial organization. You may find some of our methods a little strange, but you'll get usedto them, he said. Meanwhile, I'd be most grateful if you'd dispensewith calling me 'sir.' My name is Dink. It is ridiculous, but I'd enjoyyour using it. Dink? she asked. And I suppose you're to call me Orison? That's the drill, he said. One more question, Orison. Dinner thisevening? Direct, she thought. Perhaps that's why he's president of a bank, andstill so young. We've hardly met, she said. But we're on a first-name basis already, he pointed out. Dance? I'd love to, Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march,playing, from the elevator. Then I'll pick you up at seven. Windsor Arms, if I remember yourpersonnel form correctly. He stood, lean, all bone and muscle,and bowed slightly. West Point? Hardly. His manners were European.Sandhurst, perhaps, or Saint Cyr. Was she supposed to reply with acurtsy? Orison wondered. Thank you, she said. He was a soldier, or had been: the way, when he turned, his shouldersstayed square. The crisp clicking of his steps, a military metronome,to the elevator. When the door slicked open Orison, staring after Dink,saw that each of the half-dozen men aboard snapped off their hats (butnot their earmuffs) and bowed, the earmuffed operator bowing with them.Small bows, true; just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding. <doc-sep>Orison finished the Wall Street Journal by early afternoon. Apage came up a moment later with fresh reading-matter: a copy ofyesterday's Congressional Record . She launched into the Record ,thinking as she read of meeting again this evening that handsomemadman, that splendid lunatic, that unlikely bank-president. You readso well , darling, someone said across the desk. Orison looked up. Oh, hello, she said. I didn't hear you come up. I walk ever so lightly, the woman said, standing hip-shot in frontof the desk, and pounce ever so hard. She smiled. Opulent, Orisonthought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't likeher. Can't. Wouldn't if I could. Never cared for cats. I'm Orison McCall, she said, and tried to smile back without showingteeth. Delighted, the visitor said, handing over an undelighted palm. I'mAuga Vingt. Auga, to my friends. Won't you sit down, Miss Vingt? So kind of you, darling, Auga Vingt said, but I shan't have time tovisit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker.One for all, all for one. Yea, Team. You know. Thanks, Orison said. Common courtesy, Miss Vingt explained. Also, darling, I'd like todraw your attention to one little point. Dink Gerding—you know, theshoulders and muscles and crewcut? Well, he's posted property. Shouldyou throw your starveling charms at my Dink, you'd only get your littleeyes scratched out. Word to the wise, n'est-ce pas ? Sorry you have to leave so suddenly, Orison said, rolling her WallStreet Journal into a club and standing. Darling. So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here.You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts ofannoyance. Understand me, darling? You make it very clear, Orison said. Now you'd best hurry back toyour stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone. Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding rightoff? Auga asked. Well, ta-ta. She turned and walked to the elevator,displaying, Orison thought, a disgraceful amount of ungirdled rhumbamotion. The elevator stopped to pick up the odious Auga. A passenger, male,stepped off. Good morning, Mr. Gerding, Miss Vingt said, bowing. Carry on, Colonel, the stranger replied. As the elevator door closed,he stepped up to Orison's desk. Good morning. Miss McCall, he said. What is this? Orison demanded. Visiting-day at the zoo? She pausedand shook her head. Excuse me, sir, she said. It's just that ...Vingt thing.... Auga is rather intense, the new Mr. Gerding said. Yeah, intense, Orison said. Like a kidney-stone. I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bankand Trust Company family, Miss McCall, he said. I'm Kraft Gerding,Dink's elder brother. I understand you've met Dink already. Yes, sir, Orison said. The hair of this new Mr. Gerding was croppedeven closer than Dink's. His mustache was gray-tipped, like a patchof frosted furze; and his eyes, like Dink's, were cobalt blue. Thehead, Orison mused, would look quite at home in one of Kaiser Bill'sspike-topped Pickelhauben ; but the ears were in evidence, and seemednormal. Mr. Kraft Gerding bowed—what continental manners these bankershad!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-uppaper she still clutched and plant a kiss on it. <doc-sep>Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure. Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word. Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise.... N'est-ce pas? Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost. Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again? I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And bon voyage . Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor. First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the Wall Street Journal from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors. Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up. Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa. Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English. Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll? Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her. Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors. But the building had a stairway. III The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound. She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened. Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed. The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door. Into a pair of arms. I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two sumo -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes. Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed sumo -wrestlers protested. Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders. Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted. My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank. I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes! The message? Kraft Gerding demanded. Something about escudo green. Put me down! <doc-sep>Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison. They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now? All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders. Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother. I.... Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor. If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you. Samma! Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator. I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit? Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale. You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders? I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper. Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said. She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him. I'd rather not, she protested. I'd be happier if you did, Dink said. <doc-sep>Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed theMicrofabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, likea legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket andunfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm. He's like a baby crawdad, Orison said. A sort of crustacean, Dink agreed. We use them in a commercialprocess we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off andsecret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see. What do they do? Orison asked. That's still a secret, Dink said, smiling. I can't tell even youthat, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary. What's he doing now? Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratchingagainst her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae. They like gold, Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,comfortably close. They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, aschildren are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.We'd better get you down where you belong. Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearesttank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. Strange,using crawdads in a bank, she said. She stood silent for a moment. Ithought I heard music, she said. I heard it when I came in. Somethinglike the sighing of wind in winter trees. That's the hymn of the Microfabridae, Dink said. They all singtogether while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices. Hetook her arm. If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song theselittle workers sing the most beautiful music in the world. Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening tothe music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peaceand harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crashof breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, thequiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.It's an ancient song, Dink said. The Microfabridae have beensinging it for a million years. He released her, and opened awood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.Hold out your hands, he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.Throw our singers some supper for their song, he said. Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled themineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from theliquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.They're so very strange, Orison said. At the bottom of the tank shethought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubblinglife. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Mr. Wanji is the Vice-President of the bank and the first person Orison meets. His fashion choice is not the same as a public picture banker. When she first applies for her job, he wears a hound’s-tooth check suit and a scarlet vest. He also wears a pair of furry green earmuffs even though it is not cold. To top off his outfit, he matches it with a pair of rough-leather desert boots. Orison does not know his ethnicity, but she guesses if he is Oriental based on his name. He speaks strangely too, and Orison finds herself unable to understand him unless he says in plain English. It is a very casual form of speech with lots of slang mixed in. Later, when he calls Orison, he speaks in a completely different language. Mr. Wanji is loud and carefree, as he did not hesitate to give Orison more money than supposedly her last job paid. When she asks him about tax numbers and social security information, he waves it off as if it is nothing. He is very carefree, too, sending Orison to deliver a message to Dink when she is supposed not ever be allowed to the upper floors.

<s> THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER BY KEITH LAUMER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was as ancient as time—and as strange as his own frightful battle against incredible odds! I In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection. Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation. Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon. I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme. Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions? I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau— Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way. I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea— You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this— You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang! <doc-sep>Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Streetand turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBYMUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, aheavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behindan ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to theopposite corner of his mouth. Don't I know you, mister? he said. His soft voice carried a note ofauthority. Tremaine took off his hat. Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,though. The policeman got to his feet. Jimmy, he said, Jimmy Tremaine. Hecame to the counter and put out his hand. How are you, Jimmy? Whatbrings you back to the boondocks? Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess. In a back room Tremaine said, To everybody but you this is just avisit to the old home town. Between us, there's more. Jess nodded. I heard you were with the guv'ment. It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet. Tremaine coveredthe discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on thehigh-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmissionproduced not one but a pattern of fixes on the point of origin. Hepassed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentriccircles, overlapped by a similar group of rings. I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of thesepoints of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffractionpattern— Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I'll take yourword for it. The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to thissection. I'm not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter'snear here. Now, have you got any ideas? That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with thenews that Old Man Whatchamacallit's got an attic full of gear he saysis a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven't even takento TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lordintended. I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you hadsomething ... Course, said Jess, there's always Mr. Bram ... Mr. Bram, repeated Tremaine. Is he still around? I remember him as ahundred years old when I was kid. Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys hisgroceries and hikes back out to his place by the river. Well, what about him? Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A littletouched in the head. There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember, Tremainesaid. I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me somethingI've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, andsometimes he gave us apples. <doc-sep>I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from. How long's he lived here in Elsby? Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway. Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen? You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again. I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store.... Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire. What was the idea of that? Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age. Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town. Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll. Tremaine shook his head. Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess.... What about her and Bram? A romance? <doc-sep>Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling,frowning. This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'neight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that madeher an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was settingher cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over sixfoot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger toboot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the localbucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funnyabout any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. Butthis was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram downthere; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancyshay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished offher reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It wasten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she wasalready old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bramin front of her. Tremaine got to his feet. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your earsand eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights. What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind ofdetector you were going to set up? I've got an oversized suitcase, Tremaine said. I'll be setting it upin my room over at the hotel. When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again? After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitelyrepeating logarithmic sequence, based on— Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head. Jess got to his feet. Let meknow if you want anything. And by the way— he winked broadly—Ialways did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his frontteeth. II Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby TownHall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellowautumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up thesteps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door saidMUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD. Tremaine opened the door and went in. A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder atTremaine. We're closed, he said. I won't be a minute, Tremaine said. Just want to check on when theBram property changed hands last. The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. Bram?He dead? Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place. The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. He ain't going tosell, mister, if that's what you want to know. I want to know when he bought. The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. Come back tomorrow, he said. Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. I was hopingto save a trip. He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted towardit. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly. See what I can do, he said. It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table wherea two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated aline written in faded ink: May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW QuarterSection 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.) Translated, what does that mean? said Tremaine. That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on thenineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed? No, thanks, Tremaine said. That's all I needed. He turned back tothe door. What's up, mister? the clerk called after him. Bram in some kind oftrouble? No. No trouble. The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. Nineteen-oh-one,he said. I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must bedern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age. I guess you're right. The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. Lots of funny stories aboutold Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises andlights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place. I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say? Maybe so. The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.There's one story that's not superstition.... Tremaine waited. You—uh—paying anything for information? Now why would I do that? Tremaine reached for the door knob. The clerk shrugged. Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup. <doc-sep>Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint. You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves. I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far. The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully. I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering. What date was it you wanted? Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth. The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you. I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly. On page four, under a column headed County Notes he saw the name Bram: Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths. May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year? The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye: A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river. The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow. Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel. A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car. Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car. <doc-sep>Two miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremainerounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside thehighway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.The door opened. A tall figure stepped out. What's your problem, mister? a harsh voice drawled. What's the matter? Run out of signal? What's it to you, mister? Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set? We could be. Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine. Oh, said the cop, you're the big shot from Washington. He shiftedchewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. Sure, you can talk tohim. He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mikebefore handing it to Tremaine. The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. What's your beef,Tremaine? I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gavethe word, Grammond. That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding outon me. It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you weredoing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle. Grammond cursed. I could have put my men in the town and taken itapart brick by brick in the time— That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'llgo underground. You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys usefor the spade work, that it? Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed. Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punchingout a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedallingall over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county— The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighsthree tons, said Tremaine. Bicycles are out. Grammond snorted. Okay, Tremaine, he said. You're the boy with allthe answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington. <doc-sep>Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call. It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.Tell him if he queers this— I don't know but what he might have something, the voice came backover the filtered hum. Suppose he smokes them out— Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginiamoonshiners. Don't tell me my job, Tremaine! the voice snapped. And don't try outyour famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation. Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket. Tremainehung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers ofScotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coatand left the hotel. He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. Hewalked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was aonce-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, itswindows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in theancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the buttonbeside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minutebefore the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-bonedface looked at him coolly. Miss Carroll, Tremaine said. You won't remember me, but I— There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James, MissCarroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremainethought, startled. I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll, he said. Come in. She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with thefurnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took astraight chair across the room from him. You look very well, James, she said, nodding. I'm pleased to seethat you've amounted to something. Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid. You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man. I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, evenas a boy, that you were a woman of great ability. Why did you come today, James? asked Miss Carroll. I.... Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. I want someinformation. This is an important matter. May I rely on yourdiscretion? Of course. How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby? <doc-sep>Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him? There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest. I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases. I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him. Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear. What does he do for a living? I have no idea. Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story? I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story. You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast? That is his only name. Just ... Bram. You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything— A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently. I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me. Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right.... Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited. Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house. Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone. I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen. He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again. This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it? Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James. May I see it? She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me? Miss Carroll nodded. There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless.... I'd be grateful for any lead. Bram fears the thunder. III As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked: Any luck, Jimmy? Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid. Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around? Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark. As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me. I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out. Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking— We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched. The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...? He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun? In the car. Better get it. Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table. This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week. Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance. I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess. A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said. Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor. That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains. Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen. It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall. What do you make of it. Jimmy? A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks? I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions. <doc-sep>At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boylounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mopof greased hair. Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine, said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swungthe cell door open. He wants to talk to you. I ain't done nothin, Hull said sullenly. There ain't nothin wrongwith burnin out a Commie, is there? Bram's a Commie, is he? Tremaine said softly. How'd you find thatout, Hull? He's a foreigner, ain't he? the youth shot back. Besides, weheard.... What did you hear? They're lookin for the spies. Who's looking for spies? Cops. Who says so? The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes tothe corner of the cell. Cops was talkin about 'em, he said. Spill it, Hull, the policeman said. Mr. Tremaine hasn't got allnight. They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They calledme over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em getthem spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people aroundhers. And you mentioned Bram? The boy darted another look at Tremaine. They said they figured thespies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's outthat way, ain't he? Anything else? The boy looked at his feet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

With pressure coming from Fred, who elected him into this investigation, Tremaine first goes to the police station to meet his friend who works here so that he can get familiar with the town and learn about unusual activities and strange events if there are any. Jess, the police officer, is surprised to see Tremaine coming back to this town. Tremaine asks Jess if he has any idea of a transmitter in this area, however, Jess does not seem really interested in the transmitters as he think drawing is a beer advertisement. Afterwards, Jess tells Tremaine about the old man Bram who seems to have lived in this town forever. He is the mystery man of the town. As a foreigner who no one knows much about, he seems strange. Knowing that Bram has lived on the same property since as long as anyone could remember, he goes to the Municipal Office of Records to check the last time that there was a change of hands on Bram’s property. Then Tremaine goes to the Elsby Public Library, checking for the newspapers around the time when Bram bought the property. On his way back to the hotel that he is staying at, he notices Grammond’s men. But Tremaine has told Grammond to keep his men away from this town for now. Apparently, Grammond didn’t listen, Tremaine is afraid that with the police searching around the town, the person they are looking for will sense that something is off, and will hide before they are able to find him/her.Desiring to learn more about this old man, Jess has also mentioned to Tremaine that Linda Carroll had been with Bram for a while when Carroll was in her twenties, which is a few decades ago. So then Tremaine goes to Carroll’s house hoping to learn more about the mysterious man Bram. Then after he left Carroll’s house, he goes to Bram’s house together with Jess. Shots were fired, the house is empty, but Bram is not there. They go straight to Hull Gaskin to ask questions since he did set fire on Bram’s place before.

<s> THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER BY KEITH LAUMER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was as ancient as time—and as strange as his own frightful battle against incredible odds! I In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection. Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation. Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon. I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme. Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions? I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau— Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way. I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea— You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this— You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang! <doc-sep>Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Streetand turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBYMUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, aheavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behindan ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to theopposite corner of his mouth. Don't I know you, mister? he said. His soft voice carried a note ofauthority. Tremaine took off his hat. Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,though. The policeman got to his feet. Jimmy, he said, Jimmy Tremaine. Hecame to the counter and put out his hand. How are you, Jimmy? Whatbrings you back to the boondocks? Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess. In a back room Tremaine said, To everybody but you this is just avisit to the old home town. Between us, there's more. Jess nodded. I heard you were with the guv'ment. It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet. Tremaine coveredthe discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on thehigh-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmissionproduced not one but a pattern of fixes on the point of origin. Hepassed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentriccircles, overlapped by a similar group of rings. I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of thesepoints of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffractionpattern— Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I'll take yourword for it. The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to thissection. I'm not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter'snear here. Now, have you got any ideas? That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with thenews that Old Man Whatchamacallit's got an attic full of gear he saysis a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven't even takento TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lordintended. I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you hadsomething ... Course, said Jess, there's always Mr. Bram ... Mr. Bram, repeated Tremaine. Is he still around? I remember him as ahundred years old when I was kid. Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys hisgroceries and hikes back out to his place by the river. Well, what about him? Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A littletouched in the head. There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember, Tremainesaid. I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me somethingI've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, andsometimes he gave us apples. <doc-sep>I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from. How long's he lived here in Elsby? Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway. Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen? You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again. I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store.... Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire. What was the idea of that? Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age. Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town. Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll. Tremaine shook his head. Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess.... What about her and Bram? A romance? <doc-sep>Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling,frowning. This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'neight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that madeher an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was settingher cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over sixfoot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger toboot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the localbucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funnyabout any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. Butthis was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram downthere; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancyshay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished offher reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It wasten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she wasalready old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bramin front of her. Tremaine got to his feet. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your earsand eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights. What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind ofdetector you were going to set up? I've got an oversized suitcase, Tremaine said. I'll be setting it upin my room over at the hotel. When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again? After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitelyrepeating logarithmic sequence, based on— Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head. Jess got to his feet. Let meknow if you want anything. And by the way— he winked broadly—Ialways did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his frontteeth. II Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby TownHall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellowautumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up thesteps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door saidMUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD. Tremaine opened the door and went in. A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder atTremaine. We're closed, he said. I won't be a minute, Tremaine said. Just want to check on when theBram property changed hands last. The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. Bram?He dead? Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place. The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. He ain't going tosell, mister, if that's what you want to know. I want to know when he bought. The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. Come back tomorrow, he said. Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. I was hopingto save a trip. He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted towardit. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly. See what I can do, he said. It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table wherea two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated aline written in faded ink: May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW QuarterSection 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.) Translated, what does that mean? said Tremaine. That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on thenineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed? No, thanks, Tremaine said. That's all I needed. He turned back tothe door. What's up, mister? the clerk called after him. Bram in some kind oftrouble? No. No trouble. The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. Nineteen-oh-one,he said. I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must bedern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age. I guess you're right. The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. Lots of funny stories aboutold Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises andlights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place. I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say? Maybe so. The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.There's one story that's not superstition.... Tremaine waited. You—uh—paying anything for information? Now why would I do that? Tremaine reached for the door knob. The clerk shrugged. Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup. <doc-sep>Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint. You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves. I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far. The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully. I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering. What date was it you wanted? Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth. The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you. I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly. On page four, under a column headed County Notes he saw the name Bram: Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths. May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year? The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye: A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river. The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow. Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel. A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car. Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car. <doc-sep>Two miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremainerounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside thehighway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.The door opened. A tall figure stepped out. What's your problem, mister? a harsh voice drawled. What's the matter? Run out of signal? What's it to you, mister? Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set? We could be. Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine. Oh, said the cop, you're the big shot from Washington. He shiftedchewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. Sure, you can talk tohim. He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mikebefore handing it to Tremaine. The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. What's your beef,Tremaine? I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gavethe word, Grammond. That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding outon me. It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you weredoing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle. Grammond cursed. I could have put my men in the town and taken itapart brick by brick in the time— That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'llgo underground. You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys usefor the spade work, that it? Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed. Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punchingout a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedallingall over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county— The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighsthree tons, said Tremaine. Bicycles are out. Grammond snorted. Okay, Tremaine, he said. You're the boy with allthe answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington. <doc-sep>Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call. It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.Tell him if he queers this— I don't know but what he might have something, the voice came backover the filtered hum. Suppose he smokes them out— Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginiamoonshiners. Don't tell me my job, Tremaine! the voice snapped. And don't try outyour famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation. Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket. Tremainehung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers ofScotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coatand left the hotel. He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. Hewalked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was aonce-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, itswindows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in theancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the buttonbeside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minutebefore the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-bonedface looked at him coolly. Miss Carroll, Tremaine said. You won't remember me, but I— There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James, MissCarroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremainethought, startled. I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll, he said. Come in. She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with thefurnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took astraight chair across the room from him. You look very well, James, she said, nodding. I'm pleased to seethat you've amounted to something. Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid. You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man. I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, evenas a boy, that you were a woman of great ability. Why did you come today, James? asked Miss Carroll. I.... Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. I want someinformation. This is an important matter. May I rely on yourdiscretion? Of course. How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby? <doc-sep>Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him? There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest. I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases. I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him. Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear. What does he do for a living? I have no idea. Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story? I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story. You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast? That is his only name. Just ... Bram. You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything— A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently. I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me. Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right.... Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited. Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house. Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone. I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen. He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again. This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it? Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James. May I see it? She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me? Miss Carroll nodded. There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless.... I'd be grateful for any lead. Bram fears the thunder. III As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked: Any luck, Jimmy? Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid. Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around? Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark. As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me. I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out. Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking— We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched. The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...? He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun? In the car. Better get it. Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table. This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week. Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance. I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess. A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said. Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor. That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains. Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen. It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall. What do you make of it. Jimmy? A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks? I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions. <doc-sep>At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boylounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mopof greased hair. Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine, said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swungthe cell door open. He wants to talk to you. I ain't done nothin, Hull said sullenly. There ain't nothin wrongwith burnin out a Commie, is there? Bram's a Commie, is he? Tremaine said softly. How'd you find thatout, Hull? He's a foreigner, ain't he? the youth shot back. Besides, weheard.... What did you hear? They're lookin for the spies. Who's looking for spies? Cops. Who says so? The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes tothe corner of the cell. Cops was talkin about 'em, he said. Spill it, Hull, the policeman said. Mr. Tremaine hasn't got allnight. They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They calledme over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em getthem spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people aroundhers. And you mentioned Bram? The boy darted another look at Tremaine. They said they figured thespies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's outthat way, ain't he? Anything else? The boy looked at his feet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Tremaine learns from Jess that Bram is the mystery man of the Elsby town. He is a foreigner to the town despite the fact that he has similar appearances as the rest of the town. People do not know where he is from, when he started living in the town, and not even his full name, but there are still many conspiracies about him. The clerk at the Municipal Office of Record is confident that Bram has never been seen between sundown and sunup. He also tells Tremaine that the property that Bram currently lives on was purchased by him in 1901. Tremaine learns from the newspapers that the same property was accidentally caught on fire from a thunderstorm about a year before the transaction was made between Bram and J. P. Spivey. Interestingly, from Jess, Tremaine also learns that Hull and his friends started a fire on Bram’s place some time ago. Tremaine acknowledged the relationship between the young Bram and young Linda Carroll. Carroll explains to Tremaine how he told her that there is a cave beneath his house. And every night he has to fight evil beings that are right below his house. He went downstairs for the night and by the time he came up, it was dawn. Later, he handed her a locket which allows her to ask him to come simply by pressing it in a certain way. Moreover, Carroll tells Tremaine that he is afraid of thunder. Furthermore, after Bram has gone missing, Tremaine learns from Hull that Bram is a Commie.

<s> THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER BY KEITH LAUMER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was as ancient as time—and as strange as his own frightful battle against incredible odds! I In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection. Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation. Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon. I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme. Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions? I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau— Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way. I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea— You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this— You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang! <doc-sep>Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Streetand turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBYMUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, aheavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behindan ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to theopposite corner of his mouth. Don't I know you, mister? he said. His soft voice carried a note ofauthority. Tremaine took off his hat. Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,though. The policeman got to his feet. Jimmy, he said, Jimmy Tremaine. Hecame to the counter and put out his hand. How are you, Jimmy? Whatbrings you back to the boondocks? Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess. In a back room Tremaine said, To everybody but you this is just avisit to the old home town. Between us, there's more. Jess nodded. I heard you were with the guv'ment. It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet. Tremaine coveredthe discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on thehigh-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmissionproduced not one but a pattern of fixes on the point of origin. Hepassed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentriccircles, overlapped by a similar group of rings. I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of thesepoints of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffractionpattern— Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I'll take yourword for it. The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to thissection. I'm not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter'snear here. Now, have you got any ideas? That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with thenews that Old Man Whatchamacallit's got an attic full of gear he saysis a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven't even takento TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lordintended. I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you hadsomething ... Course, said Jess, there's always Mr. Bram ... Mr. Bram, repeated Tremaine. Is he still around? I remember him as ahundred years old when I was kid. Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys hisgroceries and hikes back out to his place by the river. Well, what about him? Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A littletouched in the head. There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember, Tremainesaid. I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me somethingI've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, andsometimes he gave us apples. <doc-sep>I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from. How long's he lived here in Elsby? Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway. Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen? You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again. I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store.... Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire. What was the idea of that? Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age. Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town. Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll. Tremaine shook his head. Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess.... What about her and Bram? A romance? <doc-sep>Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling,frowning. This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'neight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that madeher an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was settingher cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over sixfoot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger toboot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the localbucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funnyabout any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. Butthis was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram downthere; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancyshay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished offher reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It wasten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she wasalready old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bramin front of her. Tremaine got to his feet. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your earsand eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights. What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind ofdetector you were going to set up? I've got an oversized suitcase, Tremaine said. I'll be setting it upin my room over at the hotel. When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again? After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitelyrepeating logarithmic sequence, based on— Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head. Jess got to his feet. Let meknow if you want anything. And by the way— he winked broadly—Ialways did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his frontteeth. II Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby TownHall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellowautumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up thesteps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door saidMUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD. Tremaine opened the door and went in. A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder atTremaine. We're closed, he said. I won't be a minute, Tremaine said. Just want to check on when theBram property changed hands last. The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. Bram?He dead? Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place. The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. He ain't going tosell, mister, if that's what you want to know. I want to know when he bought. The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. Come back tomorrow, he said. Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. I was hopingto save a trip. He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted towardit. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly. See what I can do, he said. It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table wherea two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated aline written in faded ink: May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW QuarterSection 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.) Translated, what does that mean? said Tremaine. That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on thenineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed? No, thanks, Tremaine said. That's all I needed. He turned back tothe door. What's up, mister? the clerk called after him. Bram in some kind oftrouble? No. No trouble. The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. Nineteen-oh-one,he said. I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must bedern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age. I guess you're right. The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. Lots of funny stories aboutold Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises andlights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place. I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say? Maybe so. The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.There's one story that's not superstition.... Tremaine waited. You—uh—paying anything for information? Now why would I do that? Tremaine reached for the door knob. The clerk shrugged. Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup. <doc-sep>Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint. You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves. I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far. The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully. I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering. What date was it you wanted? Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth. The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you. I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly. On page four, under a column headed County Notes he saw the name Bram: Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths. May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year? The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye: A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river. The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow. Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel. A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car. Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car. <doc-sep>Two miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremainerounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside thehighway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.The door opened. A tall figure stepped out. What's your problem, mister? a harsh voice drawled. What's the matter? Run out of signal? What's it to you, mister? Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set? We could be. Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine. Oh, said the cop, you're the big shot from Washington. He shiftedchewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. Sure, you can talk tohim. He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mikebefore handing it to Tremaine. The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. What's your beef,Tremaine? I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gavethe word, Grammond. That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding outon me. It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you weredoing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle. Grammond cursed. I could have put my men in the town and taken itapart brick by brick in the time— That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'llgo underground. You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys usefor the spade work, that it? Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed. Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punchingout a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedallingall over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county— The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighsthree tons, said Tremaine. Bicycles are out. Grammond snorted. Okay, Tremaine, he said. You're the boy with allthe answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington. <doc-sep>Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call. It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.Tell him if he queers this— I don't know but what he might have something, the voice came backover the filtered hum. Suppose he smokes them out— Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginiamoonshiners. Don't tell me my job, Tremaine! the voice snapped. And don't try outyour famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation. Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket. Tremainehung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers ofScotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coatand left the hotel. He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. Hewalked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was aonce-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, itswindows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in theancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the buttonbeside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minutebefore the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-bonedface looked at him coolly. Miss Carroll, Tremaine said. You won't remember me, but I— There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James, MissCarroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremainethought, startled. I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll, he said. Come in. She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with thefurnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took astraight chair across the room from him. You look very well, James, she said, nodding. I'm pleased to seethat you've amounted to something. Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid. You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man. I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, evenas a boy, that you were a woman of great ability. Why did you come today, James? asked Miss Carroll. I.... Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. I want someinformation. This is an important matter. May I rely on yourdiscretion? Of course. How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby? <doc-sep>Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him? There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest. I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases. I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him. Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear. What does he do for a living? I have no idea. Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story? I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story. You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast? That is his only name. Just ... Bram. You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything— A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently. I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me. Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right.... Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited. Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house. Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone. I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen. He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again. This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it? Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James. May I see it? She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me? Miss Carroll nodded. There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless.... I'd be grateful for any lead. Bram fears the thunder. III As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked: Any luck, Jimmy? Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid. Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around? Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark. As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me. I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out. Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking— We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched. The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...? He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun? In the car. Better get it. Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table. This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week. Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance. I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess. A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said. Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor. That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains. Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen. It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall. What do you make of it. Jimmy? A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks? I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions. <doc-sep>At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boylounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mopof greased hair. Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine, said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swungthe cell door open. He wants to talk to you. I ain't done nothin, Hull said sullenly. There ain't nothin wrongwith burnin out a Commie, is there? Bram's a Commie, is he? Tremaine said softly. How'd you find thatout, Hull? He's a foreigner, ain't he? the youth shot back. Besides, weheard.... What did you hear? They're lookin for the spies. Who's looking for spies? Cops. Who says so? The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes tothe corner of the cell. Cops was talkin about 'em, he said. Spill it, Hull, the policeman said. Mr. Tremaine hasn't got allnight. They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They calledme over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em getthem spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people aroundhers. And you mentioned Bram? The boy darted another look at Tremaine. They said they figured thespies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's outthat way, ain't he? Anything else? The boy looked at his feet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

From Jess, Tremaine learns that the school teacher, Linda Carroll had a relationship with Bram while they were young. Carroll’s family is quite wealthy and she was very beautiful. People in the town was not really up to her standards. Bram is a foreigner and does not really like social events. However, apparently, Carroll went off together with Bram one day afternoon with almost the whole town there. Then the next day Bram was not by her side, she came back by herself. This made her reputation really bad and she could not even be hired as a teacher for 10 years afterwards. From Carroll, Tremaine learns another story. She seems to not know Bram well. She confirms that she and Bram was in a relationship. And after Bram invited her to his place one day, he explains that he has to fight evil beings below his house every night. After they arrived at his house, she was left in the carriage for the whole night while he was below the house until dawn. Thus she decided to not talk to him when him came to see her in the carriage again. He gave her a locket where a pattern of tapping would allow him to get to her if she ever needs him. Interestingly, she also tells Tremaine that Bram is afraid of the thunder.

<s> THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER BY KEITH LAUMER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was as ancient as time—and as strange as his own frightful battle against incredible odds! I In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection. Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation. Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon. I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme. Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions? I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau— Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way. I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea— You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this— You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang! <doc-sep>Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Streetand turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBYMUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, aheavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behindan ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to theopposite corner of his mouth. Don't I know you, mister? he said. His soft voice carried a note ofauthority. Tremaine took off his hat. Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,though. The policeman got to his feet. Jimmy, he said, Jimmy Tremaine. Hecame to the counter and put out his hand. How are you, Jimmy? Whatbrings you back to the boondocks? Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess. In a back room Tremaine said, To everybody but you this is just avisit to the old home town. Between us, there's more. Jess nodded. I heard you were with the guv'ment. It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet. Tremaine coveredthe discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on thehigh-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmissionproduced not one but a pattern of fixes on the point of origin. Hepassed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentriccircles, overlapped by a similar group of rings. I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of thesepoints of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffractionpattern— Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I'll take yourword for it. The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to thissection. I'm not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter'snear here. Now, have you got any ideas? That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with thenews that Old Man Whatchamacallit's got an attic full of gear he saysis a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven't even takento TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lordintended. I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you hadsomething ... Course, said Jess, there's always Mr. Bram ... Mr. Bram, repeated Tremaine. Is he still around? I remember him as ahundred years old when I was kid. Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys hisgroceries and hikes back out to his place by the river. Well, what about him? Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A littletouched in the head. There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember, Tremainesaid. I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me somethingI've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, andsometimes he gave us apples. <doc-sep>I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from. How long's he lived here in Elsby? Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway. Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen? You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again. I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store.... Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire. What was the idea of that? Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age. Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town. Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll. Tremaine shook his head. Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess.... What about her and Bram? A romance? <doc-sep>Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling,frowning. This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'neight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that madeher an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was settingher cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over sixfoot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger toboot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the localbucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funnyabout any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. Butthis was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram downthere; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancyshay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished offher reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It wasten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she wasalready old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bramin front of her. Tremaine got to his feet. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your earsand eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights. What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind ofdetector you were going to set up? I've got an oversized suitcase, Tremaine said. I'll be setting it upin my room over at the hotel. When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again? After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitelyrepeating logarithmic sequence, based on— Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head. Jess got to his feet. Let meknow if you want anything. And by the way— he winked broadly—Ialways did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his frontteeth. II Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby TownHall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellowautumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up thesteps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door saidMUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD. Tremaine opened the door and went in. A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder atTremaine. We're closed, he said. I won't be a minute, Tremaine said. Just want to check on when theBram property changed hands last. The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. Bram?He dead? Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place. The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. He ain't going tosell, mister, if that's what you want to know. I want to know when he bought. The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. Come back tomorrow, he said. Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. I was hopingto save a trip. He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted towardit. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly. See what I can do, he said. It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table wherea two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated aline written in faded ink: May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW QuarterSection 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.) Translated, what does that mean? said Tremaine. That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on thenineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed? No, thanks, Tremaine said. That's all I needed. He turned back tothe door. What's up, mister? the clerk called after him. Bram in some kind oftrouble? No. No trouble. The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. Nineteen-oh-one,he said. I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must bedern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age. I guess you're right. The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. Lots of funny stories aboutold Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises andlights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place. I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say? Maybe so. The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.There's one story that's not superstition.... Tremaine waited. You—uh—paying anything for information? Now why would I do that? Tremaine reached for the door knob. The clerk shrugged. Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup. <doc-sep>Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint. You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves. I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far. The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully. I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering. What date was it you wanted? Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth. The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you. I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly. On page four, under a column headed County Notes he saw the name Bram: Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths. May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year? The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye: A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river. The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow. Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel. A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car. Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car. <doc-sep>Two miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremainerounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside thehighway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.The door opened. A tall figure stepped out. What's your problem, mister? a harsh voice drawled. What's the matter? Run out of signal? What's it to you, mister? Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set? We could be. Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine. Oh, said the cop, you're the big shot from Washington. He shiftedchewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. Sure, you can talk tohim. He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mikebefore handing it to Tremaine. The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. What's your beef,Tremaine? I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gavethe word, Grammond. That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding outon me. It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you weredoing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle. Grammond cursed. I could have put my men in the town and taken itapart brick by brick in the time— That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'llgo underground. You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys usefor the spade work, that it? Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed. Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punchingout a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedallingall over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county— The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighsthree tons, said Tremaine. Bicycles are out. Grammond snorted. Okay, Tremaine, he said. You're the boy with allthe answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington. <doc-sep>Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call. It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.Tell him if he queers this— I don't know but what he might have something, the voice came backover the filtered hum. Suppose he smokes them out— Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginiamoonshiners. Don't tell me my job, Tremaine! the voice snapped. And don't try outyour famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation. Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket. Tremainehung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers ofScotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coatand left the hotel. He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. Hewalked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was aonce-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, itswindows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in theancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the buttonbeside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minutebefore the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-bonedface looked at him coolly. Miss Carroll, Tremaine said. You won't remember me, but I— There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James, MissCarroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremainethought, startled. I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll, he said. Come in. She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with thefurnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took astraight chair across the room from him. You look very well, James, she said, nodding. I'm pleased to seethat you've amounted to something. Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid. You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man. I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, evenas a boy, that you were a woman of great ability. Why did you come today, James? asked Miss Carroll. I.... Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. I want someinformation. This is an important matter. May I rely on yourdiscretion? Of course. How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby? <doc-sep>Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him? There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest. I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases. I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him. Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear. What does he do for a living? I have no idea. Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story? I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story. You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast? That is his only name. Just ... Bram. You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything— A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently. I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me. Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right.... Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited. Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house. Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone. I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen. He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again. This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it? Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James. May I see it? She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me? Miss Carroll nodded. There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless.... I'd be grateful for any lead. Bram fears the thunder. III As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked: Any luck, Jimmy? Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid. Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around? Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark. As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me. I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out. Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking— We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched. The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...? He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun? In the car. Better get it. Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table. This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week. Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance. I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess. A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said. Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor. That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains. Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen. It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall. What do you make of it. Jimmy? A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks? I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions. <doc-sep>At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boylounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mopof greased hair. Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine, said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swungthe cell door open. He wants to talk to you. I ain't done nothin, Hull said sullenly. There ain't nothin wrongwith burnin out a Commie, is there? Bram's a Commie, is he? Tremaine said softly. How'd you find thatout, Hull? He's a foreigner, ain't he? the youth shot back. Besides, weheard.... What did you hear? They're lookin for the spies. Who's looking for spies? Cops. Who says so? The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes tothe corner of the cell. Cops was talkin about 'em, he said. Spill it, Hull, the policeman said. Mr. Tremaine hasn't got allnight. They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They calledme over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em getthem spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people aroundhers. And you mentioned Bram? The boy darted another look at Tremaine. They said they figured thespies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's outthat way, ain't he? Anything else? The boy looked at his feet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Jess is a police officer at the Elsby town where both Jess and Tremaine grew up. They have not seen each other in a very long time. Jess is surprised to see Tremaine showing up at Elsby again after being away for such a long time. Tremaine has explained to Jess that he is here to figure out the location of a transmitter. While Jess does not seem to be interested in the transmitters, he tells Tremaine about Bram. He explains to him that Bram is quite mysterious, which lead Tremaine to investigate on Bram’s properties. He informs Tremaine about Bram’s relationship with Linda Carroll, and then Tremaine pays her a visit and asks about Bram. Tremaine asks Jess to not tell anyone what they’ve discussed, but pretend that he is a tourist. Later, Jess asks Tremaine to find Bram together after pulling a car next to him on the street. Realizing that Bram is not home and the house seemed suspicious with blood and shotgun shell, they go to question Hull who is being held at the police station. Since Jess works at the police station, he can easily have Tremaine ask Hull questions.

<s> THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER BY KEITH LAUMER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was as ancient as time—and as strange as his own frightful battle against incredible odds! I In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection. Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation. Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon. I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme. Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions? I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau— Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way. I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea— You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this— You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang! <doc-sep>Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Streetand turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBYMUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, aheavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behindan ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to theopposite corner of his mouth. Don't I know you, mister? he said. His soft voice carried a note ofauthority. Tremaine took off his hat. Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,though. The policeman got to his feet. Jimmy, he said, Jimmy Tremaine. Hecame to the counter and put out his hand. How are you, Jimmy? Whatbrings you back to the boondocks? Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess. In a back room Tremaine said, To everybody but you this is just avisit to the old home town. Between us, there's more. Jess nodded. I heard you were with the guv'ment. It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet. Tremaine coveredthe discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on thehigh-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmissionproduced not one but a pattern of fixes on the point of origin. Hepassed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentriccircles, overlapped by a similar group of rings. I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of thesepoints of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffractionpattern— Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I'll take yourword for it. The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to thissection. I'm not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter'snear here. Now, have you got any ideas? That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with thenews that Old Man Whatchamacallit's got an attic full of gear he saysis a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven't even takento TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lordintended. I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you hadsomething ... Course, said Jess, there's always Mr. Bram ... Mr. Bram, repeated Tremaine. Is he still around? I remember him as ahundred years old when I was kid. Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys hisgroceries and hikes back out to his place by the river. Well, what about him? Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A littletouched in the head. There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember, Tremainesaid. I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me somethingI've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, andsometimes he gave us apples. <doc-sep>I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from. How long's he lived here in Elsby? Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway. Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen? You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again. I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store.... Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire. What was the idea of that? Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age. Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town. Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll. Tremaine shook his head. Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess.... What about her and Bram? A romance? <doc-sep>Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling,frowning. This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'neight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that madeher an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was settingher cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over sixfoot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger toboot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the localbucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funnyabout any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. Butthis was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram downthere; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancyshay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished offher reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It wasten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she wasalready old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bramin front of her. Tremaine got to his feet. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your earsand eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights. What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind ofdetector you were going to set up? I've got an oversized suitcase, Tremaine said. I'll be setting it upin my room over at the hotel. When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again? After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitelyrepeating logarithmic sequence, based on— Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head. Jess got to his feet. Let meknow if you want anything. And by the way— he winked broadly—Ialways did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his frontteeth. II Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby TownHall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellowautumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up thesteps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door saidMUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD. Tremaine opened the door and went in. A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder atTremaine. We're closed, he said. I won't be a minute, Tremaine said. Just want to check on when theBram property changed hands last. The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. Bram?He dead? Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place. The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. He ain't going tosell, mister, if that's what you want to know. I want to know when he bought. The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. Come back tomorrow, he said. Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. I was hopingto save a trip. He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted towardit. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly. See what I can do, he said. It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table wherea two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated aline written in faded ink: May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW QuarterSection 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.) Translated, what does that mean? said Tremaine. That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on thenineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed? No, thanks, Tremaine said. That's all I needed. He turned back tothe door. What's up, mister? the clerk called after him. Bram in some kind oftrouble? No. No trouble. The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. Nineteen-oh-one,he said. I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must bedern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age. I guess you're right. The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. Lots of funny stories aboutold Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises andlights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place. I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say? Maybe so. The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.There's one story that's not superstition.... Tremaine waited. You—uh—paying anything for information? Now why would I do that? Tremaine reached for the door knob. The clerk shrugged. Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup. <doc-sep>Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint. You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves. I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far. The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully. I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering. What date was it you wanted? Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth. The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you. I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly. On page four, under a column headed County Notes he saw the name Bram: Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths. May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year? The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye: A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river. The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow. Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel. A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car. Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car. <doc-sep>Two miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremainerounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside thehighway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.The door opened. A tall figure stepped out. What's your problem, mister? a harsh voice drawled. What's the matter? Run out of signal? What's it to you, mister? Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set? We could be. Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine. Oh, said the cop, you're the big shot from Washington. He shiftedchewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. Sure, you can talk tohim. He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mikebefore handing it to Tremaine. The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. What's your beef,Tremaine? I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gavethe word, Grammond. That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding outon me. It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you weredoing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle. Grammond cursed. I could have put my men in the town and taken itapart brick by brick in the time— That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'llgo underground. You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys usefor the spade work, that it? Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed. Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punchingout a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedallingall over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county— The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighsthree tons, said Tremaine. Bicycles are out. Grammond snorted. Okay, Tremaine, he said. You're the boy with allthe answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington. <doc-sep>Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call. It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.Tell him if he queers this— I don't know but what he might have something, the voice came backover the filtered hum. Suppose he smokes them out— Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginiamoonshiners. Don't tell me my job, Tremaine! the voice snapped. And don't try outyour famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation. Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket. Tremainehung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers ofScotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coatand left the hotel. He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. Hewalked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was aonce-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, itswindows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in theancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the buttonbeside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minutebefore the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-bonedface looked at him coolly. Miss Carroll, Tremaine said. You won't remember me, but I— There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James, MissCarroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremainethought, startled. I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll, he said. Come in. She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with thefurnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took astraight chair across the room from him. You look very well, James, she said, nodding. I'm pleased to seethat you've amounted to something. Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid. You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man. I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, evenas a boy, that you were a woman of great ability. Why did you come today, James? asked Miss Carroll. I.... Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. I want someinformation. This is an important matter. May I rely on yourdiscretion? Of course. How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby? <doc-sep>Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him? There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest. I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases. I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him. Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear. What does he do for a living? I have no idea. Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story? I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story. You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast? That is his only name. Just ... Bram. You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything— A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently. I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me. Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right.... Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited. Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house. Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone. I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen. He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again. This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it? Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James. May I see it? She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me? Miss Carroll nodded. There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless.... I'd be grateful for any lead. Bram fears the thunder. III As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked: Any luck, Jimmy? Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid. Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around? Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark. As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me. I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out. Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking— We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched. The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...? He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun? In the car. Better get it. Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table. This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week. Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance. I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess. A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said. Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor. That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains. Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen. It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall. What do you make of it. Jimmy? A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks? I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions. <doc-sep>At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boylounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mopof greased hair. Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine, said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swungthe cell door open. He wants to talk to you. I ain't done nothin, Hull said sullenly. There ain't nothin wrongwith burnin out a Commie, is there? Bram's a Commie, is he? Tremaine said softly. How'd you find thatout, Hull? He's a foreigner, ain't he? the youth shot back. Besides, weheard.... What did you hear? They're lookin for the spies. Who's looking for spies? Cops. Who says so? The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes tothe corner of the cell. Cops was talkin about 'em, he said. Spill it, Hull, the policeman said. Mr. Tremaine hasn't got allnight. They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They calledme over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em getthem spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people aroundhers. And you mentioned Bram? The boy darted another look at Tremaine. They said they figured thespies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's outthat way, ain't he? Anything else? The boy looked at his feet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story takes place in the late twentieth century in a town in America named Elsby. It starts out in Tremaine’s hotel room, after he is pressured, he goes to Elsby Municipal Police to find Jess. We follow Tremaine to the Municipal Office of Record and the Elsby Public Library to find out more information regarding the property that Bram owns currently, the mystery man in the town. Then he visits Linda Carroll’s house to learn more about Bram, but she does not seem to know much either. Later we follow Jess and Tremaine to Bram’s house since Jess is concerned that he still have not seen Bram. At Bram’s house, they do not find him, but there is blood and other suspicious objects. They believe that they have to find Hull in the police station. The story ends with Hull, Jess and Tremaine inside the police station at where Hull is being held.

<s> A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy. It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. Yes, sir, I said. It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native. I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers. The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is. I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point. I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars. He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut. Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars. I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar. He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can. If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt. And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place. Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus. At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me. And the man's name, sir? Joe. A tight smile played on his face. Joe what? I asked. Just Joe. Just Joe? Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean. I don't know, sir. A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said. Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything? Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though. What's that? He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on. You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it. <doc-sep>The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh. Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus. I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me. I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called. He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds. Call me Joe, he said. I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this was going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said. Same here, Toots, he answered. The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim. You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom. You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader? I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it. Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first. Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian. Are you buying information or are you just curious? Can you take me there? I asked. Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is. The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars. He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go. He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little? I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell. On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II. There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged. I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal? Call me Joe, he answered. He caught me off balance. What? Joe, he said again. A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you? I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking? That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled.... But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like Joe. Among the natives, I mean. Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible.... What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again. Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack? Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it. I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender. Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going? Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied. I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very.... You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked. Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh. You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue. Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please? Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar. So long, Joe, he said to the bartender. See you, Joe, the bartender called back. <doc-sep>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer. Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room. Sir? the Venusian asked. We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please? Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him. Another Joe , I thought. Another damned Joe. They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly. Steal what? I asked. Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture. So Walsh had taken care of that angle too. He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars. All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning. Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked. What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding. Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation. I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said. Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked. No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars. I can see that, I said bitingly. And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know. I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly. It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying. I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth. Get to the point, Captain! I barked. Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow? I follow, all right, I said bitterly. Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes. He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace. Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all. Just a case of extended idiot , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home. I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters? Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered. I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic. I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose. Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat. What is it, Major? he asked. This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him? Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you? None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if.... Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all. I thought.... I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise. Hell, I was through kidding around. Look.... He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said. I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway. He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim. Polk! he shouted, can you hear me? I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too. He's somewhere in the jungle, you know. I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters. As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow. One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth. It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether. Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe. I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though. I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed. A tall Venusian stepped into the room. Joe? I asked, just to be sure. Who else, boss? he answered. I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one? It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said. How much? Two cartons of cigarettes at least. Who's the guide? I asked. How's the price sound? Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people! His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to.... Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need. The Venusian started to leave. And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal. His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said. When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me. <doc-sep>I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid ofme. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemedlike a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for somethingthat had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd beback again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all setfor me. Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back. The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to considerit seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failingat the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that afew more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career withSpace II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsakenplace like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next incommand. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and Icould understand how much that would appeal to Walsh. I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his goodpoints against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. Aguy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton ofuranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,would deliberately do just about anything. Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe mayhave been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than agag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in. The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far. I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir, he said. Are you familiar with the jungle? I asked him. Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand. Has Joe told you what the payment will be? Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes. I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled. When can we leave? Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list ofsupplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wearlight clothing, boots, and a hat. Will I need a weapon? He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. Why, what for, sir? Never mind, I said. What's your name, by the way? He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He wasdefinitely surprised. Joe, he said. Didn't you know? <doc-sep>When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head. Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village. Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide. Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair. Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again. His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle. I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it. Have you ever been to Earth? I asked. No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun. Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh. Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know. I suppose so, I admitted. Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own. And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for. Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk. How far are we from the Station? I asked. Three or four Earth weeks, he replied. I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here? There are more villages, he said. We'll never find him. Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again. A wild goose chase. A fool's errand. We'd better get started, Joe said simply. I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend. There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining. <doc-sep>Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe. What's the story? I whispered. He shrugged knowingly and continued walking. And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet. What...? I started. It's all right, Joe said, smiling. The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand. Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head. Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off. Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness. I see you found your man, Walsh said. I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game. I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal? Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel, Major . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality. I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle. We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major? If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave. Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow. Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games. You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really. You're welcome, I said. It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me. It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off. Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely. You didn't have to report me, Walsh said. No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy! Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama. I could hear Joe breathing beside me. I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand? Good, I said. And I meant it. This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible. Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun? You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command. The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they.... Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it. What about the natives? I asked. Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while. A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Major Polk is given orders by his Boss, Colonel Walsh, to go to Venus in search of a man named Joe. Mars is in open revolt against the Colonel and the system that he runs, and Walsh tells Polk that there is a man on Venus who will be able to solve the problem of the revolt, as he spent time on Mars, and knows the natives. The Major and the Colonel hate each other, and it's clear from the get-go that the Colonel is setting the Major up for a trap. He tells Polk that the man's name is Joe, and that he has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. The Major travels to Venus to find this man, and complete the mission. When he arrives though, it becomes clear to him soon that every native Venusian is named Joe, and they all love cigarettes. Polk calls the Major from the office on Venus, asking for extra information, but the Colonel gives none. He has screwed him. The Major decides to look for this man regardless, as returning to Earth without having completed the mission could mean a demotion or a loss of job. He hires a guide to take him through the jungle terrain of Venus, obviously named Joe. As they spend weeks traveling through the jungle together they quickly become friends. They stop at various villages together, where they meet the locals, they chat on their walks and the Major tells Joe all about his past. After a few weeks, they arrive at a village, where a starship and the Colonel are waiting for them. He has a gun pointer and Polk, informing him he plans on killing him, because Polk ratted on Walsh when they were in the academy together about dozing off while he was on watch over a tank filled with uranium. Just before he goes to shoot the Major, he starts insulting the locals of Mars, and then natives in general. Joe becomes visibly upset. The story ends, and it's presumed that Joe will save the Major.

<s> A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy. It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. Yes, sir, I said. It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native. I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers. The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is. I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point. I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars. He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut. Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars. I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar. He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can. If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt. And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place. Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus. At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me. And the man's name, sir? Joe. A tight smile played on his face. Joe what? I asked. Just Joe. Just Joe? Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean. I don't know, sir. A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said. Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything? Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though. What's that? He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on. You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it. <doc-sep>The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh. Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus. I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me. I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called. He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds. Call me Joe, he said. I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this was going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said. Same here, Toots, he answered. The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim. You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom. You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader? I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it. Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first. Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian. Are you buying information or are you just curious? Can you take me there? I asked. Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is. The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars. He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go. He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little? I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell. On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II. There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged. I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal? Call me Joe, he answered. He caught me off balance. What? Joe, he said again. A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you? I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking? That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled.... But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like Joe. Among the natives, I mean. Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible.... What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again. Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack? Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it. I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender. Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going? Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied. I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very.... You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked. Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh. You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue. Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please? Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar. So long, Joe, he said to the bartender. See you, Joe, the bartender called back. <doc-sep>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer. Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room. Sir? the Venusian asked. We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please? Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him. Another Joe , I thought. Another damned Joe. They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly. Steal what? I asked. Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture. So Walsh had taken care of that angle too. He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars. All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning. Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked. What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding. Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation. I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said. Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked. No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars. I can see that, I said bitingly. And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know. I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly. It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying. I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth. Get to the point, Captain! I barked. Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow? I follow, all right, I said bitterly. Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes. He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace. Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all. Just a case of extended idiot , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home. I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters? Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered. I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic. I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose. Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat. What is it, Major? he asked. This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him? Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you? None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if.... Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all. I thought.... I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise. Hell, I was through kidding around. Look.... He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said. I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway. He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim. Polk! he shouted, can you hear me? I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too. He's somewhere in the jungle, you know. I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters. As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow. One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth. It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether. Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe. I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though. I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed. A tall Venusian stepped into the room. Joe? I asked, just to be sure. Who else, boss? he answered. I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one? It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said. How much? Two cartons of cigarettes at least. Who's the guide? I asked. How's the price sound? Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people! His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to.... Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need. The Venusian started to leave. And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal. His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said. When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me. <doc-sep>I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid ofme. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemedlike a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for somethingthat had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd beback again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all setfor me. Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back. The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to considerit seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failingat the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that afew more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career withSpace II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsakenplace like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next incommand. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and Icould understand how much that would appeal to Walsh. I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his goodpoints against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. Aguy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton ofuranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,would deliberately do just about anything. Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe mayhave been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than agag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in. The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far. I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir, he said. Are you familiar with the jungle? I asked him. Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand. Has Joe told you what the payment will be? Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes. I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled. When can we leave? Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list ofsupplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wearlight clothing, boots, and a hat. Will I need a weapon? He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. Why, what for, sir? Never mind, I said. What's your name, by the way? He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He wasdefinitely surprised. Joe, he said. Didn't you know? <doc-sep>When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head. Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village. Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide. Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair. Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again. His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle. I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it. Have you ever been to Earth? I asked. No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun. Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh. Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know. I suppose so, I admitted. Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own. And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for. Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk. How far are we from the Station? I asked. Three or four Earth weeks, he replied. I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here? There are more villages, he said. We'll never find him. Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again. A wild goose chase. A fool's errand. We'd better get started, Joe said simply. I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend. There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining. <doc-sep>Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe. What's the story? I whispered. He shrugged knowingly and continued walking. And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet. What...? I started. It's all right, Joe said, smiling. The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand. Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head. Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off. Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness. I see you found your man, Walsh said. I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game. I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal? Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel, Major . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality. I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle. We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major? If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave. Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow. Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games. You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really. You're welcome, I said. It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me. It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off. Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely. You didn't have to report me, Walsh said. No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy! Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama. I could hear Joe breathing beside me. I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand? Good, I said. And I meant it. This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible. Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun? You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command. The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they.... Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it. What about the natives? I asked. Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while. A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The Colonel and the Major seemed as if they were acquaintances before they first fell out. The Colonel had called the Major, by his first name, Fred. Now, he only calls him Major, as a mark of disrespect, since the colonel somehow outranks him. The Colonel also demands that Polk use his proper title, as a way of putting him down. They initially fell out because one night, while the Colonel was supposed to be on boiled watch, guarding the uranium in a tank beneath the barracks, he fell asleep on duty. The entire barracks could've been blown up. The Major had to report him to their superiors. This meant that the colonel's career took a big hit, and he had to fight his way back into the ranks. He felt as if the Major betrayed him, and ratted him out. Now, the Colonel is in charge of Mars, where he has caused a revolt based on his shocking treatment of the natives. His prejudice towards the native people of Venus and Mars is another reason the Major hates him.

<s> A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy. It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. Yes, sir, I said. It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native. I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers. The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is. I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point. I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars. He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut. Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars. I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar. He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can. If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt. And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place. Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus. At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me. And the man's name, sir? Joe. A tight smile played on his face. Joe what? I asked. Just Joe. Just Joe? Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean. I don't know, sir. A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said. Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything? Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though. What's that? He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on. You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it. <doc-sep>The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh. Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus. I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me. I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called. He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds. Call me Joe, he said. I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this was going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said. Same here, Toots, he answered. The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim. You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom. You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader? I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it. Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first. Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian. Are you buying information or are you just curious? Can you take me there? I asked. Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is. The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars. He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go. He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little? I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell. On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II. There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged. I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal? Call me Joe, he answered. He caught me off balance. What? Joe, he said again. A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you? I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking? That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled.... But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like Joe. Among the natives, I mean. Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible.... What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again. Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack? Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it. I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender. Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going? Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied. I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very.... You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked. Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh. You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue. Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please? Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar. So long, Joe, he said to the bartender. See you, Joe, the bartender called back. <doc-sep>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer. Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room. Sir? the Venusian asked. We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please? Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him. Another Joe , I thought. Another damned Joe. They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly. Steal what? I asked. Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture. So Walsh had taken care of that angle too. He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars. All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning. Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked. What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding. Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation. I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said. Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked. No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars. I can see that, I said bitingly. And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know. I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly. It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying. I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth. Get to the point, Captain! I barked. Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow? I follow, all right, I said bitterly. Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes. He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace. Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all. Just a case of extended idiot , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home. I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters? Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered. I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic. I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose. Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat. What is it, Major? he asked. This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him? Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you? None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if.... Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all. I thought.... I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise. Hell, I was through kidding around. Look.... He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said. I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway. He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim. Polk! he shouted, can you hear me? I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too. He's somewhere in the jungle, you know. I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters. As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow. One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth. It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether. Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe. I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though. I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed. A tall Venusian stepped into the room. Joe? I asked, just to be sure. Who else, boss? he answered. I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one? It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said. How much? Two cartons of cigarettes at least. Who's the guide? I asked. How's the price sound? Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people! His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to.... Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need. The Venusian started to leave. And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal. His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said. When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me. <doc-sep>I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid ofme. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemedlike a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for somethingthat had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd beback again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all setfor me. Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back. The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to considerit seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failingat the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that afew more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career withSpace II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsakenplace like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next incommand. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and Icould understand how much that would appeal to Walsh. I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his goodpoints against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. Aguy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton ofuranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,would deliberately do just about anything. Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe mayhave been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than agag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in. The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far. I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir, he said. Are you familiar with the jungle? I asked him. Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand. Has Joe told you what the payment will be? Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes. I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled. When can we leave? Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list ofsupplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wearlight clothing, boots, and a hat. Will I need a weapon? He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. Why, what for, sir? Never mind, I said. What's your name, by the way? He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He wasdefinitely surprised. Joe, he said. Didn't you know? <doc-sep>When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head. Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village. Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide. Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair. Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again. His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle. I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it. Have you ever been to Earth? I asked. No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun. Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh. Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know. I suppose so, I admitted. Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own. And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for. Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk. How far are we from the Station? I asked. Three or four Earth weeks, he replied. I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here? There are more villages, he said. We'll never find him. Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again. A wild goose chase. A fool's errand. We'd better get started, Joe said simply. I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend. There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining. <doc-sep>Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe. What's the story? I whispered. He shrugged knowingly and continued walking. And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet. What...? I started. It's all right, Joe said, smiling. The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand. Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head. Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off. Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness. I see you found your man, Walsh said. I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game. I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal? Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel, Major . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality. I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle. We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major? If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave. Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow. Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games. You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really. You're welcome, I said. It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me. It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off. Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely. You didn't have to report me, Walsh said. No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy! Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama. I could hear Joe breathing beside me. I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand? Good, I said. And I meant it. This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible. Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun? You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command. The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they.... Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it. What about the natives? I asked. Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while. A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The main setting of the story is the planet Venus. The planet is described as being extremely hot, and having the scent of an old shoe and after shave. There are plants everywhere, of all sizes and varieties, some with strange and wonderful flowers. There is a station for Space II, which includes The Officers Club: a small shack which functions as a bar, and The Captain's Shack. The world is covered in thick jungle, which is impossible to orient unless you're a local. The floor of the jungle is filled with sharp undergrowth that would shred your feet. In the jungle are little hidden pathways that lead to small villages, where native Venusians live.

<s> A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy. It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. Yes, sir, I said. It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native. I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers. The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is. I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point. I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars. He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut. Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars. I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar. He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can. If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt. And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place. Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus. At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me. And the man's name, sir? Joe. A tight smile played on his face. Joe what? I asked. Just Joe. Just Joe? Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean. I don't know, sir. A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said. Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything? Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though. What's that? He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on. You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it. <doc-sep>The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh. Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus. I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me. I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called. He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds. Call me Joe, he said. I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this was going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said. Same here, Toots, he answered. The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim. You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom. You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader? I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it. Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first. Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian. Are you buying information or are you just curious? Can you take me there? I asked. Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is. The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars. He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go. He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little? I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell. On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II. There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged. I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal? Call me Joe, he answered. He caught me off balance. What? Joe, he said again. A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you? I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking? That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled.... But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like Joe. Among the natives, I mean. Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible.... What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again. Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack? Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it. I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender. Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going? Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied. I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very.... You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked. Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh. You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue. Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please? Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar. So long, Joe, he said to the bartender. See you, Joe, the bartender called back. <doc-sep>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer. Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room. Sir? the Venusian asked. We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please? Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him. Another Joe , I thought. Another damned Joe. They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly. Steal what? I asked. Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture. So Walsh had taken care of that angle too. He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars. All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning. Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked. What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding. Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation. I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said. Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked. No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars. I can see that, I said bitingly. And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know. I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly. It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying. I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth. Get to the point, Captain! I barked. Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow? I follow, all right, I said bitterly. Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes. He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace. Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all. Just a case of extended idiot , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home. I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters? Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered. I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic. I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose. Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat. What is it, Major? he asked. This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him? Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you? None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if.... Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all. I thought.... I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise. Hell, I was through kidding around. Look.... He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said. I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway. He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim. Polk! he shouted, can you hear me? I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too. He's somewhere in the jungle, you know. I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters. As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow. One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth. It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether. Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe. I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though. I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed. A tall Venusian stepped into the room. Joe? I asked, just to be sure. Who else, boss? he answered. I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one? It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said. How much? Two cartons of cigarettes at least. Who's the guide? I asked. How's the price sound? Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people! His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to.... Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need. The Venusian started to leave. And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal. His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said. When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me. <doc-sep>I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid ofme. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemedlike a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for somethingthat had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd beback again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all setfor me. Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back. The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to considerit seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failingat the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that afew more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career withSpace II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsakenplace like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next incommand. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and Icould understand how much that would appeal to Walsh. I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his goodpoints against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. Aguy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton ofuranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,would deliberately do just about anything. Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe mayhave been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than agag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in. The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far. I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir, he said. Are you familiar with the jungle? I asked him. Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand. Has Joe told you what the payment will be? Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes. I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled. When can we leave? Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list ofsupplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wearlight clothing, boots, and a hat. Will I need a weapon? He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. Why, what for, sir? Never mind, I said. What's your name, by the way? He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He wasdefinitely surprised. Joe, he said. Didn't you know? <doc-sep>When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head. Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village. Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide. Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair. Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again. His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle. I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it. Have you ever been to Earth? I asked. No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun. Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh. Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know. I suppose so, I admitted. Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own. And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for. Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk. How far are we from the Station? I asked. Three or four Earth weeks, he replied. I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here? There are more villages, he said. We'll never find him. Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again. A wild goose chase. A fool's errand. We'd better get started, Joe said simply. I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend. There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining. <doc-sep>Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe. What's the story? I whispered. He shrugged knowingly and continued walking. And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet. What...? I started. It's all right, Joe said, smiling. The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand. Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head. Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off. Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness. I see you found your man, Walsh said. I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game. I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal? Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel, Major . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality. I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle. We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major? If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave. Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow. Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games. You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really. You're welcome, I said. It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me. It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off. Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely. You didn't have to report me, Walsh said. No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy! Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama. I could hear Joe breathing beside me. I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand? Good, I said. And I meant it. This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible. Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun? You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command. The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they.... Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it. What about the natives? I asked. Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while. A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The relationship between the two characters starts off as one of business. Polk hires Joe to show him through the jungle. Joe is described as the best that there is, as he has lived there all his life. The two set off immediately for the jungle. As they journey through the forest, they begin to talk. Polk finds that he really enjoys the company of the Venusian. He likes that Joe always seems to be happy, and knows just what to say to cheer Polk up. He admires that he's so friendly to the locals, and immediately chats and laughs with them. Polk soon begins speaking freely to Joe, telling him about his past, as Joe would listen with the sympathetic ear. They found that they hsa a lot in common. This is why it was shocking to discover that Joe was in fact working for the Colonel the whole time, leading Polk right to him, and right to his death.

<s> A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy. It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. Yes, sir, I said. It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native. I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers. The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is. I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point. I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars. He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut. Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars. I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar. He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can. If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt. And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place. Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus. At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me. And the man's name, sir? Joe. A tight smile played on his face. Joe what? I asked. Just Joe. Just Joe? Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean. I don't know, sir. A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said. Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything? Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though. What's that? He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on. You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it. <doc-sep>The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh. Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus. I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me. I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called. He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds. Call me Joe, he said. I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this was going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said. Same here, Toots, he answered. The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim. You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom. You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader? I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it. Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first. Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian. Are you buying information or are you just curious? Can you take me there? I asked. Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is. The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars. He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go. He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little? I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell. On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II. There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged. I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal? Call me Joe, he answered. He caught me off balance. What? Joe, he said again. A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you? I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking? That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled.... But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like Joe. Among the natives, I mean. Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible.... What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again. Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack? Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it. I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender. Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going? Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied. I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very.... You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked. Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh. You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue. Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please? Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar. So long, Joe, he said to the bartender. See you, Joe, the bartender called back. <doc-sep>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer. Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room. Sir? the Venusian asked. We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please? Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him. Another Joe , I thought. Another damned Joe. They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly. Steal what? I asked. Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture. So Walsh had taken care of that angle too. He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars. All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning. Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked. What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding. Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation. I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said. Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked. No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars. I can see that, I said bitingly. And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know. I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly. It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying. I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth. Get to the point, Captain! I barked. Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow? I follow, all right, I said bitterly. Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes. He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace. Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all. Just a case of extended idiot , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home. I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters? Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered. I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic. I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose. Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat. What is it, Major? he asked. This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him? Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you? None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if.... Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all. I thought.... I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise. Hell, I was through kidding around. Look.... He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said. I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway. He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim. Polk! he shouted, can you hear me? I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too. He's somewhere in the jungle, you know. I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters. As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow. One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth. It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether. Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe. I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though. I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed. A tall Venusian stepped into the room. Joe? I asked, just to be sure. Who else, boss? he answered. I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one? It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said. How much? Two cartons of cigarettes at least. Who's the guide? I asked. How's the price sound? Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people! His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to.... Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need. The Venusian started to leave. And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal. His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said. When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me. <doc-sep>I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid ofme. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemedlike a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for somethingthat had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd beback again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all setfor me. Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back. The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to considerit seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failingat the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that afew more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career withSpace II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsakenplace like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next incommand. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and Icould understand how much that would appeal to Walsh. I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his goodpoints against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. Aguy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton ofuranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,would deliberately do just about anything. Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe mayhave been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than agag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in. The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far. I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir, he said. Are you familiar with the jungle? I asked him. Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand. Has Joe told you what the payment will be? Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes. I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled. When can we leave? Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list ofsupplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wearlight clothing, boots, and a hat. Will I need a weapon? He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. Why, what for, sir? Never mind, I said. What's your name, by the way? He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He wasdefinitely surprised. Joe, he said. Didn't you know? <doc-sep>When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head. Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village. Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide. Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair. Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again. His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle. I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it. Have you ever been to Earth? I asked. No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun. Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh. Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know. I suppose so, I admitted. Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own. And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for. Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk. How far are we from the Station? I asked. Three or four Earth weeks, he replied. I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here? There are more villages, he said. We'll never find him. Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again. A wild goose chase. A fool's errand. We'd better get started, Joe said simply. I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend. There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining. <doc-sep>Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe. What's the story? I whispered. He shrugged knowingly and continued walking. And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet. What...? I started. It's all right, Joe said, smiling. The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand. Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head. Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off. Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness. I see you found your man, Walsh said. I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game. I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal? Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel, Major . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality. I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle. We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major? If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave. Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow. Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games. You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really. You're welcome, I said. It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me. It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off. Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely. You didn't have to report me, Walsh said. No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy! Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama. I could hear Joe breathing beside me. I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand? Good, I said. And I meant it. This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible. Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun? You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command. The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they.... Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it. What about the natives? I asked. Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while. A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

When the Major first arrives, he meets a man named Joe. He is a native. The Major thinks that he may have found his man already, but when he asks him if he's a trader, which would match the description that the colonel gave him, the native tells him that he's never traded anything in his life. He then keeps meeting natives, all of whom are named Joe. He asks the Captain why all the Venusians are named Joe. The captain explains that it's because when the men of the Terran space program arrived they used their slang with the locals, all calling them Joe. The men would tell them that if they did a job for them, they would get a pack of cigarettes. Because the Venusians had no names of their own before this, eventually the name "Joe" stuck, and everyone on the planet answered to it. They also kept an affinity for cigarettes.

<s> COSMIC YO-YO By ROSS ROCKLYNNE Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply cheap. Trouble also handled without charge. Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.) [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for. Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here! Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations. She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it! He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature. Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars! Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid. Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides. In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read: Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton. <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks. The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold— Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point— Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid? Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below. Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something? Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye. <doc-sep>Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely. Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye! She turned and disappeared. Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait! You! He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down. Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions— The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand. I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then. A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late! He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy? Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here. The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that. Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good! He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl. What's that? he whispered. What's wha— Oh! Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers. Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up. The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do? <doc-sep>Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them. The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly. A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy? It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps. The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter. Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid. So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions. We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission! It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph. At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain. What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out. <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep>Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger. Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up? No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac— Who's Mac? Queazy demanded. My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely impossible itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody did find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies. Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy. How long were we floating around out there? Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot. Ouch! Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back! Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said. Oh! And when you get it back, you'll land it. That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay? She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess. Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that. Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...? Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley. <doc-sep>Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable. Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch. Even I know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right? Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that! He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something— She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid— You have to marry him? Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain. And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern. There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how? How? Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection. She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me. A yo-yo? Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent. A yo-yo ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo! He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted. Queazy, I've gotit! <doc-sep>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced. The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers. It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated! They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth! We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth. Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob! Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo. There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving! It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball. It's going to hit! The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left. <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain. All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out. And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half. Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky! The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication. Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath. What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us! Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea. I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor. If you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid. I'll see you in Hades first! Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come! He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie. For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell. The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets. The battle was won! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Bob Parker, the President of Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., sells asteroids to wealthy people on earth. Clients ask for asteroids with size parameters and specifications, and Bob finds them in space and hauls them to earth. His company is almost bankrupt because a rival company, Saylor & Saylor, stole his idea and now offers the same services. Bob receives mail from Mr. Andrew S. Burnside with a request for an asteroid that he would like to use in an upcoming wedding.Bob and his partner Queazy set out to find the perfect asteroid for Mr. Burnside, although they know it’s a longshot. Fairly quickly, they find one that looks perfect. The men land on the asteroid, and Bob deploys his atomic-whirl spectroscope to test it. Suddenly, a beautiful woman interrupts him and demands that they leave the asteroid. She pulls out her spasticizer gun before telling them that they can have it in a month after she’s gone. Bob explains that they are desperate, but the girl retorts that her fate is worse than death if she leaves.Suddenly, the Saylor brothers’ ship appears, and Bob tells the girl that they have to fight this enemy together. Wally and Billy Saylor, along with three other men, jump out of the ship. Bob tells them that Mr. Burnside has ordered this asteroid, and the Saylor brothers say that they received the same order. Bob quickly grabs the girl’s spasticizer while Queazy throws his body at Billy. However, Wally manages to shoot the gun out of Bob’s hand and attack him. Bob is knocked unconscious in the scuffle. When Bob wakes up, he is completely alone, floating in space. He panics because he has very little oxygen left. Finally, he hears Queazy’s voice explaining that the girl used her ship’s technology to find them both. The mystery girl introduces herself as Starre Lowenthal, the granddaughter of Mr. Burnside. She concedes that this entire mission was fake. She told her grandfather that she would only marry her fiance Mac if he could get this particular asteroid, and then she made plans to conquer and protect the asteroid so it could not be supplied for the wedding. Bob is confident that they can reach the Saylor brothers before they bring the asteroid back to earth, but his plan does nothing to protect Starre from marrying a man she doesn’t love. She agrees to help Bob and Queazy. Within five days, Bob realizes he is in love with Starre. Starre compares her small ship to a yo-yo, and Bob gets an idea - they will use Starre’s ship like a yo-yo to retrieve the asteroid from the Saylor brothers. Once the team catches up to the Saylor brothers, Bob flings Starre’s ship at the asteroid several times, and Wally calls them to tell them that they might die as a result of the damage their ship has sustained. Bob makes it clear that they have no intention of stopping, and the Saylor brothers release the asteroid.

<s> COSMIC YO-YO By ROSS ROCKLYNNE Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply cheap. Trouble also handled without charge. Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.) [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for. Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here! Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations. She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it! He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature. Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars! Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid. Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides. In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read: Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton. <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks. The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold— Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point— Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid? Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below. Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something? Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye. <doc-sep>Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely. Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye! She turned and disappeared. Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait! You! He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down. Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions— The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand. I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then. A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late! He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy? Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here. The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that. Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good! He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl. What's that? he whispered. What's wha— Oh! Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers. Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up. The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do? <doc-sep>Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them. The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly. A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy? It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps. The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter. Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid. So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions. We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission! It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph. At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain. What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out. <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep>Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger. Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up? No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac— Who's Mac? Queazy demanded. My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely impossible itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody did find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies. Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy. How long were we floating around out there? Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot. Ouch! Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back! Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said. Oh! And when you get it back, you'll land it. That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay? She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess. Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that. Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...? Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley. <doc-sep>Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable. Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch. Even I know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right? Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that! He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something— She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid— You have to marry him? Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain. And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern. There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how? How? Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection. She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me. A yo-yo? Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent. A yo-yo ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo! He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted. Queazy, I've gotit! <doc-sep>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced. The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers. It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated! They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth! We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth. Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob! Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo. There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving! It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball. It's going to hit! The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left. <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain. All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out. And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half. Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky! The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication. Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath. What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us! Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea. I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor. If you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid. I'll see you in Hades first! Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come! He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie. For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell. The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets. The battle was won! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The Saylor brothers, Wally and Billy, are Bob Parker’s enemies. Bob was the first person with the unique idea to sell asteroids to wealthy people on earth, and his business would have been very successful if the Saylor brothers did not poach his idea and begin stealing his clients. Bob worries about the Saylor brothers from the beginning of the story, and he acknowledges that they do not always play by the rules. If Wally and Billy can make a buck by inconveniencing or cheating someone else, they will do it. The brothers are not only intimidating in terms of their business prowess; they are also described as giant when compared to Bob. Queasy and Bob have a legitimate order from Mr. Burnside for the asteroid, and they have no idea that the Saylor brothers have received the same order. Yet, they still worry that somehow, someway, their enemies will hear about the potential to make half a million dollars and try to steal their opportunity out from under them. Within moments of setting eyes on their spaceship, Bob tells Starre that they have to fight the Saylor brothers together. He doesn’t know her at all, and she actually just pulled a gun on him, but he so deeply mistrusts Wally and Billy that it’s worth it to take a chance on Starre.Of course, Bob turns out to be right. The second the Saylor brothers get a chance to potentially kill Bob, Queazy, and Starre, they take it. Bob floats in space, unconscious, for several weeks before Starre eventually finds Queazy and Bob, and they give him oxygen and food. Bob is truly close to death before his friends save him in the knick of time, and the Saylor brothers would be perfectly fine with that outcome. Wally and Billy give Bob all the motivation in the world to try and steal the asteroid back, and Bob is determined to catch up with his rivals and make it work somehow. When he comes up with his yo-yo idea using Starre’s ship, he shows zero empathy for the Saylor brothers. During his attempts to retrieve the rock, he seriously damages the brothers’ ship, and they have the gall to call him and attempt to make him feel guilty about their desperate state. Bob, however, cannot be swayed. He knows that he found the asteroid first and that the brothers purposefully cast him out into space to die. His determination saves the day when the Saylor brothers are forced to dispatch Mr. Burnside’s asteroid.

<s> COSMIC YO-YO By ROSS ROCKLYNNE Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply cheap. Trouble also handled without charge. Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.) [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for. Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here! Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations. She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it! He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature. Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars! Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid. Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides. In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read: Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton. <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks. The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold— Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point— Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid? Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below. Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something? Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye. <doc-sep>Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely. Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye! She turned and disappeared. Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait! You! He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down. Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions— The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand. I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then. A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late! He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy? Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here. The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that. Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good! He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl. What's that? he whispered. What's wha— Oh! Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers. Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up. The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do? <doc-sep>Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them. The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly. A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy? It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps. The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter. Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid. So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions. We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission! It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph. At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain. What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out. <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep>Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger. Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up? No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac— Who's Mac? Queazy demanded. My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely impossible itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody did find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies. Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy. How long were we floating around out there? Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot. Ouch! Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back! Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said. Oh! And when you get it back, you'll land it. That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay? She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess. Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that. Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...? Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley. <doc-sep>Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable. Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch. Even I know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right? Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that! He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something— She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid— You have to marry him? Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain. And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern. There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how? How? Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection. She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me. A yo-yo? Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent. A yo-yo ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo! He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted. Queazy, I've gotit! <doc-sep>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced. The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers. It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated! They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth! We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth. Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob! Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo. There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving! It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball. It's going to hit! The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left. <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain. All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out. And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half. Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky! The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication. Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath. What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us! Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea. I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor. If you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid. I'll see you in Hades first! Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come! He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie. For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell. The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets. The battle was won! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Bob Parker is taken with Starre Lowenthal from the moment she appears in front of him. Starre wears a spacesuit when Bob and Queazy land on her asteroid and begin conducting tests to see if it’s a good fit for Mr. Burnside, and although Bob can’t get a look at her entire appearance, he is immediately attracted to her blue eyes, beautiful brown hair, and full lips. The fact that Starre is curt and demanding does not change his innate attraction to her. Bob does not get offended by Starre’s refusal to hold a real conversation with him; he just keeps trying. Even Starre’s decision to pull out her spasticizer and aim it at the men doesn’t truly deter Bob. He continues to try and convince her that his economic well-being depends on the asteroid. The only time he becomes annoyed with the beautiful girl is when he sets eyes on her perfect ship and assumes that she is already plenty wealthy. Still, he chooses not to attack nor namecall, he simply uses reason to convince her that the asteroid is more useful to him.Moments later, when the Saylor brothers show up at Starre’s asteroid, Starre already has a good feeling about Bob and Queazy. That’s why, when Wally and Billy attack the trio, it is Starre that uses her dumbbell-shaped ship to locate the men and save their lives. Bob and Queazy end up owing everything to the beautiful brunette. Without her, their corpses would be floating through space. The first time that Bob sees Starre after she saves his life, he notices the paper flower in her hair and the pretty blue outfit she’s wearing. He can’t take his eyes off of her, and his feelings towards her do not change when she admits that she essentially set them up. She is Mr. Burnside’s granddaughter, and she never intended to let anyone find the perfect asteroid and haul it back to earth. She set up a deal with her grandfather that she knew he couldn’t follow through with. Starre does not want to marry Mac, the man that she’s engaged to, and that’s why she was living on the perfect asteroid that Mr. Burnside ordered from Bob and the Saylor brothers. Although Bob has every right to be angry with Starre, he completely falls in love with her on their mission to recollect the asteroid that the Saylor brothers stole from them. He tries to convince her not to marry Mac, but she acknowledges that she must hold up her end of the bargain with her grandfather. Unfortunately, Bob can’t have it both ways. If he wants to save his company from going under, he needs the asteroid, and if he fulfills Mr. Burnside’s order, Starre must marry Mac.

<s> COSMIC YO-YO By ROSS ROCKLYNNE Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply cheap. Trouble also handled without charge. Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.) [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for. Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here! Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations. She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it! He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature. Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars! Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid. Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides. In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read: Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton. <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks. The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold— Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point— Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid? Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below. Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something? Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye. <doc-sep>Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely. Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye! She turned and disappeared. Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait! You! He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down. Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions— The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand. I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then. A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late! He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy? Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here. The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that. Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good! He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl. What's that? he whispered. What's wha— Oh! Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers. Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up. The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do? <doc-sep>Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them. The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly. A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy? It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps. The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter. Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid. So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions. We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission! It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph. At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain. What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out. <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep>Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger. Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up? No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac— Who's Mac? Queazy demanded. My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely impossible itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody did find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies. Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy. How long were we floating around out there? Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot. Ouch! Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back! Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said. Oh! And when you get it back, you'll land it. That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay? She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess. Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that. Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...? Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley. <doc-sep>Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable. Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch. Even I know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right? Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that! He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something— She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid— You have to marry him? Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain. And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern. There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how? How? Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection. She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me. A yo-yo? Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent. A yo-yo ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo! He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted. Queazy, I've gotit! <doc-sep>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced. The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers. It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated! They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth! We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth. Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob! Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo. There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving! It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball. It's going to hit! The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left. <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain. All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out. And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half. Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky! The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication. Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath. What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us! Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea. I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor. If you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid. I'll see you in Hades first! Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come! He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie. For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell. The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets. The battle was won! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Bob and Queazy are willing to risk their lives to try and get the asteroid back from Wally and Billy Saylor because their economic survival depends on it. Bob is the president of Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., and his rivals, the Saylor brothers, have put his business in serious jeopardy. Although his novel idea to sell asteroids to wealthy earthmen originally made him some cash, it wasn’t long before other companies got wind of his genius idea and started offering the same service. If the Saylor brothers keep beating Bob and Queazy to the punch, the men will no longer be in business.When Starre demands that Bob and Queazy leave her asteroid since she is the common law owner, both men try to explain to her why they desperately need the rock. The potential to make $550,000 means everything to Bob because his failure to secure that capital means that he and Queazy will lose their business and slave away for the rest of their lives as glass factory workers.

<s> COSMIC YO-YO By ROSS ROCKLYNNE Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply cheap. Trouble also handled without charge. Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.) [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for. Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here! Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations. She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it! He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature. Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars! Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid. Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides. In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read: Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton. <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks. The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold— Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point— Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid? Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below. Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something? Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye. <doc-sep>Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely. Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye! She turned and disappeared. Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait! You! He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down. Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions— The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand. I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then. A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late! He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy? Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here. The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that. Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good! He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl. What's that? he whispered. What's wha— Oh! Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers. Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up. The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do? <doc-sep>Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them. The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly. A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy? It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps. The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter. Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid. So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions. We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission! It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph. At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain. What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out. <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep>Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger. Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up? No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac— Who's Mac? Queazy demanded. My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely impossible itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody did find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies. Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy. How long were we floating around out there? Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot. Ouch! Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back! Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said. Oh! And when you get it back, you'll land it. That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay? She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess. Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that. Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...? Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley. <doc-sep>Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable. Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch. Even I know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right? Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that! He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something— She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid— You have to marry him? Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain. And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern. There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how? How? Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection. She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me. A yo-yo? Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent. A yo-yo ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo! He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted. Queazy, I've gotit! <doc-sep>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced. The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers. It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated! They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth! We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth. Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob! Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo. There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving! It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball. It's going to hit! The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left. <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain. All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out. And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half. Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky! The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication. Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath. What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us! Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea. I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor. If you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid. I'll see you in Hades first! Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come! He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie. For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell. The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets. The battle was won! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Bob Parker almost dies after the Saylor brothers find Starre’s asteroid and decide that although Bob and Queazy landed on it first, they want to be the ones to fulfill Mr. Burnside’s order. Bob tries to defend his turf with Starre’s spasticizer, but Wally is able to shoot the gun out of his hands. Bob is unable to defend himself from the ginormous Saylor brothers after he loses Starre’s weapon, and he is beaten in the stomach and thrown into space to float with little oxygen and zero sustenance. He remains isolated, drifting through space, for three weeks before his friend Queazy and Starre are able to locate him. He describes the sensation as “being buried alive.” At the time that he is found, he has only a few short days of oxygen left until he will choke to death.

<s> Spacemen Die at Home By EDWARD W. LUDWIG Illustrated by THORNE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] One man's retreat is another's prison ... and it takes a heap of flying to make a hulk a home! Forty days of heaven and forty nights of hell. That's the way it'sbeen, Laura. But how can I make you understand? How can I tell youwhat it's like to be young and a man and to dream of reaching thestars? And yet, at the same time, to be filled with a terrible, gnawingfear—a fear locked in my mind during the day and bursting out like anevil jack-in-the-box at night. I must tell you, Laura. Perhaps if I start at the beginning, the very beginning.... It was the Big Day. All the examinations, the physicals and psychos,were over. The Academy, with its great halls and classrooms andlaboratories, lay hollow and silent, an exhausted thing at sleep afterspawning its first-born. For it was June in this year of 1995, and we were the graduating classof the U. S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight. The first graduating class, Laura. That's why it was so important,because we were the first . We sat on a little platform, twenty-five of us. Below us was a beachof faces, most of them strange, shining like pebbles in the warm NewMexican sunlight. They were the faces of mothers and fathers andgrandparents and kid brothers and sisters—the people who a short timeago had been only scrawled names on letters from home or words spokenwistfully at Christmas. They were the memory-people who, to me, hadnever really existed. But today they had become real, and they were here and looking at uswith pride in their eyes. A voice was speaking, deep, sure, resonant. ... these boys have workedhard for six years, and now they're going to do a lot of big things.They're going to bring us the metals and minerals that we desperatelyneed. They're going to find new land for our colonists, good rich landthat will bear food and be a home for our children. And perhaps mostimportant of all, they'll make other men think of the stars and look upat them and feel humility—for mankind needs humility. The speaker was Robert Chandler, who'd brought the first rocket down onMars just five years ago, who'd established the first colony there, andwho had just returned from his second hop to Venus. Instead of listening to his words, I was staring at his broad shouldersand his dark, crew-cut hair and his white uniform which was silk-smoothand skin-tight. I was worshiping him and hating him at the same time,for I was thinking: He's already reached Mars and Venus. Let him leave Jupiter and theothers alone! Let us be the first to land somewhere! Let us be thefirst! <doc-sep>Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. I don'tsee 'em, Ben, he whispered. Where do you suppose they are? I blinked. Who? My folks. That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died ina strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of thoseYou are cordially invited cards. Just one, which I'd sent to CharlieTaggart. Stardust Charlie, we called him, although I never knew why. He was aveteran of Everson's first trip to the Moon nearly twenty-five yearsago, and he was still at it. He was Chief Jetman now on the LunarLady , a commercial ore ship on a shuttle between Luna City and WhiteSands. I remembered how, as a kid, I'd pestered him in the Long IslandSpaceport, tagging after him like a puppy, and how he'd grown to likeme until he became father, mother, and buddy all in one to me. And Iremembered, too, how his recommendation had finally made me a cadet. My gaze wandered over the faces, but I couldn't find Charlie's. Itwasn't surprising. The Lunar Lady was in White Sands now, butliberties, as Charlie said, were as scarce as water on Mars. It doesn't matter , I told myself. Then Mickey stiffened. I see 'em, Ben! There in the fifth row! Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or agarden party, smiling, accepting whatever the world offered. But now atenseness and an excitement had gripped even him. I was grateful thathe was beside me; we'd been a good team during those final months atthe Academy and I knew we'd be a good team in space. The Universe wasmighty big, but with two of us to face it together, it would be onlyhalf as big. And then it seemed that all the proud faces were looking at us as if wewere gods. A shiver went through my body. Though it was daytime, I sawthe stars in my mind's vision, the great shining balls of silver, eachlike a voice crying out and pleading to be explored, to be touched bythe sons of Earth. They expect a lot from us. They expect us to make a new kind ofcivilization and a better place out of Earth. They expect all this anda hell of a lot more. They think there's nothing we can't do. I felt very small and very humble. I was scared. Damned scared. <doc-sep>At last it was over, and the proud faces descended upon us in a huge,babbling wave. Then I saw him. Good old Stardust Charlie. His wizened little body was shuffling down an aisle, his eyes shininglike a child's. He'd been sandwiched, evidently, in one of the rearrows. But he wasn't the Charlie I'd seen a year ago. He'd become gaunt andold, and he walked with an unnatural stiffness. He looked so old thatit was hard to believe he'd once been young. He scratched his mop of steel-gray hair and grinned. You made it, boy, he chortled, and by Jupiter, we'll celebratetonight. Yes, siree, I got twenty-four hours, and we'll celebrate asgood spacemen should! Then Mickey strode up to us. He was his normal, boyish self again,walking lightly, his blond, curly-haired skull swaying as if in rhythmwith some silent melody. And you, Laura, were with him. Meet the Brat, he said. My sister Laura. I stared almost rudely. You were like a doll lost in the immensityof your fluffy pink dress. Your hair was long and transformed into agolden froth where sunlight touched it. But your eyes were the eyesof a woman, glowing like dark stars and reflecting a softness, agentleness that I'd never seen in eyes before. I'm happy to meet you, Ben, you said. I've heard of no one else forthe past year. A tide of heat crept up from my collar. I stuttered through anintroduction of Charlie. You and Mickey looked strangely at Charlie, and I realized that oldStardust was not a cadet's notion of the ideal spaceman. Charliescorned the skin-tight uniforms of the government service and wore ashiny black suit that was a relic of Everson's early-day Moon Patrol.His tie was clumsily knotted, and a button on his coat was missing. And the left side of his face was streaked with dark scar tissue, theresult of an atomic blowup on one of the old Moon ships. I was soaccustomed to the scars, I was seldom aware of them; but others, Iknew, would find them ugly. You were kind. You shook hands and said, softly: It's a privilege tomeet you, Charlie. Just think—one of Everson's men, one of the firstto reach the Moon! Charlie gulped helplessly, and Mickey said: Still going to spend theweekend with us, aren't you, Ben? I shook my head. Charlie has only twenty-four hours liberty. We'replanning to see the town tonight. Why don't you both come with us? you asked. Our folks have theirown plane, so it would be no problem. And we've got a big guest room.Charlie, wouldn't you like a home-cooked meal before going back to theMoon? Charlie's answer was obscured by a sudden burst of coughing. I knewthat he'd infinitely prefer to spend his liberty sampling Martianfizzes and Plutonian zombies. But this night seemed too sacred for Charlie's kind of celebration. We'd really like to come, I said. <doc-sep>On our way to the 'copter parking field, Dean Dawson passed us. He wasa tall, willowy man, spectacled, looking the way an academy professorshould look. Ben, he called, don't forget that offer. Remember you've got twomonths to decide. No, thanks, I answered. Better not count on me. A moment later Mickey said, frowning, What was he talking about, Ben?Did he make you an offer? I laughed. He offered me a job here at the Academy teachingastrogation. What a life that would be! Imagine standing in aclassroom for forty years when I've got the chance to— I hesitated, and you supplied the right words: When you've got thechance to be the first to reach a new planet. That's what most of youwant, isn't it? That's what Mickey used to want. I looked at you as if you were Everson himself, because you seemed tounderstand the hunger that could lie in a man's heart. Then your last words came back and jabbed me: That's what Mickey usedto want. Used to want? I asked. What do you mean? You bit your lip, not answering. What did she mean, Mickey? Mickey looked down at his feet. I didn't want to tell you yet, Ben.We've been together a long time, planning to be on a rocket. But— Yes? Well, what does it add up to? You become a spaceman and wear a prettyuniform. You wade through the sands of Mars and the dust of Venus. Ifyou're lucky, you're good for five, maybe ten years. Then one thing oranother gets you. They don't insure rocketmen, you know. My stomach was full of churning, biting ice. What are you trying tosay, Mickey? I've thought about it a long time. They want me for Cargo Supervisorof White Sands Port. He raised his hand to stop me. I know. It's notso exciting. I'll just live a lot longer. I'm sorry, Ben. I couldn't answer. It was as if someone had whacked the back of myknees with the blast of a jet. It doesn't change anything, Ben—right now, I mean. We can still havea good weekend. Charlie was muttering under his breath, smoldering like a bomb about toreach critical mass. I shook my head dazedly at him as we got to the'copter. Sure, I said to Mickey, we can still have a good weekend. <doc-sep>I liked your folks, Laura. There was no star-hunger in them, of course.They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things,deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. They were content with a home that wascool on this warm summer night, with a 'copter and a tri-dimensionalvideo, and a handsome automatic home that needed no servants orhousework. Stardust Charlie was as comfortable as a Martian sand-monkey in ashower, but he tried courageously to be himself. At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, Only hitMars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic.Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough,the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acidin your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that.Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot. That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all. Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night,to watch for crimson-tailed continental rockets that occasionallystreaked up from White Sands. We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said:Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he'ssort of funny. He's an old-time spaceman. You didn't need much education in thosedays, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be aspaceman then. But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family? I smiled and shook my head. If he had, he never mentioned it. Charliedoesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far asI know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson. You stared at me strangely, almost in a sacred kind of way. I knewsuddenly that you liked me, and my heart began to beat faster. There was silence. You were lovely, your soft hair like strands of gold, and there wereflecks of silver in your dark eyes. Somehow I was afraid. I had thefeeling that I shouldn't have come here. You kept looking at me until I had to ask: What are you thinking,Laura? You laughed, but it was a sad, fearful laugh. No, I shouldn't bethinking it. You'd hate me if I told you, and I wouldn't want that. I could never hate you. It—it's about the stars, you said very softly. I understand why youwant to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we werekids. Of course I was a girl, so it was just a game to me. But once Idreamed of going to England. Oh, it was going to be so wonderful. Ilived for months, just thinking about it. One summer we went. I had fun. I saw the old buildings and castles,and the spaceports and the Channel Tube. But after it was over, Irealized England wasn't so different from America. Places seem excitingbefore you get to them, and afterward they're not really. I frowned. And you mean it might be the same with the stars? You thinkmaybe I haven't grown up yet? Anxiety darkened your features. No, it'd be good to be a spaceman,to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is itworth the things you'd have to give up? I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, Give up what ? Then I looked at you and the promise in your eyes, and I knew. All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path. Government boarding school, the Academy, my eyes always upward and onthe stars. Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path thatI'd never noticed before. You can go into space , I thought, and try to do as much living inten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who diedin a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lieburied in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, likeCharlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternallyalone, never finding a home. Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earthin cool, comfortable houses. To be one of the solid, rooted people witha wife and kids. To be one of the people who live long enough to growold, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, whofill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonousdust. I'm sorry, you said. I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben. It's all right, I said, clenching my fists. You made sense—a lot ofsense. <doc-sep>The next morning Charlie said good-bye in our room. He rubbed hisscarred face nervously as he cleared his throat with a series of thin,tight coughs. Then he pointed to a brown, faded tin box lying on the bed. I'mleavin' that for you. It's full of old stuff, souvenirs mostly. Thoughtmaybe you'd like to have 'em. I scowled, not understanding. Why, Charlie? What for? He shrugged as if afraid he might be accused of sentimentality. Oh,it's just that I've been dodgin' meteors now for twenty-five years.That's a long time, boy. Ain't one spaceman in a thousand that lucky.Some of these days, I won't be so lucky. I tried to laugh. You're good for another twenty-five years, Charlie. He shook his head stiffly, staring at nothing. Maybe. Anyway, I'mgonna get off the Shuttle this time, make one more trip to Mars. Tellyou what. There's a little stone cafe on Mars, the Space Rat , justoff Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. When you get to Mars, take alook inside. I'll probably be there. He coughed again, a deep, rasping cough that filled his eyes with tears. Not used to this Earth air, he muttered. What I need's some Martianclimate. Suddenly that cough frightened me. It didn't seem normal. I wondered,too, about his stiff movements and glassy stare. It was as if he weredrugged. I shook the thought away. If Charlie was sick, he wouldn't talk aboutgoing to Mars. The medics wouldn't let him go even as far as Luna. We watched him leave, you and Mickey and I. When will you be back? you asked. Charlie's hard face contorted itself into a gargoylish grin. Maybe acouple of months, maybe a couple of years. You know spacemen. Then he waved and strode away, a strange, gray, withered gnome of a man. I wanted him to say something, to tell me the secret that would killthe doubt worming through my brain. But he rounded a corner, still grinning and waving, and then he wasgone. <doc-sep>That afternoon Mickey showed me his room. It was more like a boy'sroom than a spaceman's. In it were all the little things that kidstreasure—pennants, models of Everson's two ships, a tennis trophy,books, a home-made video. I began to realize how important a room like this could be to a boy.I could imagine, too, the happiness that parents felt as they watchedtheir children grow to adulthood. I'd missed something. My folks were shadow-people, my impressions ofthem drawn half from ancient photos, half from imagination. For me, ithad been a cold, automatic kind of life, the life of dormitories androutines and rules. I'd been so blinded by the brilliancy of my dreams,I hadn't realized I was different. My folks were killed in a rocket crash. If it weren't for rockets, I'dhave lived the kind of life a kid should live. Mickey noticed my frown. What's the matter, Ben? Still sore? I feel like a heel, but I'm justnot like you and Charlie, I guess. I— No, I understand, Mickey. I'm not sore, really. Listen, then. You haven't accepted any offer yet, have you? No. I got a couple of possibilities. Could get a berth on the Odyssey , the new ship being finished at Los Angeles. They want me,too, for the Moon Patrol, but that's old stuff, not much better thanteaching. I want to be in deep space. Well, how about staying with us till you decide? Might as well enjoyEarth life while you can. Okay? I felt like running from the house, to forget that it existed. I wantedsomeone to tell me one of the old stories about space, a tale ofcourage that would put fuel on dying dreams. But I wanted, also, to be with you, Laura, to see your smile and theflecks of silver in your eyes and the way your nose turned upward everso slightly when you laughed. You see, I loved you already, almost asmuch as I loved the stars. And I said, slowly, my voice sounding unfamiliar and far away, Sure,I'll stay, Mickey. Sure. <doc-sep>Forty days of joy, forty nights of fear and indecision. We did all thelittle things, like watching the rockets land at White Sands and flyingdown to the Gulf to swim in cool waters. You tried, unsuccessfully, toteach me to dance, and we talked about Everson and Charlie and the Moonand the stars. You felt you had to give the stars all the beauty andpromise of a child's dream, because you knew that was what I wanted. One morning I thought, Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have bothyou and the stars? Would that be asking too much? All day the thought lay in my mind like fire. That evening I asked you to marry me. I said it very simply: Laura, Iwant you to be my wife. You looked up at Venus, and you were silent for a long while, your faceflushed. Then you murmured, I—I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking meto marry a spaceman or a teacher? Can't a spaceman marry, too? Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see,Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for maybe two months, maybe twoyears. Then you'd have a twenty-four hour liberty—and I'd have what? Somehow I'd expected words like these, but still they hurt. I wouldn'thave to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years,then teach. Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn'tyou want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on? Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tearsglittering in your eyes. Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happenedon the Cyclops . There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship wasflooded with radiation—just for a second. It didn't seem serious. Themen had no burns. But a year later the captain had a child. And itwas— I know, Laura. Don't say it. You had to finish. It was a monster. That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let mesleep. You've got to decide now , I told myself. You can't stay here. You'vegot to make a choice. The teaching job was still open. The spot on the Odyssey was stillopen—and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all theway to Pluto. You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and ahome and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now. Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be aline in a history book. I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, Get the hell outof there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Getout there on the Odyssey where you belong. We got a date on Mars,remember? At the Space Rat , just off Chandler Field on the GrandCanal. That's what he'd say. And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always. Oh God, I moaned, what shall I do? <doc-sep>Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door andbrought back the audiogram. It was addressed to me; I wondered whocould be sending me a message. I pressed the stud on the little gray cylinder, and a rasping,automatic voice droned: Luna City, Luna, July 27, 1995. Regret toinform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman.... Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the wordlung-rot and the metallic phrase, This message brought to you bycourtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps. I stood staring at the cylinder. Charles Taggart was dead. Charles Taggart was Charlie. Stardust Charlie. My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie!The audiogram had lied! I pressed the stud again. ... regret to inform you of death ofCharles ... I hurled the cylinder at the wall. It thudded, fell, rolled. The brokenvoice droned on. You ran to it, shut it off. I'm sorry, Ben, so terribly— Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. Iremembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze.The metallic words had told the truth. I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed atCharlie's faded tin box. Then, finally, I fingered his meager possessions—a few wrinkledphotos, some letters, a small black statue of a forgotten Martian god,a gold service medal from the Moon Patrol. This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space.It was a bitter bargain. A statue instead of a wife, yellowed lettersinstead of children, a medal instead of a home. It'd be a great future , I thought. You'd dream of sitting in a dingystone dive on the Grand Canal with sand-wasps buzzing around smoky,stinking candles. A bottle of luchu juice and a couple of Martian girlswith dirty feet for company. And a sudden cough that would be the firstsign of lung-rot. To hell with it! I walked into your living room and called Dean Dawson on the visiphone. I accepted that job teaching. <doc-sep>And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping,and the house is silent. It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I amwriting this. I looked through Charlie's box again, more carefully this time, readingthe old letters and studying the photographs. I believe now thatCharlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that theycould tell me what he could not express in words. And among the things, Laura, I found a ring. A wedding ring. In that past he never talked about, there was a woman—his wife.Charlie was young once, his eyes full of dreams, and he faced the samedecision that I am facing. Two paths were before him, but he tried totravel both. He later learned what we already know—that there can beno compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose. Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So hecould look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could neverlive to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. Heleft himself, Laura, for he showed me that a boy's dream can also be aman's dream. He made his last trip to Luna when he knew he was going to die. Heavenknows how he escaped a checkup. Maybe the captain understood and waskind—but that doesn't matter now. Do you know why he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn'twant to die in the clean, cool air of Earth? It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was theUniverse, where the ship was his house, the crew his father, mother,brothers, the planets his children. You say that the beauty of the other side of the mountain vanishesafter you reach it. But how can one ever be sure until the journey ismade? Could I or Charlie or the thousand before us bear to look upon astar and think, I might have gone there; I could have been the first ? We said, too, that the life of a spaceman is lonely. Yet how could onebe lonely when men like Charlie roam the spaceways? Charlie wanted me to himself that night after graduation. He wanted usto celebrate as spacemen should, for he knew that this would be hislast night on Earth. It might have seemed an ugly kind of celebrationto you, but he wanted it with all his heart, and we robbed him of it. Because of these things, Laura, I will be gone in the morning. Explainthe best you can to Mickey and to your parents and Dean Dawson. Right now I've got a date that I'm going to keep—at a dingy stone cafeon Mars, the Space Rat , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. Stardust Charlie will be there; he'll go with me in memory to whateverpart of the Galaxy I may live to reach. And so will you, Laura. I have two wedding rings with me—his wife's ring and yours. <doc-sep></s>

After studying for six years, Ben sits at his U.S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight graduation. Next to Ben is Mickey, his best friend who also plans to go into deep space. Ben is an orphan, and he wonders if the only person he invited, Charlie Taggart, is there. Ben met Charlie, an accomplished spaceman, when he was a boy, and Charlie took him under his wing. When Ben connects with Charlie after the ceremony, he worries about his gaunt face and terrible cough. Ben then meets Laura, Mickey’s sister. There is an undeniable and instant connection between them. Charlie only has 24 hours to spend with Ben before he has to report back for duty, and although he wants to have some drinks with Ben alone, Laura invites them both over, and Ben can’t help but say yes.Moments later, Dean Dawson reminds Ben about an offer to teach at the Academy. Mickey takes this opportunity to admit to Ben that he will be working as a Supervisor at White Sands Port. Ben is disappointed to hear that Mickey has chosen to live a boring life, but Mickey insists that he does not want to die in his 30s. After dinner at Mickey’s house, Laura and Ben take a walk together. Laura asks about Charlie’s life before he was a spaceman, but Ben doesn’t have answers for her. He doesn’t know anything about Charlie’s past. Ben looks at Laura and realizes that she has feelings for him, too. When she suggests that a career in deep space may not be worth what Ben would be leaving behind, Ben finds himself at a crossroads. Should he live his dream or should he settle down with the woman he loves and live an ordinary life?The next morning, Charlie gives Ben an old tin with souvenirs inside, and then tells him to meet him at the Space Rat, a little cafe on Mars, when he gets there. Ben still hasn’t chosen a career path and decides to stay with Mickey and Laura and their family until he does. He experiences forty days of happiness with his love, Laura, and forty nights of indecision about which career to choose. Ben asks Laura to marry him, but she says she can’t unless he decides to stay on earth. The next day, Ben receives a message informing him that Charlie has died from lung-rot, a disease he got in space. When Ben looks in Charlie’s tin and finds useless trinkets, he decides to take the teaching job so that he does not live a similarly meaningless life. However, hours later, he looks in the tin again and finds a wedding ring. Ben surmises that Charlie wanted to tell him to take the chance on space, and he believes it’s the right decision to make. He can’t live his life without knowing what the stars look like, even if that means he can’t have Laura too.

<s> Spacemen Die at Home By EDWARD W. LUDWIG Illustrated by THORNE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] One man's retreat is another's prison ... and it takes a heap of flying to make a hulk a home! Forty days of heaven and forty nights of hell. That's the way it'sbeen, Laura. But how can I make you understand? How can I tell youwhat it's like to be young and a man and to dream of reaching thestars? And yet, at the same time, to be filled with a terrible, gnawingfear—a fear locked in my mind during the day and bursting out like anevil jack-in-the-box at night. I must tell you, Laura. Perhaps if I start at the beginning, the very beginning.... It was the Big Day. All the examinations, the physicals and psychos,were over. The Academy, with its great halls and classrooms andlaboratories, lay hollow and silent, an exhausted thing at sleep afterspawning its first-born. For it was June in this year of 1995, and we were the graduating classof the U. S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight. The first graduating class, Laura. That's why it was so important,because we were the first . We sat on a little platform, twenty-five of us. Below us was a beachof faces, most of them strange, shining like pebbles in the warm NewMexican sunlight. They were the faces of mothers and fathers andgrandparents and kid brothers and sisters—the people who a short timeago had been only scrawled names on letters from home or words spokenwistfully at Christmas. They were the memory-people who, to me, hadnever really existed. But today they had become real, and they were here and looking at uswith pride in their eyes. A voice was speaking, deep, sure, resonant. ... these boys have workedhard for six years, and now they're going to do a lot of big things.They're going to bring us the metals and minerals that we desperatelyneed. They're going to find new land for our colonists, good rich landthat will bear food and be a home for our children. And perhaps mostimportant of all, they'll make other men think of the stars and look upat them and feel humility—for mankind needs humility. The speaker was Robert Chandler, who'd brought the first rocket down onMars just five years ago, who'd established the first colony there, andwho had just returned from his second hop to Venus. Instead of listening to his words, I was staring at his broad shouldersand his dark, crew-cut hair and his white uniform which was silk-smoothand skin-tight. I was worshiping him and hating him at the same time,for I was thinking: He's already reached Mars and Venus. Let him leave Jupiter and theothers alone! Let us be the first to land somewhere! Let us be thefirst! <doc-sep>Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. I don'tsee 'em, Ben, he whispered. Where do you suppose they are? I blinked. Who? My folks. That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died ina strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of thoseYou are cordially invited cards. Just one, which I'd sent to CharlieTaggart. Stardust Charlie, we called him, although I never knew why. He was aveteran of Everson's first trip to the Moon nearly twenty-five yearsago, and he was still at it. He was Chief Jetman now on the LunarLady , a commercial ore ship on a shuttle between Luna City and WhiteSands. I remembered how, as a kid, I'd pestered him in the Long IslandSpaceport, tagging after him like a puppy, and how he'd grown to likeme until he became father, mother, and buddy all in one to me. And Iremembered, too, how his recommendation had finally made me a cadet. My gaze wandered over the faces, but I couldn't find Charlie's. Itwasn't surprising. The Lunar Lady was in White Sands now, butliberties, as Charlie said, were as scarce as water on Mars. It doesn't matter , I told myself. Then Mickey stiffened. I see 'em, Ben! There in the fifth row! Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or agarden party, smiling, accepting whatever the world offered. But now atenseness and an excitement had gripped even him. I was grateful thathe was beside me; we'd been a good team during those final months atthe Academy and I knew we'd be a good team in space. The Universe wasmighty big, but with two of us to face it together, it would be onlyhalf as big. And then it seemed that all the proud faces were looking at us as if wewere gods. A shiver went through my body. Though it was daytime, I sawthe stars in my mind's vision, the great shining balls of silver, eachlike a voice crying out and pleading to be explored, to be touched bythe sons of Earth. They expect a lot from us. They expect us to make a new kind ofcivilization and a better place out of Earth. They expect all this anda hell of a lot more. They think there's nothing we can't do. I felt very small and very humble. I was scared. Damned scared. <doc-sep>At last it was over, and the proud faces descended upon us in a huge,babbling wave. Then I saw him. Good old Stardust Charlie. His wizened little body was shuffling down an aisle, his eyes shininglike a child's. He'd been sandwiched, evidently, in one of the rearrows. But he wasn't the Charlie I'd seen a year ago. He'd become gaunt andold, and he walked with an unnatural stiffness. He looked so old thatit was hard to believe he'd once been young. He scratched his mop of steel-gray hair and grinned. You made it, boy, he chortled, and by Jupiter, we'll celebratetonight. Yes, siree, I got twenty-four hours, and we'll celebrate asgood spacemen should! Then Mickey strode up to us. He was his normal, boyish self again,walking lightly, his blond, curly-haired skull swaying as if in rhythmwith some silent melody. And you, Laura, were with him. Meet the Brat, he said. My sister Laura. I stared almost rudely. You were like a doll lost in the immensityof your fluffy pink dress. Your hair was long and transformed into agolden froth where sunlight touched it. But your eyes were the eyesof a woman, glowing like dark stars and reflecting a softness, agentleness that I'd never seen in eyes before. I'm happy to meet you, Ben, you said. I've heard of no one else forthe past year. A tide of heat crept up from my collar. I stuttered through anintroduction of Charlie. You and Mickey looked strangely at Charlie, and I realized that oldStardust was not a cadet's notion of the ideal spaceman. Charliescorned the skin-tight uniforms of the government service and wore ashiny black suit that was a relic of Everson's early-day Moon Patrol.His tie was clumsily knotted, and a button on his coat was missing. And the left side of his face was streaked with dark scar tissue, theresult of an atomic blowup on one of the old Moon ships. I was soaccustomed to the scars, I was seldom aware of them; but others, Iknew, would find them ugly. You were kind. You shook hands and said, softly: It's a privilege tomeet you, Charlie. Just think—one of Everson's men, one of the firstto reach the Moon! Charlie gulped helplessly, and Mickey said: Still going to spend theweekend with us, aren't you, Ben? I shook my head. Charlie has only twenty-four hours liberty. We'replanning to see the town tonight. Why don't you both come with us? you asked. Our folks have theirown plane, so it would be no problem. And we've got a big guest room.Charlie, wouldn't you like a home-cooked meal before going back to theMoon? Charlie's answer was obscured by a sudden burst of coughing. I knewthat he'd infinitely prefer to spend his liberty sampling Martianfizzes and Plutonian zombies. But this night seemed too sacred for Charlie's kind of celebration. We'd really like to come, I said. <doc-sep>On our way to the 'copter parking field, Dean Dawson passed us. He wasa tall, willowy man, spectacled, looking the way an academy professorshould look. Ben, he called, don't forget that offer. Remember you've got twomonths to decide. No, thanks, I answered. Better not count on me. A moment later Mickey said, frowning, What was he talking about, Ben?Did he make you an offer? I laughed. He offered me a job here at the Academy teachingastrogation. What a life that would be! Imagine standing in aclassroom for forty years when I've got the chance to— I hesitated, and you supplied the right words: When you've got thechance to be the first to reach a new planet. That's what most of youwant, isn't it? That's what Mickey used to want. I looked at you as if you were Everson himself, because you seemed tounderstand the hunger that could lie in a man's heart. Then your last words came back and jabbed me: That's what Mickey usedto want. Used to want? I asked. What do you mean? You bit your lip, not answering. What did she mean, Mickey? Mickey looked down at his feet. I didn't want to tell you yet, Ben.We've been together a long time, planning to be on a rocket. But— Yes? Well, what does it add up to? You become a spaceman and wear a prettyuniform. You wade through the sands of Mars and the dust of Venus. Ifyou're lucky, you're good for five, maybe ten years. Then one thing oranother gets you. They don't insure rocketmen, you know. My stomach was full of churning, biting ice. What are you trying tosay, Mickey? I've thought about it a long time. They want me for Cargo Supervisorof White Sands Port. He raised his hand to stop me. I know. It's notso exciting. I'll just live a lot longer. I'm sorry, Ben. I couldn't answer. It was as if someone had whacked the back of myknees with the blast of a jet. It doesn't change anything, Ben—right now, I mean. We can still havea good weekend. Charlie was muttering under his breath, smoldering like a bomb about toreach critical mass. I shook my head dazedly at him as we got to the'copter. Sure, I said to Mickey, we can still have a good weekend. <doc-sep>I liked your folks, Laura. There was no star-hunger in them, of course.They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things,deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. They were content with a home that wascool on this warm summer night, with a 'copter and a tri-dimensionalvideo, and a handsome automatic home that needed no servants orhousework. Stardust Charlie was as comfortable as a Martian sand-monkey in ashower, but he tried courageously to be himself. At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, Only hitMars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic.Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough,the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acidin your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that.Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot. That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all. Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night,to watch for crimson-tailed continental rockets that occasionallystreaked up from White Sands. We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said:Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he'ssort of funny. He's an old-time spaceman. You didn't need much education in thosedays, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be aspaceman then. But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family? I smiled and shook my head. If he had, he never mentioned it. Charliedoesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far asI know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson. You stared at me strangely, almost in a sacred kind of way. I knewsuddenly that you liked me, and my heart began to beat faster. There was silence. You were lovely, your soft hair like strands of gold, and there wereflecks of silver in your dark eyes. Somehow I was afraid. I had thefeeling that I shouldn't have come here. You kept looking at me until I had to ask: What are you thinking,Laura? You laughed, but it was a sad, fearful laugh. No, I shouldn't bethinking it. You'd hate me if I told you, and I wouldn't want that. I could never hate you. It—it's about the stars, you said very softly. I understand why youwant to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we werekids. Of course I was a girl, so it was just a game to me. But once Idreamed of going to England. Oh, it was going to be so wonderful. Ilived for months, just thinking about it. One summer we went. I had fun. I saw the old buildings and castles,and the spaceports and the Channel Tube. But after it was over, Irealized England wasn't so different from America. Places seem excitingbefore you get to them, and afterward they're not really. I frowned. And you mean it might be the same with the stars? You thinkmaybe I haven't grown up yet? Anxiety darkened your features. No, it'd be good to be a spaceman,to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is itworth the things you'd have to give up? I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, Give up what ? Then I looked at you and the promise in your eyes, and I knew. All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path. Government boarding school, the Academy, my eyes always upward and onthe stars. Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path thatI'd never noticed before. You can go into space , I thought, and try to do as much living inten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who diedin a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lieburied in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, likeCharlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternallyalone, never finding a home. Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earthin cool, comfortable houses. To be one of the solid, rooted people witha wife and kids. To be one of the people who live long enough to growold, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, whofill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonousdust. I'm sorry, you said. I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben. It's all right, I said, clenching my fists. You made sense—a lot ofsense. <doc-sep>The next morning Charlie said good-bye in our room. He rubbed hisscarred face nervously as he cleared his throat with a series of thin,tight coughs. Then he pointed to a brown, faded tin box lying on the bed. I'mleavin' that for you. It's full of old stuff, souvenirs mostly. Thoughtmaybe you'd like to have 'em. I scowled, not understanding. Why, Charlie? What for? He shrugged as if afraid he might be accused of sentimentality. Oh,it's just that I've been dodgin' meteors now for twenty-five years.That's a long time, boy. Ain't one spaceman in a thousand that lucky.Some of these days, I won't be so lucky. I tried to laugh. You're good for another twenty-five years, Charlie. He shook his head stiffly, staring at nothing. Maybe. Anyway, I'mgonna get off the Shuttle this time, make one more trip to Mars. Tellyou what. There's a little stone cafe on Mars, the Space Rat , justoff Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. When you get to Mars, take alook inside. I'll probably be there. He coughed again, a deep, rasping cough that filled his eyes with tears. Not used to this Earth air, he muttered. What I need's some Martianclimate. Suddenly that cough frightened me. It didn't seem normal. I wondered,too, about his stiff movements and glassy stare. It was as if he weredrugged. I shook the thought away. If Charlie was sick, he wouldn't talk aboutgoing to Mars. The medics wouldn't let him go even as far as Luna. We watched him leave, you and Mickey and I. When will you be back? you asked. Charlie's hard face contorted itself into a gargoylish grin. Maybe acouple of months, maybe a couple of years. You know spacemen. Then he waved and strode away, a strange, gray, withered gnome of a man. I wanted him to say something, to tell me the secret that would killthe doubt worming through my brain. But he rounded a corner, still grinning and waving, and then he wasgone. <doc-sep>That afternoon Mickey showed me his room. It was more like a boy'sroom than a spaceman's. In it were all the little things that kidstreasure—pennants, models of Everson's two ships, a tennis trophy,books, a home-made video. I began to realize how important a room like this could be to a boy.I could imagine, too, the happiness that parents felt as they watchedtheir children grow to adulthood. I'd missed something. My folks were shadow-people, my impressions ofthem drawn half from ancient photos, half from imagination. For me, ithad been a cold, automatic kind of life, the life of dormitories androutines and rules. I'd been so blinded by the brilliancy of my dreams,I hadn't realized I was different. My folks were killed in a rocket crash. If it weren't for rockets, I'dhave lived the kind of life a kid should live. Mickey noticed my frown. What's the matter, Ben? Still sore? I feel like a heel, but I'm justnot like you and Charlie, I guess. I— No, I understand, Mickey. I'm not sore, really. Listen, then. You haven't accepted any offer yet, have you? No. I got a couple of possibilities. Could get a berth on the Odyssey , the new ship being finished at Los Angeles. They want me,too, for the Moon Patrol, but that's old stuff, not much better thanteaching. I want to be in deep space. Well, how about staying with us till you decide? Might as well enjoyEarth life while you can. Okay? I felt like running from the house, to forget that it existed. I wantedsomeone to tell me one of the old stories about space, a tale ofcourage that would put fuel on dying dreams. But I wanted, also, to be with you, Laura, to see your smile and theflecks of silver in your eyes and the way your nose turned upward everso slightly when you laughed. You see, I loved you already, almost asmuch as I loved the stars. And I said, slowly, my voice sounding unfamiliar and far away, Sure,I'll stay, Mickey. Sure. <doc-sep>Forty days of joy, forty nights of fear and indecision. We did all thelittle things, like watching the rockets land at White Sands and flyingdown to the Gulf to swim in cool waters. You tried, unsuccessfully, toteach me to dance, and we talked about Everson and Charlie and the Moonand the stars. You felt you had to give the stars all the beauty andpromise of a child's dream, because you knew that was what I wanted. One morning I thought, Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have bothyou and the stars? Would that be asking too much? All day the thought lay in my mind like fire. That evening I asked you to marry me. I said it very simply: Laura, Iwant you to be my wife. You looked up at Venus, and you were silent for a long while, your faceflushed. Then you murmured, I—I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking meto marry a spaceman or a teacher? Can't a spaceman marry, too? Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see,Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for maybe two months, maybe twoyears. Then you'd have a twenty-four hour liberty—and I'd have what? Somehow I'd expected words like these, but still they hurt. I wouldn'thave to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years,then teach. Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn'tyou want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on? Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tearsglittering in your eyes. Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happenedon the Cyclops . There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship wasflooded with radiation—just for a second. It didn't seem serious. Themen had no burns. But a year later the captain had a child. And itwas— I know, Laura. Don't say it. You had to finish. It was a monster. That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let mesleep. You've got to decide now , I told myself. You can't stay here. You'vegot to make a choice. The teaching job was still open. The spot on the Odyssey was stillopen—and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all theway to Pluto. You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and ahome and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now. Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be aline in a history book. I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, Get the hell outof there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Getout there on the Odyssey where you belong. We got a date on Mars,remember? At the Space Rat , just off Chandler Field on the GrandCanal. That's what he'd say. And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always. Oh God, I moaned, what shall I do? <doc-sep>Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door andbrought back the audiogram. It was addressed to me; I wondered whocould be sending me a message. I pressed the stud on the little gray cylinder, and a rasping,automatic voice droned: Luna City, Luna, July 27, 1995. Regret toinform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman.... Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the wordlung-rot and the metallic phrase, This message brought to you bycourtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps. I stood staring at the cylinder. Charles Taggart was dead. Charles Taggart was Charlie. Stardust Charlie. My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie!The audiogram had lied! I pressed the stud again. ... regret to inform you of death ofCharles ... I hurled the cylinder at the wall. It thudded, fell, rolled. The brokenvoice droned on. You ran to it, shut it off. I'm sorry, Ben, so terribly— Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. Iremembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze.The metallic words had told the truth. I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed atCharlie's faded tin box. Then, finally, I fingered his meager possessions—a few wrinkledphotos, some letters, a small black statue of a forgotten Martian god,a gold service medal from the Moon Patrol. This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space.It was a bitter bargain. A statue instead of a wife, yellowed lettersinstead of children, a medal instead of a home. It'd be a great future , I thought. You'd dream of sitting in a dingystone dive on the Grand Canal with sand-wasps buzzing around smoky,stinking candles. A bottle of luchu juice and a couple of Martian girlswith dirty feet for company. And a sudden cough that would be the firstsign of lung-rot. To hell with it! I walked into your living room and called Dean Dawson on the visiphone. I accepted that job teaching. <doc-sep>And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping,and the house is silent. It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I amwriting this. I looked through Charlie's box again, more carefully this time, readingthe old letters and studying the photographs. I believe now thatCharlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that theycould tell me what he could not express in words. And among the things, Laura, I found a ring. A wedding ring. In that past he never talked about, there was a woman—his wife.Charlie was young once, his eyes full of dreams, and he faced the samedecision that I am facing. Two paths were before him, but he tried totravel both. He later learned what we already know—that there can beno compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose. Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So hecould look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could neverlive to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. Heleft himself, Laura, for he showed me that a boy's dream can also be aman's dream. He made his last trip to Luna when he knew he was going to die. Heavenknows how he escaped a checkup. Maybe the captain understood and waskind—but that doesn't matter now. Do you know why he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn'twant to die in the clean, cool air of Earth? It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was theUniverse, where the ship was his house, the crew his father, mother,brothers, the planets his children. You say that the beauty of the other side of the mountain vanishesafter you reach it. But how can one ever be sure until the journey ismade? Could I or Charlie or the thousand before us bear to look upon astar and think, I might have gone there; I could have been the first ? We said, too, that the life of a spaceman is lonely. Yet how could onebe lonely when men like Charlie roam the spaceways? Charlie wanted me to himself that night after graduation. He wanted usto celebrate as spacemen should, for he knew that this would be hislast night on Earth. It might have seemed an ugly kind of celebrationto you, but he wanted it with all his heart, and we robbed him of it. Because of these things, Laura, I will be gone in the morning. Explainthe best you can to Mickey and to your parents and Dean Dawson. Right now I've got a date that I'm going to keep—at a dingy stone cafeon Mars, the Space Rat , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. Stardust Charlie will be there; he'll go with me in memory to whateverpart of the Galaxy I may live to reach. And so will you, Laura. I have two wedding rings with me—his wife's ring and yours. <doc-sep></s>

Ben experiences a lot of anxiety at his graduation from the U.S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight because of the high expectations he perceives that the audience has of the 25 men who are graduating. The students have spent the last six years of their lives dedicating themselves to learning about minerals, metals, colonization, and space travel for the sake of helping the people on Earth. The class of 1995 is the first of its kind, and the family members and friends who attend the graduation understandably have very high hopes for the graduates. The graduation speaker is Robert Chandler, a spaceman who landed a rocket on Mars and created the first colony there. He has also traveled to Venus twice. For most laymen, accomplishing something as adventurous as landing on other planets is unthinkable, and the men graduating are the next in line to make such unthinkable journeys. Ben looks out over the crowds of people and thinks to himself that these strangers are looking at him as if he’s some sort of god. He knows that they expect the world from him and his fellow graduates, and he worries that he won’t be able to deliver on such incredible promises.

<s> Spacemen Die at Home By EDWARD W. LUDWIG Illustrated by THORNE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] One man's retreat is another's prison ... and it takes a heap of flying to make a hulk a home! Forty days of heaven and forty nights of hell. That's the way it'sbeen, Laura. But how can I make you understand? How can I tell youwhat it's like to be young and a man and to dream of reaching thestars? And yet, at the same time, to be filled with a terrible, gnawingfear—a fear locked in my mind during the day and bursting out like anevil jack-in-the-box at night. I must tell you, Laura. Perhaps if I start at the beginning, the very beginning.... It was the Big Day. All the examinations, the physicals and psychos,were over. The Academy, with its great halls and classrooms andlaboratories, lay hollow and silent, an exhausted thing at sleep afterspawning its first-born. For it was June in this year of 1995, and we were the graduating classof the U. S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight. The first graduating class, Laura. That's why it was so important,because we were the first . We sat on a little platform, twenty-five of us. Below us was a beachof faces, most of them strange, shining like pebbles in the warm NewMexican sunlight. They were the faces of mothers and fathers andgrandparents and kid brothers and sisters—the people who a short timeago had been only scrawled names on letters from home or words spokenwistfully at Christmas. They were the memory-people who, to me, hadnever really existed. But today they had become real, and they were here and looking at uswith pride in their eyes. A voice was speaking, deep, sure, resonant. ... these boys have workedhard for six years, and now they're going to do a lot of big things.They're going to bring us the metals and minerals that we desperatelyneed. They're going to find new land for our colonists, good rich landthat will bear food and be a home for our children. And perhaps mostimportant of all, they'll make other men think of the stars and look upat them and feel humility—for mankind needs humility. The speaker was Robert Chandler, who'd brought the first rocket down onMars just five years ago, who'd established the first colony there, andwho had just returned from his second hop to Venus. Instead of listening to his words, I was staring at his broad shouldersand his dark, crew-cut hair and his white uniform which was silk-smoothand skin-tight. I was worshiping him and hating him at the same time,for I was thinking: He's already reached Mars and Venus. Let him leave Jupiter and theothers alone! Let us be the first to land somewhere! Let us be thefirst! <doc-sep>Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. I don'tsee 'em, Ben, he whispered. Where do you suppose they are? I blinked. Who? My folks. That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died ina strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of thoseYou are cordially invited cards. Just one, which I'd sent to CharlieTaggart. Stardust Charlie, we called him, although I never knew why. He was aveteran of Everson's first trip to the Moon nearly twenty-five yearsago, and he was still at it. He was Chief Jetman now on the LunarLady , a commercial ore ship on a shuttle between Luna City and WhiteSands. I remembered how, as a kid, I'd pestered him in the Long IslandSpaceport, tagging after him like a puppy, and how he'd grown to likeme until he became father, mother, and buddy all in one to me. And Iremembered, too, how his recommendation had finally made me a cadet. My gaze wandered over the faces, but I couldn't find Charlie's. Itwasn't surprising. The Lunar Lady was in White Sands now, butliberties, as Charlie said, were as scarce as water on Mars. It doesn't matter , I told myself. Then Mickey stiffened. I see 'em, Ben! There in the fifth row! Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or agarden party, smiling, accepting whatever the world offered. But now atenseness and an excitement had gripped even him. I was grateful thathe was beside me; we'd been a good team during those final months atthe Academy and I knew we'd be a good team in space. The Universe wasmighty big, but with two of us to face it together, it would be onlyhalf as big. And then it seemed that all the proud faces were looking at us as if wewere gods. A shiver went through my body. Though it was daytime, I sawthe stars in my mind's vision, the great shining balls of silver, eachlike a voice crying out and pleading to be explored, to be touched bythe sons of Earth. They expect a lot from us. They expect us to make a new kind ofcivilization and a better place out of Earth. They expect all this anda hell of a lot more. They think there's nothing we can't do. I felt very small and very humble. I was scared. Damned scared. <doc-sep>At last it was over, and the proud faces descended upon us in a huge,babbling wave. Then I saw him. Good old Stardust Charlie. His wizened little body was shuffling down an aisle, his eyes shininglike a child's. He'd been sandwiched, evidently, in one of the rearrows. But he wasn't the Charlie I'd seen a year ago. He'd become gaunt andold, and he walked with an unnatural stiffness. He looked so old thatit was hard to believe he'd once been young. He scratched his mop of steel-gray hair and grinned. You made it, boy, he chortled, and by Jupiter, we'll celebratetonight. Yes, siree, I got twenty-four hours, and we'll celebrate asgood spacemen should! Then Mickey strode up to us. He was his normal, boyish self again,walking lightly, his blond, curly-haired skull swaying as if in rhythmwith some silent melody. And you, Laura, were with him. Meet the Brat, he said. My sister Laura. I stared almost rudely. You were like a doll lost in the immensityof your fluffy pink dress. Your hair was long and transformed into agolden froth where sunlight touched it. But your eyes were the eyesof a woman, glowing like dark stars and reflecting a softness, agentleness that I'd never seen in eyes before. I'm happy to meet you, Ben, you said. I've heard of no one else forthe past year. A tide of heat crept up from my collar. I stuttered through anintroduction of Charlie. You and Mickey looked strangely at Charlie, and I realized that oldStardust was not a cadet's notion of the ideal spaceman. Charliescorned the skin-tight uniforms of the government service and wore ashiny black suit that was a relic of Everson's early-day Moon Patrol.His tie was clumsily knotted, and a button on his coat was missing. And the left side of his face was streaked with dark scar tissue, theresult of an atomic blowup on one of the old Moon ships. I was soaccustomed to the scars, I was seldom aware of them; but others, Iknew, would find them ugly. You were kind. You shook hands and said, softly: It's a privilege tomeet you, Charlie. Just think—one of Everson's men, one of the firstto reach the Moon! Charlie gulped helplessly, and Mickey said: Still going to spend theweekend with us, aren't you, Ben? I shook my head. Charlie has only twenty-four hours liberty. We'replanning to see the town tonight. Why don't you both come with us? you asked. Our folks have theirown plane, so it would be no problem. And we've got a big guest room.Charlie, wouldn't you like a home-cooked meal before going back to theMoon? Charlie's answer was obscured by a sudden burst of coughing. I knewthat he'd infinitely prefer to spend his liberty sampling Martianfizzes and Plutonian zombies. But this night seemed too sacred for Charlie's kind of celebration. We'd really like to come, I said. <doc-sep>On our way to the 'copter parking field, Dean Dawson passed us. He wasa tall, willowy man, spectacled, looking the way an academy professorshould look. Ben, he called, don't forget that offer. Remember you've got twomonths to decide. No, thanks, I answered. Better not count on me. A moment later Mickey said, frowning, What was he talking about, Ben?Did he make you an offer? I laughed. He offered me a job here at the Academy teachingastrogation. What a life that would be! Imagine standing in aclassroom for forty years when I've got the chance to— I hesitated, and you supplied the right words: When you've got thechance to be the first to reach a new planet. That's what most of youwant, isn't it? That's what Mickey used to want. I looked at you as if you were Everson himself, because you seemed tounderstand the hunger that could lie in a man's heart. Then your last words came back and jabbed me: That's what Mickey usedto want. Used to want? I asked. What do you mean? You bit your lip, not answering. What did she mean, Mickey? Mickey looked down at his feet. I didn't want to tell you yet, Ben.We've been together a long time, planning to be on a rocket. But— Yes? Well, what does it add up to? You become a spaceman and wear a prettyuniform. You wade through the sands of Mars and the dust of Venus. Ifyou're lucky, you're good for five, maybe ten years. Then one thing oranother gets you. They don't insure rocketmen, you know. My stomach was full of churning, biting ice. What are you trying tosay, Mickey? I've thought about it a long time. They want me for Cargo Supervisorof White Sands Port. He raised his hand to stop me. I know. It's notso exciting. I'll just live a lot longer. I'm sorry, Ben. I couldn't answer. It was as if someone had whacked the back of myknees with the blast of a jet. It doesn't change anything, Ben—right now, I mean. We can still havea good weekend. Charlie was muttering under his breath, smoldering like a bomb about toreach critical mass. I shook my head dazedly at him as we got to the'copter. Sure, I said to Mickey, we can still have a good weekend. <doc-sep>I liked your folks, Laura. There was no star-hunger in them, of course.They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things,deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. They were content with a home that wascool on this warm summer night, with a 'copter and a tri-dimensionalvideo, and a handsome automatic home that needed no servants orhousework. Stardust Charlie was as comfortable as a Martian sand-monkey in ashower, but he tried courageously to be himself. At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, Only hitMars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic.Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough,the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acidin your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that.Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot. That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all. Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night,to watch for crimson-tailed continental rockets that occasionallystreaked up from White Sands. We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said:Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he'ssort of funny. He's an old-time spaceman. You didn't need much education in thosedays, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be aspaceman then. But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family? I smiled and shook my head. If he had, he never mentioned it. Charliedoesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far asI know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson. You stared at me strangely, almost in a sacred kind of way. I knewsuddenly that you liked me, and my heart began to beat faster. There was silence. You were lovely, your soft hair like strands of gold, and there wereflecks of silver in your dark eyes. Somehow I was afraid. I had thefeeling that I shouldn't have come here. You kept looking at me until I had to ask: What are you thinking,Laura? You laughed, but it was a sad, fearful laugh. No, I shouldn't bethinking it. You'd hate me if I told you, and I wouldn't want that. I could never hate you. It—it's about the stars, you said very softly. I understand why youwant to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we werekids. Of course I was a girl, so it was just a game to me. But once Idreamed of going to England. Oh, it was going to be so wonderful. Ilived for months, just thinking about it. One summer we went. I had fun. I saw the old buildings and castles,and the spaceports and the Channel Tube. But after it was over, Irealized England wasn't so different from America. Places seem excitingbefore you get to them, and afterward they're not really. I frowned. And you mean it might be the same with the stars? You thinkmaybe I haven't grown up yet? Anxiety darkened your features. No, it'd be good to be a spaceman,to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is itworth the things you'd have to give up? I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, Give up what ? Then I looked at you and the promise in your eyes, and I knew. All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path. Government boarding school, the Academy, my eyes always upward and onthe stars. Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path thatI'd never noticed before. You can go into space , I thought, and try to do as much living inten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who diedin a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lieburied in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, likeCharlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternallyalone, never finding a home. Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earthin cool, comfortable houses. To be one of the solid, rooted people witha wife and kids. To be one of the people who live long enough to growold, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, whofill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonousdust. I'm sorry, you said. I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben. It's all right, I said, clenching my fists. You made sense—a lot ofsense. <doc-sep>The next morning Charlie said good-bye in our room. He rubbed hisscarred face nervously as he cleared his throat with a series of thin,tight coughs. Then he pointed to a brown, faded tin box lying on the bed. I'mleavin' that for you. It's full of old stuff, souvenirs mostly. Thoughtmaybe you'd like to have 'em. I scowled, not understanding. Why, Charlie? What for? He shrugged as if afraid he might be accused of sentimentality. Oh,it's just that I've been dodgin' meteors now for twenty-five years.That's a long time, boy. Ain't one spaceman in a thousand that lucky.Some of these days, I won't be so lucky. I tried to laugh. You're good for another twenty-five years, Charlie. He shook his head stiffly, staring at nothing. Maybe. Anyway, I'mgonna get off the Shuttle this time, make one more trip to Mars. Tellyou what. There's a little stone cafe on Mars, the Space Rat , justoff Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. When you get to Mars, take alook inside. I'll probably be there. He coughed again, a deep, rasping cough that filled his eyes with tears. Not used to this Earth air, he muttered. What I need's some Martianclimate. Suddenly that cough frightened me. It didn't seem normal. I wondered,too, about his stiff movements and glassy stare. It was as if he weredrugged. I shook the thought away. If Charlie was sick, he wouldn't talk aboutgoing to Mars. The medics wouldn't let him go even as far as Luna. We watched him leave, you and Mickey and I. When will you be back? you asked. Charlie's hard face contorted itself into a gargoylish grin. Maybe acouple of months, maybe a couple of years. You know spacemen. Then he waved and strode away, a strange, gray, withered gnome of a man. I wanted him to say something, to tell me the secret that would killthe doubt worming through my brain. But he rounded a corner, still grinning and waving, and then he wasgone. <doc-sep>That afternoon Mickey showed me his room. It was more like a boy'sroom than a spaceman's. In it were all the little things that kidstreasure—pennants, models of Everson's two ships, a tennis trophy,books, a home-made video. I began to realize how important a room like this could be to a boy.I could imagine, too, the happiness that parents felt as they watchedtheir children grow to adulthood. I'd missed something. My folks were shadow-people, my impressions ofthem drawn half from ancient photos, half from imagination. For me, ithad been a cold, automatic kind of life, the life of dormitories androutines and rules. I'd been so blinded by the brilliancy of my dreams,I hadn't realized I was different. My folks were killed in a rocket crash. If it weren't for rockets, I'dhave lived the kind of life a kid should live. Mickey noticed my frown. What's the matter, Ben? Still sore? I feel like a heel, but I'm justnot like you and Charlie, I guess. I— No, I understand, Mickey. I'm not sore, really. Listen, then. You haven't accepted any offer yet, have you? No. I got a couple of possibilities. Could get a berth on the Odyssey , the new ship being finished at Los Angeles. They want me,too, for the Moon Patrol, but that's old stuff, not much better thanteaching. I want to be in deep space. Well, how about staying with us till you decide? Might as well enjoyEarth life while you can. Okay? I felt like running from the house, to forget that it existed. I wantedsomeone to tell me one of the old stories about space, a tale ofcourage that would put fuel on dying dreams. But I wanted, also, to be with you, Laura, to see your smile and theflecks of silver in your eyes and the way your nose turned upward everso slightly when you laughed. You see, I loved you already, almost asmuch as I loved the stars. And I said, slowly, my voice sounding unfamiliar and far away, Sure,I'll stay, Mickey. Sure. <doc-sep>Forty days of joy, forty nights of fear and indecision. We did all thelittle things, like watching the rockets land at White Sands and flyingdown to the Gulf to swim in cool waters. You tried, unsuccessfully, toteach me to dance, and we talked about Everson and Charlie and the Moonand the stars. You felt you had to give the stars all the beauty andpromise of a child's dream, because you knew that was what I wanted. One morning I thought, Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have bothyou and the stars? Would that be asking too much? All day the thought lay in my mind like fire. That evening I asked you to marry me. I said it very simply: Laura, Iwant you to be my wife. You looked up at Venus, and you were silent for a long while, your faceflushed. Then you murmured, I—I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking meto marry a spaceman or a teacher? Can't a spaceman marry, too? Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see,Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for maybe two months, maybe twoyears. Then you'd have a twenty-four hour liberty—and I'd have what? Somehow I'd expected words like these, but still they hurt. I wouldn'thave to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years,then teach. Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn'tyou want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on? Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tearsglittering in your eyes. Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happenedon the Cyclops . There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship wasflooded with radiation—just for a second. It didn't seem serious. Themen had no burns. But a year later the captain had a child. And itwas— I know, Laura. Don't say it. You had to finish. It was a monster. That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let mesleep. You've got to decide now , I told myself. You can't stay here. You'vegot to make a choice. The teaching job was still open. The spot on the Odyssey was stillopen—and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all theway to Pluto. You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and ahome and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now. Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be aline in a history book. I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, Get the hell outof there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Getout there on the Odyssey where you belong. We got a date on Mars,remember? At the Space Rat , just off Chandler Field on the GrandCanal. That's what he'd say. And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always. Oh God, I moaned, what shall I do? <doc-sep>Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door andbrought back the audiogram. It was addressed to me; I wondered whocould be sending me a message. I pressed the stud on the little gray cylinder, and a rasping,automatic voice droned: Luna City, Luna, July 27, 1995. Regret toinform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman.... Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the wordlung-rot and the metallic phrase, This message brought to you bycourtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps. I stood staring at the cylinder. Charles Taggart was dead. Charles Taggart was Charlie. Stardust Charlie. My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie!The audiogram had lied! I pressed the stud again. ... regret to inform you of death ofCharles ... I hurled the cylinder at the wall. It thudded, fell, rolled. The brokenvoice droned on. You ran to it, shut it off. I'm sorry, Ben, so terribly— Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. Iremembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze.The metallic words had told the truth. I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed atCharlie's faded tin box. Then, finally, I fingered his meager possessions—a few wrinkledphotos, some letters, a small black statue of a forgotten Martian god,a gold service medal from the Moon Patrol. This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space.It was a bitter bargain. A statue instead of a wife, yellowed lettersinstead of children, a medal instead of a home. It'd be a great future , I thought. You'd dream of sitting in a dingystone dive on the Grand Canal with sand-wasps buzzing around smoky,stinking candles. A bottle of luchu juice and a couple of Martian girlswith dirty feet for company. And a sudden cough that would be the firstsign of lung-rot. To hell with it! I walked into your living room and called Dean Dawson on the visiphone. I accepted that job teaching. <doc-sep>And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping,and the house is silent. It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I amwriting this. I looked through Charlie's box again, more carefully this time, readingthe old letters and studying the photographs. I believe now thatCharlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that theycould tell me what he could not express in words. And among the things, Laura, I found a ring. A wedding ring. In that past he never talked about, there was a woman—his wife.Charlie was young once, his eyes full of dreams, and he faced the samedecision that I am facing. Two paths were before him, but he tried totravel both. He later learned what we already know—that there can beno compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose. Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So hecould look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could neverlive to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. Heleft himself, Laura, for he showed me that a boy's dream can also be aman's dream. He made his last trip to Luna when he knew he was going to die. Heavenknows how he escaped a checkup. Maybe the captain understood and waskind—but that doesn't matter now. Do you know why he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn'twant to die in the clean, cool air of Earth? It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was theUniverse, where the ship was his house, the crew his father, mother,brothers, the planets his children. You say that the beauty of the other side of the mountain vanishesafter you reach it. But how can one ever be sure until the journey ismade? Could I or Charlie or the thousand before us bear to look upon astar and think, I might have gone there; I could have been the first ? We said, too, that the life of a spaceman is lonely. Yet how could onebe lonely when men like Charlie roam the spaceways? Charlie wanted me to himself that night after graduation. He wanted usto celebrate as spacemen should, for he knew that this would be hislast night on Earth. It might have seemed an ugly kind of celebrationto you, but he wanted it with all his heart, and we robbed him of it. Because of these things, Laura, I will be gone in the morning. Explainthe best you can to Mickey and to your parents and Dean Dawson. Right now I've got a date that I'm going to keep—at a dingy stone cafeon Mars, the Space Rat , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. Stardust Charlie will be there; he'll go with me in memory to whateverpart of the Galaxy I may live to reach. And so will you, Laura. I have two wedding rings with me—his wife's ring and yours. <doc-sep></s>

Charlie Taggart, also known as Stardust Charlie, is a very important character in the story. Ben is orphaned at the age of four when his parents perished in a strato-jet crash. Within a few years, he meets Charlie, a successful spaceman, at the Long Island Spaceport. He follows him around, eager to learn everything he can about space, and Charlie eventually becomes the closest thing Ben has to a family member. Although Ben doesn’t know if Charlie will show up at his graduation, he is happy to see he has taken 24 hours off of work to come and celebrate with him. He worries, however, that Charlie looks very ill. He becomes even more concerned when Charlie leaves a small tin for Ben to look through after he leaves. Charlie admits that he has cheated death many times, and he knows he won’t be able to escape it forever. Ben remains hopeful that they will see each other again when Charlie tells him to meet him at the Space Rat, a cafe on Mars. After Ben receives word that Charlie died from lung-rot, he takes it as a sign that he should stay on earth and live an ordinary life with Laura as his wife. The trinkets in Charlie’s tin do not impress Ben or symbolize a life well-lived. Yet, hours later, Ben finds Charlie’s wedding ring and changes his mind about his entire life’s path. He knows that Charlie wanted to talk to him alone before he died, and he never gave him the chance to tell him about the same difficult decisions he had to make. Ben realizes that Charlie’s life may not be one that’s suitable for everyone, but it was certainly a life worth living. Charlie returned to space knowing that he was about to die because the planets and moons and stars were his reason for living. To Charlie, the sacrifices he made to be a spaceman were worth it, and Ben sees that he wants that for himself as well.

<s> Spacemen Die at Home By EDWARD W. LUDWIG Illustrated by THORNE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] One man's retreat is another's prison ... and it takes a heap of flying to make a hulk a home! Forty days of heaven and forty nights of hell. That's the way it'sbeen, Laura. But how can I make you understand? How can I tell youwhat it's like to be young and a man and to dream of reaching thestars? And yet, at the same time, to be filled with a terrible, gnawingfear—a fear locked in my mind during the day and bursting out like anevil jack-in-the-box at night. I must tell you, Laura. Perhaps if I start at the beginning, the very beginning.... It was the Big Day. All the examinations, the physicals and psychos,were over. The Academy, with its great halls and classrooms andlaboratories, lay hollow and silent, an exhausted thing at sleep afterspawning its first-born. For it was June in this year of 1995, and we were the graduating classof the U. S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight. The first graduating class, Laura. That's why it was so important,because we were the first . We sat on a little platform, twenty-five of us. Below us was a beachof faces, most of them strange, shining like pebbles in the warm NewMexican sunlight. They were the faces of mothers and fathers andgrandparents and kid brothers and sisters—the people who a short timeago had been only scrawled names on letters from home or words spokenwistfully at Christmas. They were the memory-people who, to me, hadnever really existed. But today they had become real, and they were here and looking at uswith pride in their eyes. A voice was speaking, deep, sure, resonant. ... these boys have workedhard for six years, and now they're going to do a lot of big things.They're going to bring us the metals and minerals that we desperatelyneed. They're going to find new land for our colonists, good rich landthat will bear food and be a home for our children. And perhaps mostimportant of all, they'll make other men think of the stars and look upat them and feel humility—for mankind needs humility. The speaker was Robert Chandler, who'd brought the first rocket down onMars just five years ago, who'd established the first colony there, andwho had just returned from his second hop to Venus. Instead of listening to his words, I was staring at his broad shouldersand his dark, crew-cut hair and his white uniform which was silk-smoothand skin-tight. I was worshiping him and hating him at the same time,for I was thinking: He's already reached Mars and Venus. Let him leave Jupiter and theothers alone! Let us be the first to land somewhere! Let us be thefirst! <doc-sep>Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. I don'tsee 'em, Ben, he whispered. Where do you suppose they are? I blinked. Who? My folks. That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died ina strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of thoseYou are cordially invited cards. Just one, which I'd sent to CharlieTaggart. Stardust Charlie, we called him, although I never knew why. He was aveteran of Everson's first trip to the Moon nearly twenty-five yearsago, and he was still at it. He was Chief Jetman now on the LunarLady , a commercial ore ship on a shuttle between Luna City and WhiteSands. I remembered how, as a kid, I'd pestered him in the Long IslandSpaceport, tagging after him like a puppy, and how he'd grown to likeme until he became father, mother, and buddy all in one to me. And Iremembered, too, how his recommendation had finally made me a cadet. My gaze wandered over the faces, but I couldn't find Charlie's. Itwasn't surprising. The Lunar Lady was in White Sands now, butliberties, as Charlie said, were as scarce as water on Mars. It doesn't matter , I told myself. Then Mickey stiffened. I see 'em, Ben! There in the fifth row! Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or agarden party, smiling, accepting whatever the world offered. But now atenseness and an excitement had gripped even him. I was grateful thathe was beside me; we'd been a good team during those final months atthe Academy and I knew we'd be a good team in space. The Universe wasmighty big, but with two of us to face it together, it would be onlyhalf as big. And then it seemed that all the proud faces were looking at us as if wewere gods. A shiver went through my body. Though it was daytime, I sawthe stars in my mind's vision, the great shining balls of silver, eachlike a voice crying out and pleading to be explored, to be touched bythe sons of Earth. They expect a lot from us. They expect us to make a new kind ofcivilization and a better place out of Earth. They expect all this anda hell of a lot more. They think there's nothing we can't do. I felt very small and very humble. I was scared. Damned scared. <doc-sep>At last it was over, and the proud faces descended upon us in a huge,babbling wave. Then I saw him. Good old Stardust Charlie. His wizened little body was shuffling down an aisle, his eyes shininglike a child's. He'd been sandwiched, evidently, in one of the rearrows. But he wasn't the Charlie I'd seen a year ago. He'd become gaunt andold, and he walked with an unnatural stiffness. He looked so old thatit was hard to believe he'd once been young. He scratched his mop of steel-gray hair and grinned. You made it, boy, he chortled, and by Jupiter, we'll celebratetonight. Yes, siree, I got twenty-four hours, and we'll celebrate asgood spacemen should! Then Mickey strode up to us. He was his normal, boyish self again,walking lightly, his blond, curly-haired skull swaying as if in rhythmwith some silent melody. And you, Laura, were with him. Meet the Brat, he said. My sister Laura. I stared almost rudely. You were like a doll lost in the immensityof your fluffy pink dress. Your hair was long and transformed into agolden froth where sunlight touched it. But your eyes were the eyesof a woman, glowing like dark stars and reflecting a softness, agentleness that I'd never seen in eyes before. I'm happy to meet you, Ben, you said. I've heard of no one else forthe past year. A tide of heat crept up from my collar. I stuttered through anintroduction of Charlie. You and Mickey looked strangely at Charlie, and I realized that oldStardust was not a cadet's notion of the ideal spaceman. Charliescorned the skin-tight uniforms of the government service and wore ashiny black suit that was a relic of Everson's early-day Moon Patrol.His tie was clumsily knotted, and a button on his coat was missing. And the left side of his face was streaked with dark scar tissue, theresult of an atomic blowup on one of the old Moon ships. I was soaccustomed to the scars, I was seldom aware of them; but others, Iknew, would find them ugly. You were kind. You shook hands and said, softly: It's a privilege tomeet you, Charlie. Just think—one of Everson's men, one of the firstto reach the Moon! Charlie gulped helplessly, and Mickey said: Still going to spend theweekend with us, aren't you, Ben? I shook my head. Charlie has only twenty-four hours liberty. We'replanning to see the town tonight. Why don't you both come with us? you asked. Our folks have theirown plane, so it would be no problem. And we've got a big guest room.Charlie, wouldn't you like a home-cooked meal before going back to theMoon? Charlie's answer was obscured by a sudden burst of coughing. I knewthat he'd infinitely prefer to spend his liberty sampling Martianfizzes and Plutonian zombies. But this night seemed too sacred for Charlie's kind of celebration. We'd really like to come, I said. <doc-sep>On our way to the 'copter parking field, Dean Dawson passed us. He wasa tall, willowy man, spectacled, looking the way an academy professorshould look. Ben, he called, don't forget that offer. Remember you've got twomonths to decide. No, thanks, I answered. Better not count on me. A moment later Mickey said, frowning, What was he talking about, Ben?Did he make you an offer? I laughed. He offered me a job here at the Academy teachingastrogation. What a life that would be! Imagine standing in aclassroom for forty years when I've got the chance to— I hesitated, and you supplied the right words: When you've got thechance to be the first to reach a new planet. That's what most of youwant, isn't it? That's what Mickey used to want. I looked at you as if you were Everson himself, because you seemed tounderstand the hunger that could lie in a man's heart. Then your last words came back and jabbed me: That's what Mickey usedto want. Used to want? I asked. What do you mean? You bit your lip, not answering. What did she mean, Mickey? Mickey looked down at his feet. I didn't want to tell you yet, Ben.We've been together a long time, planning to be on a rocket. But— Yes? Well, what does it add up to? You become a spaceman and wear a prettyuniform. You wade through the sands of Mars and the dust of Venus. Ifyou're lucky, you're good for five, maybe ten years. Then one thing oranother gets you. They don't insure rocketmen, you know. My stomach was full of churning, biting ice. What are you trying tosay, Mickey? I've thought about it a long time. They want me for Cargo Supervisorof White Sands Port. He raised his hand to stop me. I know. It's notso exciting. I'll just live a lot longer. I'm sorry, Ben. I couldn't answer. It was as if someone had whacked the back of myknees with the blast of a jet. It doesn't change anything, Ben—right now, I mean. We can still havea good weekend. Charlie was muttering under his breath, smoldering like a bomb about toreach critical mass. I shook my head dazedly at him as we got to the'copter. Sure, I said to Mickey, we can still have a good weekend. <doc-sep>I liked your folks, Laura. There was no star-hunger in them, of course.They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things,deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. They were content with a home that wascool on this warm summer night, with a 'copter and a tri-dimensionalvideo, and a handsome automatic home that needed no servants orhousework. Stardust Charlie was as comfortable as a Martian sand-monkey in ashower, but he tried courageously to be himself. At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, Only hitMars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic.Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough,the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acidin your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that.Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot. That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all. Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night,to watch for crimson-tailed continental rockets that occasionallystreaked up from White Sands. We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said:Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he'ssort of funny. He's an old-time spaceman. You didn't need much education in thosedays, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be aspaceman then. But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family? I smiled and shook my head. If he had, he never mentioned it. Charliedoesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far asI know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson. You stared at me strangely, almost in a sacred kind of way. I knewsuddenly that you liked me, and my heart began to beat faster. There was silence. You were lovely, your soft hair like strands of gold, and there wereflecks of silver in your dark eyes. Somehow I was afraid. I had thefeeling that I shouldn't have come here. You kept looking at me until I had to ask: What are you thinking,Laura? You laughed, but it was a sad, fearful laugh. No, I shouldn't bethinking it. You'd hate me if I told you, and I wouldn't want that. I could never hate you. It—it's about the stars, you said very softly. I understand why youwant to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we werekids. Of course I was a girl, so it was just a game to me. But once Idreamed of going to England. Oh, it was going to be so wonderful. Ilived for months, just thinking about it. One summer we went. I had fun. I saw the old buildings and castles,and the spaceports and the Channel Tube. But after it was over, Irealized England wasn't so different from America. Places seem excitingbefore you get to them, and afterward they're not really. I frowned. And you mean it might be the same with the stars? You thinkmaybe I haven't grown up yet? Anxiety darkened your features. No, it'd be good to be a spaceman,to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is itworth the things you'd have to give up? I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, Give up what ? Then I looked at you and the promise in your eyes, and I knew. All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path. Government boarding school, the Academy, my eyes always upward and onthe stars. Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path thatI'd never noticed before. You can go into space , I thought, and try to do as much living inten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who diedin a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lieburied in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, likeCharlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternallyalone, never finding a home. Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earthin cool, comfortable houses. To be one of the solid, rooted people witha wife and kids. To be one of the people who live long enough to growold, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, whofill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonousdust. I'm sorry, you said. I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben. It's all right, I said, clenching my fists. You made sense—a lot ofsense. <doc-sep>The next morning Charlie said good-bye in our room. He rubbed hisscarred face nervously as he cleared his throat with a series of thin,tight coughs. Then he pointed to a brown, faded tin box lying on the bed. I'mleavin' that for you. It's full of old stuff, souvenirs mostly. Thoughtmaybe you'd like to have 'em. I scowled, not understanding. Why, Charlie? What for? He shrugged as if afraid he might be accused of sentimentality. Oh,it's just that I've been dodgin' meteors now for twenty-five years.That's a long time, boy. Ain't one spaceman in a thousand that lucky.Some of these days, I won't be so lucky. I tried to laugh. You're good for another twenty-five years, Charlie. He shook his head stiffly, staring at nothing. Maybe. Anyway, I'mgonna get off the Shuttle this time, make one more trip to Mars. Tellyou what. There's a little stone cafe on Mars, the Space Rat , justoff Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. When you get to Mars, take alook inside. I'll probably be there. He coughed again, a deep, rasping cough that filled his eyes with tears. Not used to this Earth air, he muttered. What I need's some Martianclimate. Suddenly that cough frightened me. It didn't seem normal. I wondered,too, about his stiff movements and glassy stare. It was as if he weredrugged. I shook the thought away. If Charlie was sick, he wouldn't talk aboutgoing to Mars. The medics wouldn't let him go even as far as Luna. We watched him leave, you and Mickey and I. When will you be back? you asked. Charlie's hard face contorted itself into a gargoylish grin. Maybe acouple of months, maybe a couple of years. You know spacemen. Then he waved and strode away, a strange, gray, withered gnome of a man. I wanted him to say something, to tell me the secret that would killthe doubt worming through my brain. But he rounded a corner, still grinning and waving, and then he wasgone. <doc-sep>That afternoon Mickey showed me his room. It was more like a boy'sroom than a spaceman's. In it were all the little things that kidstreasure—pennants, models of Everson's two ships, a tennis trophy,books, a home-made video. I began to realize how important a room like this could be to a boy.I could imagine, too, the happiness that parents felt as they watchedtheir children grow to adulthood. I'd missed something. My folks were shadow-people, my impressions ofthem drawn half from ancient photos, half from imagination. For me, ithad been a cold, automatic kind of life, the life of dormitories androutines and rules. I'd been so blinded by the brilliancy of my dreams,I hadn't realized I was different. My folks were killed in a rocket crash. If it weren't for rockets, I'dhave lived the kind of life a kid should live. Mickey noticed my frown. What's the matter, Ben? Still sore? I feel like a heel, but I'm justnot like you and Charlie, I guess. I— No, I understand, Mickey. I'm not sore, really. Listen, then. You haven't accepted any offer yet, have you? No. I got a couple of possibilities. Could get a berth on the Odyssey , the new ship being finished at Los Angeles. They want me,too, for the Moon Patrol, but that's old stuff, not much better thanteaching. I want to be in deep space. Well, how about staying with us till you decide? Might as well enjoyEarth life while you can. Okay? I felt like running from the house, to forget that it existed. I wantedsomeone to tell me one of the old stories about space, a tale ofcourage that would put fuel on dying dreams. But I wanted, also, to be with you, Laura, to see your smile and theflecks of silver in your eyes and the way your nose turned upward everso slightly when you laughed. You see, I loved you already, almost asmuch as I loved the stars. And I said, slowly, my voice sounding unfamiliar and far away, Sure,I'll stay, Mickey. Sure. <doc-sep>Forty days of joy, forty nights of fear and indecision. We did all thelittle things, like watching the rockets land at White Sands and flyingdown to the Gulf to swim in cool waters. You tried, unsuccessfully, toteach me to dance, and we talked about Everson and Charlie and the Moonand the stars. You felt you had to give the stars all the beauty andpromise of a child's dream, because you knew that was what I wanted. One morning I thought, Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have bothyou and the stars? Would that be asking too much? All day the thought lay in my mind like fire. That evening I asked you to marry me. I said it very simply: Laura, Iwant you to be my wife. You looked up at Venus, and you were silent for a long while, your faceflushed. Then you murmured, I—I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking meto marry a spaceman or a teacher? Can't a spaceman marry, too? Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see,Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for maybe two months, maybe twoyears. Then you'd have a twenty-four hour liberty—and I'd have what? Somehow I'd expected words like these, but still they hurt. I wouldn'thave to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years,then teach. Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn'tyou want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on? Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tearsglittering in your eyes. Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happenedon the Cyclops . There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship wasflooded with radiation—just for a second. It didn't seem serious. Themen had no burns. But a year later the captain had a child. And itwas— I know, Laura. Don't say it. You had to finish. It was a monster. That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let mesleep. You've got to decide now , I told myself. You can't stay here. You'vegot to make a choice. The teaching job was still open. The spot on the Odyssey was stillopen—and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all theway to Pluto. You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and ahome and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now. Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be aline in a history book. I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, Get the hell outof there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Getout there on the Odyssey where you belong. We got a date on Mars,remember? At the Space Rat , just off Chandler Field on the GrandCanal. That's what he'd say. And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always. Oh God, I moaned, what shall I do? <doc-sep>Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door andbrought back the audiogram. It was addressed to me; I wondered whocould be sending me a message. I pressed the stud on the little gray cylinder, and a rasping,automatic voice droned: Luna City, Luna, July 27, 1995. Regret toinform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman.... Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the wordlung-rot and the metallic phrase, This message brought to you bycourtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps. I stood staring at the cylinder. Charles Taggart was dead. Charles Taggart was Charlie. Stardust Charlie. My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie!The audiogram had lied! I pressed the stud again. ... regret to inform you of death ofCharles ... I hurled the cylinder at the wall. It thudded, fell, rolled. The brokenvoice droned on. You ran to it, shut it off. I'm sorry, Ben, so terribly— Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. Iremembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze.The metallic words had told the truth. I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed atCharlie's faded tin box. Then, finally, I fingered his meager possessions—a few wrinkledphotos, some letters, a small black statue of a forgotten Martian god,a gold service medal from the Moon Patrol. This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space.It was a bitter bargain. A statue instead of a wife, yellowed lettersinstead of children, a medal instead of a home. It'd be a great future , I thought. You'd dream of sitting in a dingystone dive on the Grand Canal with sand-wasps buzzing around smoky,stinking candles. A bottle of luchu juice and a couple of Martian girlswith dirty feet for company. And a sudden cough that would be the firstsign of lung-rot. To hell with it! I walked into your living room and called Dean Dawson on the visiphone. I accepted that job teaching. <doc-sep>And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping,and the house is silent. It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I amwriting this. I looked through Charlie's box again, more carefully this time, readingthe old letters and studying the photographs. I believe now thatCharlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that theycould tell me what he could not express in words. And among the things, Laura, I found a ring. A wedding ring. In that past he never talked about, there was a woman—his wife.Charlie was young once, his eyes full of dreams, and he faced the samedecision that I am facing. Two paths were before him, but he tried totravel both. He later learned what we already know—that there can beno compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose. Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So hecould look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could neverlive to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. Heleft himself, Laura, for he showed me that a boy's dream can also be aman's dream. He made his last trip to Luna when he knew he was going to die. Heavenknows how he escaped a checkup. Maybe the captain understood and waskind—but that doesn't matter now. Do you know why he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn'twant to die in the clean, cool air of Earth? It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was theUniverse, where the ship was his house, the crew his father, mother,brothers, the planets his children. You say that the beauty of the other side of the mountain vanishesafter you reach it. But how can one ever be sure until the journey ismade? Could I or Charlie or the thousand before us bear to look upon astar and think, I might have gone there; I could have been the first ? We said, too, that the life of a spaceman is lonely. Yet how could onebe lonely when men like Charlie roam the spaceways? Charlie wanted me to himself that night after graduation. He wanted usto celebrate as spacemen should, for he knew that this would be hislast night on Earth. It might have seemed an ugly kind of celebrationto you, but he wanted it with all his heart, and we robbed him of it. Because of these things, Laura, I will be gone in the morning. Explainthe best you can to Mickey and to your parents and Dean Dawson. Right now I've got a date that I'm going to keep—at a dingy stone cafeon Mars, the Space Rat , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. Stardust Charlie will be there; he'll go with me in memory to whateverpart of the Galaxy I may live to reach. And so will you, Laura. I have two wedding rings with me—his wife's ring and yours. <doc-sep></s>

Ben becomes an orphan when he is just 4 years old. The first person he finds that he can trust and look up to is Charlie Taggart, who also happens to be a spaceman. From this point forward, Ben’s life revolves around reaching his dream of going to the stars. When he sits in his best friend Mickey’s childhood bedroom, he realizes that he never got to experience a “normal” childhood, and this probably impacted his life’s goals. The bedroom contains trophies, books, videos, and other treasures from typical childhoods. Ben sees that his life, filled with dorms, rules, and routines, completely lacked a warmth that he would have experienced if he had grown up with parents who loved him. All he had to rely on were his dreams for his future. He never got to experience the little moments of pleasure and togetherness that families have. Ben put all of his energy into becoming a spaceman because it would make him special, and it was something supremely important to work towards. He has no idea who he would be if his parents hadn’t died.

<s> Spacemen Die at Home By EDWARD W. LUDWIG Illustrated by THORNE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] One man's retreat is another's prison ... and it takes a heap of flying to make a hulk a home! Forty days of heaven and forty nights of hell. That's the way it'sbeen, Laura. But how can I make you understand? How can I tell youwhat it's like to be young and a man and to dream of reaching thestars? And yet, at the same time, to be filled with a terrible, gnawingfear—a fear locked in my mind during the day and bursting out like anevil jack-in-the-box at night. I must tell you, Laura. Perhaps if I start at the beginning, the very beginning.... It was the Big Day. All the examinations, the physicals and psychos,were over. The Academy, with its great halls and classrooms andlaboratories, lay hollow and silent, an exhausted thing at sleep afterspawning its first-born. For it was June in this year of 1995, and we were the graduating classof the U. S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight. The first graduating class, Laura. That's why it was so important,because we were the first . We sat on a little platform, twenty-five of us. Below us was a beachof faces, most of them strange, shining like pebbles in the warm NewMexican sunlight. They were the faces of mothers and fathers andgrandparents and kid brothers and sisters—the people who a short timeago had been only scrawled names on letters from home or words spokenwistfully at Christmas. They were the memory-people who, to me, hadnever really existed. But today they had become real, and they were here and looking at uswith pride in their eyes. A voice was speaking, deep, sure, resonant. ... these boys have workedhard for six years, and now they're going to do a lot of big things.They're going to bring us the metals and minerals that we desperatelyneed. They're going to find new land for our colonists, good rich landthat will bear food and be a home for our children. And perhaps mostimportant of all, they'll make other men think of the stars and look upat them and feel humility—for mankind needs humility. The speaker was Robert Chandler, who'd brought the first rocket down onMars just five years ago, who'd established the first colony there, andwho had just returned from his second hop to Venus. Instead of listening to his words, I was staring at his broad shouldersand his dark, crew-cut hair and his white uniform which was silk-smoothand skin-tight. I was worshiping him and hating him at the same time,for I was thinking: He's already reached Mars and Venus. Let him leave Jupiter and theothers alone! Let us be the first to land somewhere! Let us be thefirst! <doc-sep>Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. I don'tsee 'em, Ben, he whispered. Where do you suppose they are? I blinked. Who? My folks. That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died ina strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of thoseYou are cordially invited cards. Just one, which I'd sent to CharlieTaggart. Stardust Charlie, we called him, although I never knew why. He was aveteran of Everson's first trip to the Moon nearly twenty-five yearsago, and he was still at it. He was Chief Jetman now on the LunarLady , a commercial ore ship on a shuttle between Luna City and WhiteSands. I remembered how, as a kid, I'd pestered him in the Long IslandSpaceport, tagging after him like a puppy, and how he'd grown to likeme until he became father, mother, and buddy all in one to me. And Iremembered, too, how his recommendation had finally made me a cadet. My gaze wandered over the faces, but I couldn't find Charlie's. Itwasn't surprising. The Lunar Lady was in White Sands now, butliberties, as Charlie said, were as scarce as water on Mars. It doesn't matter , I told myself. Then Mickey stiffened. I see 'em, Ben! There in the fifth row! Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or agarden party, smiling, accepting whatever the world offered. But now atenseness and an excitement had gripped even him. I was grateful thathe was beside me; we'd been a good team during those final months atthe Academy and I knew we'd be a good team in space. The Universe wasmighty big, but with two of us to face it together, it would be onlyhalf as big. And then it seemed that all the proud faces were looking at us as if wewere gods. A shiver went through my body. Though it was daytime, I sawthe stars in my mind's vision, the great shining balls of silver, eachlike a voice crying out and pleading to be explored, to be touched bythe sons of Earth. They expect a lot from us. They expect us to make a new kind ofcivilization and a better place out of Earth. They expect all this anda hell of a lot more. They think there's nothing we can't do. I felt very small and very humble. I was scared. Damned scared. <doc-sep>At last it was over, and the proud faces descended upon us in a huge,babbling wave. Then I saw him. Good old Stardust Charlie. His wizened little body was shuffling down an aisle, his eyes shininglike a child's. He'd been sandwiched, evidently, in one of the rearrows. But he wasn't the Charlie I'd seen a year ago. He'd become gaunt andold, and he walked with an unnatural stiffness. He looked so old thatit was hard to believe he'd once been young. He scratched his mop of steel-gray hair and grinned. You made it, boy, he chortled, and by Jupiter, we'll celebratetonight. Yes, siree, I got twenty-four hours, and we'll celebrate asgood spacemen should! Then Mickey strode up to us. He was his normal, boyish self again,walking lightly, his blond, curly-haired skull swaying as if in rhythmwith some silent melody. And you, Laura, were with him. Meet the Brat, he said. My sister Laura. I stared almost rudely. You were like a doll lost in the immensityof your fluffy pink dress. Your hair was long and transformed into agolden froth where sunlight touched it. But your eyes were the eyesof a woman, glowing like dark stars and reflecting a softness, agentleness that I'd never seen in eyes before. I'm happy to meet you, Ben, you said. I've heard of no one else forthe past year. A tide of heat crept up from my collar. I stuttered through anintroduction of Charlie. You and Mickey looked strangely at Charlie, and I realized that oldStardust was not a cadet's notion of the ideal spaceman. Charliescorned the skin-tight uniforms of the government service and wore ashiny black suit that was a relic of Everson's early-day Moon Patrol.His tie was clumsily knotted, and a button on his coat was missing. And the left side of his face was streaked with dark scar tissue, theresult of an atomic blowup on one of the old Moon ships. I was soaccustomed to the scars, I was seldom aware of them; but others, Iknew, would find them ugly. You were kind. You shook hands and said, softly: It's a privilege tomeet you, Charlie. Just think—one of Everson's men, one of the firstto reach the Moon! Charlie gulped helplessly, and Mickey said: Still going to spend theweekend with us, aren't you, Ben? I shook my head. Charlie has only twenty-four hours liberty. We'replanning to see the town tonight. Why don't you both come with us? you asked. Our folks have theirown plane, so it would be no problem. And we've got a big guest room.Charlie, wouldn't you like a home-cooked meal before going back to theMoon? Charlie's answer was obscured by a sudden burst of coughing. I knewthat he'd infinitely prefer to spend his liberty sampling Martianfizzes and Plutonian zombies. But this night seemed too sacred for Charlie's kind of celebration. We'd really like to come, I said. <doc-sep>On our way to the 'copter parking field, Dean Dawson passed us. He wasa tall, willowy man, spectacled, looking the way an academy professorshould look. Ben, he called, don't forget that offer. Remember you've got twomonths to decide. No, thanks, I answered. Better not count on me. A moment later Mickey said, frowning, What was he talking about, Ben?Did he make you an offer? I laughed. He offered me a job here at the Academy teachingastrogation. What a life that would be! Imagine standing in aclassroom for forty years when I've got the chance to— I hesitated, and you supplied the right words: When you've got thechance to be the first to reach a new planet. That's what most of youwant, isn't it? That's what Mickey used to want. I looked at you as if you were Everson himself, because you seemed tounderstand the hunger that could lie in a man's heart. Then your last words came back and jabbed me: That's what Mickey usedto want. Used to want? I asked. What do you mean? You bit your lip, not answering. What did she mean, Mickey? Mickey looked down at his feet. I didn't want to tell you yet, Ben.We've been together a long time, planning to be on a rocket. But— Yes? Well, what does it add up to? You become a spaceman and wear a prettyuniform. You wade through the sands of Mars and the dust of Venus. Ifyou're lucky, you're good for five, maybe ten years. Then one thing oranother gets you. They don't insure rocketmen, you know. My stomach was full of churning, biting ice. What are you trying tosay, Mickey? I've thought about it a long time. They want me for Cargo Supervisorof White Sands Port. He raised his hand to stop me. I know. It's notso exciting. I'll just live a lot longer. I'm sorry, Ben. I couldn't answer. It was as if someone had whacked the back of myknees with the blast of a jet. It doesn't change anything, Ben—right now, I mean. We can still havea good weekend. Charlie was muttering under his breath, smoldering like a bomb about toreach critical mass. I shook my head dazedly at him as we got to the'copter. Sure, I said to Mickey, we can still have a good weekend. <doc-sep>I liked your folks, Laura. There was no star-hunger in them, of course.They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things,deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. They were content with a home that wascool on this warm summer night, with a 'copter and a tri-dimensionalvideo, and a handsome automatic home that needed no servants orhousework. Stardust Charlie was as comfortable as a Martian sand-monkey in ashower, but he tried courageously to be himself. At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, Only hitMars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic.Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough,the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acidin your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that.Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot. That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all. Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night,to watch for crimson-tailed continental rockets that occasionallystreaked up from White Sands. We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said:Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he'ssort of funny. He's an old-time spaceman. You didn't need much education in thosedays, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be aspaceman then. But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family? I smiled and shook my head. If he had, he never mentioned it. Charliedoesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far asI know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson. You stared at me strangely, almost in a sacred kind of way. I knewsuddenly that you liked me, and my heart began to beat faster. There was silence. You were lovely, your soft hair like strands of gold, and there wereflecks of silver in your dark eyes. Somehow I was afraid. I had thefeeling that I shouldn't have come here. You kept looking at me until I had to ask: What are you thinking,Laura? You laughed, but it was a sad, fearful laugh. No, I shouldn't bethinking it. You'd hate me if I told you, and I wouldn't want that. I could never hate you. It—it's about the stars, you said very softly. I understand why youwant to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we werekids. Of course I was a girl, so it was just a game to me. But once Idreamed of going to England. Oh, it was going to be so wonderful. Ilived for months, just thinking about it. One summer we went. I had fun. I saw the old buildings and castles,and the spaceports and the Channel Tube. But after it was over, Irealized England wasn't so different from America. Places seem excitingbefore you get to them, and afterward they're not really. I frowned. And you mean it might be the same with the stars? You thinkmaybe I haven't grown up yet? Anxiety darkened your features. No, it'd be good to be a spaceman,to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is itworth the things you'd have to give up? I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, Give up what ? Then I looked at you and the promise in your eyes, and I knew. All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path. Government boarding school, the Academy, my eyes always upward and onthe stars. Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path thatI'd never noticed before. You can go into space , I thought, and try to do as much living inten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who diedin a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lieburied in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, likeCharlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternallyalone, never finding a home. Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earthin cool, comfortable houses. To be one of the solid, rooted people witha wife and kids. To be one of the people who live long enough to growold, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, whofill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonousdust. I'm sorry, you said. I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben. It's all right, I said, clenching my fists. You made sense—a lot ofsense. <doc-sep>The next morning Charlie said good-bye in our room. He rubbed hisscarred face nervously as he cleared his throat with a series of thin,tight coughs. Then he pointed to a brown, faded tin box lying on the bed. I'mleavin' that for you. It's full of old stuff, souvenirs mostly. Thoughtmaybe you'd like to have 'em. I scowled, not understanding. Why, Charlie? What for? He shrugged as if afraid he might be accused of sentimentality. Oh,it's just that I've been dodgin' meteors now for twenty-five years.That's a long time, boy. Ain't one spaceman in a thousand that lucky.Some of these days, I won't be so lucky. I tried to laugh. You're good for another twenty-five years, Charlie. He shook his head stiffly, staring at nothing. Maybe. Anyway, I'mgonna get off the Shuttle this time, make one more trip to Mars. Tellyou what. There's a little stone cafe on Mars, the Space Rat , justoff Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. When you get to Mars, take alook inside. I'll probably be there. He coughed again, a deep, rasping cough that filled his eyes with tears. Not used to this Earth air, he muttered. What I need's some Martianclimate. Suddenly that cough frightened me. It didn't seem normal. I wondered,too, about his stiff movements and glassy stare. It was as if he weredrugged. I shook the thought away. If Charlie was sick, he wouldn't talk aboutgoing to Mars. The medics wouldn't let him go even as far as Luna. We watched him leave, you and Mickey and I. When will you be back? you asked. Charlie's hard face contorted itself into a gargoylish grin. Maybe acouple of months, maybe a couple of years. You know spacemen. Then he waved and strode away, a strange, gray, withered gnome of a man. I wanted him to say something, to tell me the secret that would killthe doubt worming through my brain. But he rounded a corner, still grinning and waving, and then he wasgone. <doc-sep>That afternoon Mickey showed me his room. It was more like a boy'sroom than a spaceman's. In it were all the little things that kidstreasure—pennants, models of Everson's two ships, a tennis trophy,books, a home-made video. I began to realize how important a room like this could be to a boy.I could imagine, too, the happiness that parents felt as they watchedtheir children grow to adulthood. I'd missed something. My folks were shadow-people, my impressions ofthem drawn half from ancient photos, half from imagination. For me, ithad been a cold, automatic kind of life, the life of dormitories androutines and rules. I'd been so blinded by the brilliancy of my dreams,I hadn't realized I was different. My folks were killed in a rocket crash. If it weren't for rockets, I'dhave lived the kind of life a kid should live. Mickey noticed my frown. What's the matter, Ben? Still sore? I feel like a heel, but I'm justnot like you and Charlie, I guess. I— No, I understand, Mickey. I'm not sore, really. Listen, then. You haven't accepted any offer yet, have you? No. I got a couple of possibilities. Could get a berth on the Odyssey , the new ship being finished at Los Angeles. They want me,too, for the Moon Patrol, but that's old stuff, not much better thanteaching. I want to be in deep space. Well, how about staying with us till you decide? Might as well enjoyEarth life while you can. Okay? I felt like running from the house, to forget that it existed. I wantedsomeone to tell me one of the old stories about space, a tale ofcourage that would put fuel on dying dreams. But I wanted, also, to be with you, Laura, to see your smile and theflecks of silver in your eyes and the way your nose turned upward everso slightly when you laughed. You see, I loved you already, almost asmuch as I loved the stars. And I said, slowly, my voice sounding unfamiliar and far away, Sure,I'll stay, Mickey. Sure. <doc-sep>Forty days of joy, forty nights of fear and indecision. We did all thelittle things, like watching the rockets land at White Sands and flyingdown to the Gulf to swim in cool waters. You tried, unsuccessfully, toteach me to dance, and we talked about Everson and Charlie and the Moonand the stars. You felt you had to give the stars all the beauty andpromise of a child's dream, because you knew that was what I wanted. One morning I thought, Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have bothyou and the stars? Would that be asking too much? All day the thought lay in my mind like fire. That evening I asked you to marry me. I said it very simply: Laura, Iwant you to be my wife. You looked up at Venus, and you were silent for a long while, your faceflushed. Then you murmured, I—I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking meto marry a spaceman or a teacher? Can't a spaceman marry, too? Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see,Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for maybe two months, maybe twoyears. Then you'd have a twenty-four hour liberty—and I'd have what? Somehow I'd expected words like these, but still they hurt. I wouldn'thave to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years,then teach. Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn'tyou want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on? Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tearsglittering in your eyes. Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happenedon the Cyclops . There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship wasflooded with radiation—just for a second. It didn't seem serious. Themen had no burns. But a year later the captain had a child. And itwas— I know, Laura. Don't say it. You had to finish. It was a monster. That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let mesleep. You've got to decide now , I told myself. You can't stay here. You'vegot to make a choice. The teaching job was still open. The spot on the Odyssey was stillopen—and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all theway to Pluto. You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and ahome and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now. Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be aline in a history book. I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, Get the hell outof there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Getout there on the Odyssey where you belong. We got a date on Mars,remember? At the Space Rat , just off Chandler Field on the GrandCanal. That's what he'd say. And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always. Oh God, I moaned, what shall I do? <doc-sep>Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door andbrought back the audiogram. It was addressed to me; I wondered whocould be sending me a message. I pressed the stud on the little gray cylinder, and a rasping,automatic voice droned: Luna City, Luna, July 27, 1995. Regret toinform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman.... Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the wordlung-rot and the metallic phrase, This message brought to you bycourtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps. I stood staring at the cylinder. Charles Taggart was dead. Charles Taggart was Charlie. Stardust Charlie. My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie!The audiogram had lied! I pressed the stud again. ... regret to inform you of death ofCharles ... I hurled the cylinder at the wall. It thudded, fell, rolled. The brokenvoice droned on. You ran to it, shut it off. I'm sorry, Ben, so terribly— Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. Iremembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze.The metallic words had told the truth. I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed atCharlie's faded tin box. Then, finally, I fingered his meager possessions—a few wrinkledphotos, some letters, a small black statue of a forgotten Martian god,a gold service medal from the Moon Patrol. This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space.It was a bitter bargain. A statue instead of a wife, yellowed lettersinstead of children, a medal instead of a home. It'd be a great future , I thought. You'd dream of sitting in a dingystone dive on the Grand Canal with sand-wasps buzzing around smoky,stinking candles. A bottle of luchu juice and a couple of Martian girlswith dirty feet for company. And a sudden cough that would be the firstsign of lung-rot. To hell with it! I walked into your living room and called Dean Dawson on the visiphone. I accepted that job teaching. <doc-sep>And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping,and the house is silent. It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I amwriting this. I looked through Charlie's box again, more carefully this time, readingthe old letters and studying the photographs. I believe now thatCharlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that theycould tell me what he could not express in words. And among the things, Laura, I found a ring. A wedding ring. In that past he never talked about, there was a woman—his wife.Charlie was young once, his eyes full of dreams, and he faced the samedecision that I am facing. Two paths were before him, but he tried totravel both. He later learned what we already know—that there can beno compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose. Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So hecould look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could neverlive to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. Heleft himself, Laura, for he showed me that a boy's dream can also be aman's dream. He made his last trip to Luna when he knew he was going to die. Heavenknows how he escaped a checkup. Maybe the captain understood and waskind—but that doesn't matter now. Do you know why he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn'twant to die in the clean, cool air of Earth? It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was theUniverse, where the ship was his house, the crew his father, mother,brothers, the planets his children. You say that the beauty of the other side of the mountain vanishesafter you reach it. But how can one ever be sure until the journey ismade? Could I or Charlie or the thousand before us bear to look upon astar and think, I might have gone there; I could have been the first ? We said, too, that the life of a spaceman is lonely. Yet how could onebe lonely when men like Charlie roam the spaceways? Charlie wanted me to himself that night after graduation. He wanted usto celebrate as spacemen should, for he knew that this would be hislast night on Earth. It might have seemed an ugly kind of celebrationto you, but he wanted it with all his heart, and we robbed him of it. Because of these things, Laura, I will be gone in the morning. Explainthe best you can to Mickey and to your parents and Dean Dawson. Right now I've got a date that I'm going to keep—at a dingy stone cafeon Mars, the Space Rat , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. Stardust Charlie will be there; he'll go with me in memory to whateverpart of the Galaxy I may live to reach. And so will you, Laura. I have two wedding rings with me—his wife's ring and yours. <doc-sep></s>

When Ben meets Laura, Mickey’s sister, at his spaceman graduation, he feels an instant connection with her. He enjoys talking to her and wants to learn everything there is to know about her. Although he’s happy to see Charlie Taggart, the closest thing he has to a family member, he chooses spending time with Laura and her family over spending time with Charlie alone. He can’t help feeling drawn to her. At first, Ben is completely oblivious to the feelings that Laura has for him, but after a walk under the stars together, he sees that she also sees a future with him. He has never before considered living on earth, getting married, owning a house, and settling for a “boring” life, but after she suggests that visiting the stars might just be like her trip to England, he wonders if she’s right. Maybe he has hyped up space travel so much and it will end up being a disappointment. Maybe Mickey is onto something, and sacrificing a normal life on earth where living to old age is expected is not a choice he should give up so easily. Ben desperately wants to be with Laura. He loves her just as much as he loves the stars. He spends forty incredible days with the woman of his dreams, but in the end, it’s not enough to convince him to give up his lifelong dream of being a spaceman. Sure, he’s uncomfortable with the amount of pressure that’s put on him, and he recognizes that he will be risking his life every single day, but he can see that Charlie does not regret giving up the quiet homelife for the incredible adventures that await in space. Ben wants to be the first man to visit a planet or find a helpful mineral or create a useful colony, and his love for Laura cannot change his dreams.

<s> Birds of a Feather By ROBERT SILVERBERG Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine November 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo was no problem—they battled for the honor—but now I had to fight like a wildcat to keep a display from making a monkey of me! It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alienlife-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rentedoffice. As I came down the block from the hotel, I could hear and seeand smell them with ease. My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwisein front of me. I peered between them to size the crop up. The alienscame in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all ofthem eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarrebeings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the oldexhibitionist urge. Send them in one at a time, I told Stebbins. I ducked into theoffice, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession tobegin. The name of the planet was MacTavish IV (if you went by the officialTerran listing) or Ghryne (if you called it by what its people wereaccustomed to calling it). I thought of it privately as MacTavish IVand referred to it publicly as Ghryne. I believe in keeping the localshappy wherever I go. Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridimsign plastered to a facing wall: WANTED—EXTRATERRESTRIALS! We hadsaturated MacTavish IV with our promotional poop for a month precedingarrival. Stuff like this: Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusiveworld? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrillsof show business on romantic Terra? If you are a non-terrestrial,there may be a place for you in the Corrigan Institute ofMorphological Science. No freaks wanted—normal beings only. J. F.Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday toFifthday of Tenmonth. His last visit to the Caledonia Cluster until2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and richescan be yours! <doc-sep>Broadsides like that, distributed wholesale in half a thousandlanguages, always bring them running. And the Corrigan Institute reallypacks in the crowds back on Earth. Why not? It's the best of its kind,the only really decent place where Earthmen can get a gander at theother species of the universe. The office buzzer sounded. Auchinleck said unctuously, The firstapplicant is ready to see you, sir. Send him, her or it in. The door opened and a timid-looking life-form advanced toward me onnervous little legs. He was a globular creature about the size of abig basketball, yellowish-green, with two spindly double-kneed legs andfive double-elbowed arms, the latter spaced regularly around his body.There was a lidless eye at the top of his head and five lidded ones,one above each arm. Plus a big, gaping, toothless mouth. His voice was a surprisingly resounding basso. You are Mr. Corrigan? That's right. I reached for a data blank. Before we begin, I'll needcertain information about— I am a being of Regulus II, came the grave, booming reply, evenbefore I had picked up the blank. I need no special care and I am nota fugitive from the law of any world. Your name? Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I throttled my exclamation of surprise, concealing it behind a quickcough. Let me have that again, please? Certainly. My name is Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. The 'R' stands forRaymond. Of course, that's not the name you were born with. The being closed his eyes and toddled around in a 360-degree rotation,remaining in place. On his world, that gesture is the equivalent ofan apologetic smile. My Regulan name no longer matters. I am now andshall evermore be Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I am a Terraphile, you see. <doc-sep>The little Regulan was as good as hired. Only the formalities remained.You understand our terms, Mr. Fitzgerald? I'll be placed on exhibition at your Institute on Earth. You'll payfor my services, transportation and expenses. I'll be required toremain on exhibit no more than one-third of each Terran sidereal day. And the pay will be—ah—$50 Galactic a week, plus expenses andtransportation. The spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clappingon one side, two on the other. Wonderful! I will see Earth at last! Iaccept the terms! I buzzed for Ludlow and gave him the fast signal that meant we weresigning this alien up at half the usual pay, and Ludlow took him intothe other office to sign him up. I grinned, pleased with myself. We needed a green Regulan in our show;the last one had quit four years ago. But just because we needed himdidn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. A Terraphile alienwho goes to the extent of rechristening himself with a Terran monickerwould work for nothing, or even pay us, just so long as we let him getto Earth. My conscience won't let me really exploit a being, but Idon't believe in throwing money away, either. The next applicant was a beefy ursinoid from Aldebaran IX. Our outfithas all the ursinoids it needs or is likely to need in the next fewdecades, and so I got rid of him in a couple of minutes. He wasfollowed by a roly-poly blue-skinned humanoid from Donovan's Planet,four feet high and five hundred pounds heavy. We already had a coupleof his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, beingso plump and cheerful. I passed him along to Auchinleck to sign atanything short of top rate. Next came a bedraggled Sirian spider who was more interested in ahandout than a job. If there's any species we have a real over-supplyof, it's those silver-colored spiders, but this seedy specimen gave ita try anyway. He got the gate in half a minute, and he didn't even getthe handout he was angling for. I don't approve of begging. The flora of applicants was steady. Ghryne is in the heart of theCaledonia Cluster, where the interstellar crossroads meet. We hadfigured to pick up plenty of new exhibits here and we were right. <doc-sep>It was the isolationism of the late 29th century that turned me intothe successful proprietor of Corrigan's Institute, after some yearsas an impoverished carnival man in the Betelgeuse system. Back in2903, the World Congress declared Terra off-bounds for non-terrestrialbeings, as an offshoot of the Terra for Terrans movement. Before then, anyone could visit Earth. After the gate clanged down,a non-terrestrial could only get onto Sol III as a specimen in ascientific collection—in short, as an exhibit in a zoo. That's what the Corrigan Institute of Morphological Science really is,of course. A zoo. But we don't go out and hunt for our specimens; weadvertise and they come flocking to us. Every alien wants to see Earthonce in his lifetime, and there's only one way he can do it. We don't keep too big an inventory. At last count, we had 690 specimensbefore this trip, representing 298 different intelligent life-forms.My goal is at least one member of at least 500 different races. When Ireach that, I'll sit back and let the competition catch up—if it can. After an hour of steady work that morning, we had signed eleven newspecimens. At the same time, we had turned away a dozen ursinoids,fifty of the reptilian natives of Ghryne, seven Sirian spiders, and noless than nineteen chlorine-breathing Procyonites wearing gas masks. It was also my sad duty to nix a Vegan who was negotiating through aGhrynian agent. A Vegan would be a top-flight attraction, being some400 feet long and appropriately fearsome to the eye, but I didn't seehow we could take one on. They're gentle and likable beings, but theirupkeep runs into literally tons of fresh meat a day, and not just anyold kind of meat either. So we had to do without the Vegan. One more specimen before lunch, I told Stebbins, to make it an evendozen. He looked at me queerly and nodded. A being entered. I took a longclose look at the life-form when it came in, and after that I tookanother one. I wondered what kind of stunt was being pulled. So far asI could tell, the being was quite plainly nothing but an Earthman. He sat down facing me without being asked and crossed his legs. He wastall and extremely thin, with pale blue eyes and dirty-blond hair, andthough he was clean and reasonably well dressed, he had a shabby lookabout him. He said, in level Terran accents, I'm looking for a jobwith your outfit, Corrigan. There's been a mistake. We're interested in non-terrestrials only. I'm a non-terrestrial. My name is Ildwar Gorb, of the planet WazzenazzXIII. <doc-sep>I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity. I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job. Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am. I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus? No. And it's not a circus. It's— A scientific institute. I stand corrected. There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well? I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech. Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb. He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And— I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated. All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll— Good-by, Mr. Gorb! He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance. He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job! But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome. I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands. <doc-sep>The first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of aKallerian. The Kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. Ihad turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from Miazan,and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the Delta Worlds.Hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when theKallerian came striding in, not even waiting for Stebbins to admit himofficially. He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high,and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his threestocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture,and growled, I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign meimmediately to a contract. Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks. You will grant me a contract! Will you please sit down? He said sulkily, I will remain standing. As you prefer. My desk has a few concealed features which aresometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointedlife-forms. My fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case oftrouble. The Kallerian stood motionless before me. They're hairy creatures, andthis one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering hisbody. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanketof fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of hiswarlike race. I said, You'll have to understand, Freeman Heraal, that it's not ourpolicy to maintain more than a few members of each species at ourInstitute. And we're not currently in need of any Kallerian males,because— You will hire me or trouble I will make! I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were alreadycarrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty. The beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. Yes, you havefour representatives—of the Clan Verdrokh! None of the Clan Gursdrinn!For three years, I have waited for a chance to avenge this insult tothe noble Clan Gursdrinn! At the key-word avenge , I readied myself to ensnarl the Kallerianin a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but hedidn't move. He bellowed, I have vowed a vow, Earthman. Take me toEarth, enroll a Gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible! <doc-sep>I'm a man of principles, like all straightforward double-dealers, andone of the most important of those principles is that I never letmyself be bullied by anyone. I deeply regret having unintentionallyinsulted your clan, Freeman Heraal. Will you accept my apologies? He glared at me in silence. I went on, Please be assured that I'll undo the insult at the earliestpossible opportunity. It's not feasible for us to hire anotherKallerian now, but I'll give preference to the Clan Gursdrinn as soonas a vacancy— No. You will hire me now. It can't be done, Freeman Heraal. We have a budget, and we stick toit. You will rue! I will take drastic measures! Threats will get you nowhere, Freeman Heraal. I give you my word I'llget in touch with you as soon as our organization has room for anotherKallerian. And now, please, there are many applicants waiting— You'd think it would be sort of humiliating to become a specimen in azoo, but most of these races take it as an honor. And there's alwaysthe chance that, by picking a given member of a race, we're insultingall the others. I nudged the trouble-button on the side of my desk and Auchinleck andLudlow appeared simultaneously from the two doors at right and left.They surrounded the towering Kallerian and sweet-talkingly led himaway. He wasn't minded to quarrel physically, or he could have knockedthem both into the next city with a backhand swipe of his shaggy paw,but he kept up a growling flow of invective and threats until he wasout in the hall. I mopped sweat from my forehead and began to buzz Stebbins for the nextapplicant. But before my finger touched the button, the door poppedopen and a small being came scooting in, followed by an angry Stebbins. Come here, you! Stebbins? I said gently. I'm sorry, Mr. Corrigan. I lost sight of this one for a moment, and hecame running in— Please, please, squeaked the little alien pitifully. I must see you,honored sir! It isn't his turn in line, Stebbins protested. There are at leastfifty ahead of him. All right, I said tiredly. As long as he's in here already, I mightas well see him. Be more careful next time, Stebbins. Stebbins nodded dolefully and backed out. <doc-sep>The alien was a pathetic sight: a Stortulian, a squirrely-lookingcreature about three feet high. His fur, which should have been alustrous black, was a dull gray, and his eyes were wet and sad. Histail drooped. His voice was little more than a faint whimper, even atfull volume. Begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. I am abeing of Stortul XII, having sold my last few possessions to travelto Ghryne for the miserable purpose of obtaining an interview withyourself. I said, I'd better tell you right at the outset that we're alreadycarrying our full complement of Stortulians. We have both a male and afemale now and— This is known to me. The female—is her name perchance Tiress? I glanced down at the inventory chart until I found the Stortulianentry. Yes, that's her name. The little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. It is she!It is she! I'm afraid we don't have room for any more— You are not in full understanding of my plight. The female Tiress,she is—was—my own Fire-sent spouse, my comfort and my warmth, my lifeand my love. Funny, I said. When we signed her three years ago, she said she wassingle. It's right here on the chart. She lied! She left my burrow because she longed to see the splendorsof Earth. And I am alone, bound by our sacred customs never to remarry,languishing in sadness and pining for her return. You must take me toEarth! But— I must see her—her and this disgrace-bringing lover of hers. I mustreason with her. Earthman, can't you see I must appeal to her innerflame? I must bring her back! My face was expressionless. You don't really intend to join ourorganization at all—you just want free passage to Earth? Yes, yes! wailed the Stortulian. Find some other member of my race,if you must! Let me have my wife again, Earthman! Is your heart a deadlump of stone? <doc-sep>It isn't, but another of my principles is to refuse to be swayed bysentiment. I felt sorry for this being's domestic troubles, but Iwasn't going to break up a good act just to make an alien squirrelhappy—not to mention footing the transportation. I said, I don't see how we can manage it. The laws are very stricton the subject of bringing alien life to Earth. It has to be forscientific purposes only. And if I know in advance that your purpose incoming isn't scientific, I can't in all conscience lie for you, canI? Well— Of course not. I took advantage of his pathetic upset to steam rightalong. Now if you had come in here and simply asked me to sign you up,I might conceivably have done it. But no—you had to go unburden yourheart to me. I thought the truth would move you. It did. But in effect you're now asking me to conspire in a fraudulentcriminal act. Friend, I can't do it. My reputation means too much tome, I said piously. Then you will refuse me? My heart melts to nothingness for you. But I can't take you to Earth. Perhaps you will send my wife to me here? There's a clause in every contract that allows me to jettison anunwanted specimen. All I have to do is declare it no longer ofscientific interest, and the World Government will deport theundesirable alien back to its home world. But I wouldn't pull a lowtrick like that on our female Stortulian. I said, I'll ask her about coming home. But I won't ship her backagainst her will. And maybe she's happier where she is. The Stortulian seemed to shrivel. His eyelids closed half-way to maskhis tears. He turned and shambled slowly to the door, walking like aliving dishrag. In a bleak voice, he said, There is no hope then. Allis lost. I will never see my soulmate again. Good day, Earthman. He spoke in a drab monotone that almost, but not quite, had me weeping.I watched him shuffle out. I do have some conscience, and I had theuneasy feeling I had just been talking to a being who was about tocommit suicide on my account. <doc-sep>About fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. Then lifestarted to get complicated again. Nine of the fifty were okay. The rest were unacceptable for one reasonor another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. The haul for theday so far was close to two dozen new life-forms under contract. I had just about begun to forget about the incidents of the Kallerian'soutraged pride and the Stortulian's flighty wife when the door openedand the Earthman who called himself Ildwar Gorb of Wazzenazz XIIIstepped in. How did you get in here? I demanded. Your man happened to be looking the wrong way, he said cheerily.Change your mind about me yet? Get out before I have you thrown out. Gorb shrugged. I figured you hadn't changed your mind, so I've changedmy pitch a bit. If you won't believe I'm from Wazzenazz XIII, suppose Itell you that I am Earthborn, and that I'm looking for a job on yourstaff. I don't care what your story is! Get out or— —you'll have me thrown out. Okay, okay. Just give me half a second.Corrigan, you're no fool, and neither am I—but that fellow of yoursoutside is . He doesn't know how to handle alien beings. How manytimes today has a life-form come in here unexpectedly? I scowled at him. Too damn many. You see? He's incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead.I've been living in the outworlds half my life; I know all there is toknow about alien life-forms. You can use me, Corrigan. I took a deep breath and glanced all around the paneled ceiling ofthe office before I spoke. Listen, Gorb, or whatever your name is,I've had a hard day. There's been a Kallerian in here who just aboutthreatened murder, and there's been a Stortulian in here who's aboutto commit suicide because of me. I have a conscience and it's troublingme. But get this: I just want to finish off my recruiting, pack up andgo home to Earth. I don't want you hanging around here bothering me.I'm not looking to hire new staff members, and if you switch back toclaiming you're an unknown life-form from Wazzenazz XIII, the answer isthat I'm not looking for any of those either. Now will you scram or— The office door crashed open at that point and Heraal, the Kallerian,came thundering in. He was dressed from head to toe in glitteringmetalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster, he was wieldinga sword the length of a human being. Stebbins and Auchinleck camedragging helplessly along in his wake, hanging desperately to his belt. Sorry, Chief, Stebbins gasped. I tried to keep him out, but— Heraal, who had planted himself in front of my desk, drowned him outwith a roar. Earthman, you have mortally insulted the Clan Gursdrinn! <doc-sep>Sitting with my hands poised near the meshgun trigger, I was ready tolet him have it at the first sight of actual violence. Heraal boomed, You are responsible for what is to happen now. I havenotified the authorities and you prosecuted will be for causing thedeath of a life-form! Suffer, Earthborn ape! Suffer! Watch it, Chief, Stebbins yelled. He's going to— An instant before my numb fingers could tighten on the meshguntrigger, Heraal swung that huge sword through the air and plunged itsavagely through his body. He toppled forward onto the carpet with thesword projecting a couple of feet out of his back. A few driblets ofbluish-purple blood spread from beneath him. Before I could react to the big life-form's hara-kiri, the office doorflew open again and three sleek reptilian beings entered, garbed in thegreen sashes of the local police force. Their golden eyes goggled downat the figure on the floor, then came to rest on me. You are J. F. Corrigan? the leader asked. Y-yes. We have received word of a complaint against you. Said complaintbeing— —that your unethical actions have directly contributed to theuntimely death of an intelligent life-form, filled in the second ofthe Ghrynian policemen. The evidence lies before us, intoned the leader, in the cadaverof the unfortunate Kallerian who filed the complaint with us severalminutes ago. And therefore, said the third lizard, it is our duty to arrestyou for this crime and declare you subject to a fine of no less than$100,000 Galactic or two years in prison. Hold on! I stormed. You mean that any being from anywhere in theUniverse can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and I'm responsible? This is the law. Do you deny that your stubborn refusal to yield tothis late life-form's request lies at the root of his sad demise? Well, no, but— Failure to deny is admission of guilt. You are guilty, Earthman. <doc-sep>Closing my eyes wearily, I tried to wish the whole babbling lot of themaway. If I had to, I could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it wasgoing to put an awful dent in this year's take. And I shuddered when Iremembered that any minute that scrawny little Stortulian was likely tocome bursting in here to kill himself too. Was it a fine of $100,000per suicide? At that rate, I could be out of business by nightfall. I was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannouncedarrival. The small figure of the Stortulian trudged through the open doorwayand stationed itself limply near the threshold. The three Ghrynianpolicemen and my three assistants forgot the dead Kallerian for amoment and turned to eye the newcomer. I had visions of unending troubles with the law here on Ghryne. Iresolved never to come here on a recruiting trip again—or, if I did come, to figure out some more effective way of screening myself againstcrackpots. In heart-rending tones, the Stortulian declared, Life is no longerworth living. My last hope is gone. There is only one thing left for meto do. I was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackersgoing down the drain. Stop him, somebody! He's going to kill himself!He's— Then somebody sprinted toward me, hit me amidships, and knocked meflying out from behind my desk before I had a chance to fire themeshgun. My head walloped the floor, and for five or six seconds, Iguess I wasn't fully aware of what was going on. Gradually the scene took shape around me. There was a monstrous holein the wall behind my desk; a smoking blaster lay on the floor, and Isaw the three Ghrynian policemen sitting on the raving Stortulian. Theman who called himself Ildwar Gorb was getting to his feet and dustinghimself off. He helped me up. Sorry to have had to tackle you, Corrigan. But thatStortulian wasn't here to commit suicide, you see. He was out to getyou. I weaved dizzily toward my desk and dropped into my chair. A flyingfragment of wall had deflated my pneumatic cushion. The smell of ashedplaster was everywhere. The police were effectively cocooning thestruggling little alien in an unbreakable tanglemesh. Evidently you don't know as much as you think you do about Stortulianpsychology, Corrigan, Gorb said lightly. Suicide is completelyabhorrent to them. When they're troubled, they kill the person whocaused their trouble. In this case, you. <doc-sep>I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than afull-bodied laugh. Funny, I said. What is? asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian. These aliens. Big blustery Heraal came in with murder in his eye andkilled himself , and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek andpathetic damn near blew my head off. I shuddered. Thanks for thetackle job. Don't mention it, Gorb said. I glared at the Ghrynian police. Well? What are you waiting for? Takethat murderous little beast out of here! Or isn't murder against thelocal laws? The Stortulian will be duly punished, replied the leader of theGhrynian cops calmly. But there is the matter of the dead Kallerianand the fine of— —one hundred thousand dollars. I know. I groaned and turned toStebbins. Get the Terran Consulate on the phone, Stebbins. Have themsend down a legal adviser. Find out if there's any way we can get outof this mess with our skins intact. Right, Chief. Stebbins moved toward the visiphone. Gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest. Hold it, the Wazzenazzian said crisply. The Consulate can't helpyou. I can. You? I said. I can get you out of this cheap. How cheap? Gorb grinned rakishly. Five thousand in cash plus a contract as aspecimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That's a heck of alot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn't it? I eyed Gorb uncertainly. The Terran Consulate people probably wouldn'tbe much help; they tried to keep out of local squabbles unless theywere really serious, and I knew from past experiences that no officialsever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand,giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition. Tell you what, I said finally. You've got yourself a deal—but ona contingency basis. Get me out of this and you'll have five grand andthe contract. Otherwise, nothing. Gorb shrugged. What have I to lose? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Sometime after the year 2903, the narrator of the story, Mr. Corrigan, is having a recruiting day on the planet of Ghryne, which he privately calls MacTavish IV. Mr. Corrigan owns a popular zoo on Earth called the Corrigan Institute - the only place where humans can see other species of the universe. He recruits alien life forms to exhibit at the zoo, and relatively quickly signs eleven new specimens onto his current 690 that are under contract at the institute on earth. This is a viable business because the World Congress declared Earth off-bounds to aliens in 2903, and the only way aliens can now go to Earth is as exhibits in this zoo.Aliens make great sacrifices to come interview with Mr. Corrigan, as it seems he offers them a good deal. Those under contract are required to remain on exhibit for less than one-third of each day and get paid $50 Galactic a week, with expenses and transportation included. He interviews many different creatures through the day, with some being noteworthy and some not as much, being ushered away quickly by Mr. Corrigan’s assistant Stebbins. A Stortulian who claims his wife ran away to the Corrigan Institute, leaving him alone and unable to remarry due to his customs, pleads with Corrigan to let him go to Earth or at the very least to send her back. Mr. Corrigan is slightly frazzled by the story, but ultimately asks the Stortulian to leave, feeling sad and that he may commit suicide upon leaving and losing hope for his wife to return.Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV, was another notable interview. He stormed in and demanded to be signed to contract - and Mr. Corrigan preferred to make his own decisions. Herald felt insulted that the only four Kallerians at the institute were from the Clan Verdrokh, with no representation at all from his Clan Gursdrinn. Corrigan insisted he was unable to take another Kallerian, and apologized for insulting Clan Gursdrinn. This was enough to de-escalate physical violence, but Heraal was not pleased, and had to be escorted out of the room by Auchinleck and Ludlow who were summoned when Corrigan pushed a panic button under his desk.In a surprise twist from what Corrigan had expected - the Stortulian to kill himself, and for Heraal to try to kill him - the opposite happens. Heraal storms in and stabs himself with his own sword, killing him instantly. The Stortulian returns and attempts to murder Mr. Corrigan, who is narrowly saved by being tackled by Gorb. The Ghrynian cops attempt to place a $100,000 fine on Corrigan for causing the death of a being (Heraal, who killed himself after being refused a contract). Gorb offers to get Corrigan out of the situation for $5000 and a contract to the institute, which is accepted.

<s> Birds of a Feather By ROBERT SILVERBERG Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine November 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo was no problem—they battled for the honor—but now I had to fight like a wildcat to keep a display from making a monkey of me! It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alienlife-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rentedoffice. As I came down the block from the hotel, I could hear and seeand smell them with ease. My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwisein front of me. I peered between them to size the crop up. The alienscame in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all ofthem eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarrebeings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the oldexhibitionist urge. Send them in one at a time, I told Stebbins. I ducked into theoffice, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession tobegin. The name of the planet was MacTavish IV (if you went by the officialTerran listing) or Ghryne (if you called it by what its people wereaccustomed to calling it). I thought of it privately as MacTavish IVand referred to it publicly as Ghryne. I believe in keeping the localshappy wherever I go. Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridimsign plastered to a facing wall: WANTED—EXTRATERRESTRIALS! We hadsaturated MacTavish IV with our promotional poop for a month precedingarrival. Stuff like this: Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusiveworld? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrillsof show business on romantic Terra? If you are a non-terrestrial,there may be a place for you in the Corrigan Institute ofMorphological Science. No freaks wanted—normal beings only. J. F.Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday toFifthday of Tenmonth. His last visit to the Caledonia Cluster until2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and richescan be yours! <doc-sep>Broadsides like that, distributed wholesale in half a thousandlanguages, always bring them running. And the Corrigan Institute reallypacks in the crowds back on Earth. Why not? It's the best of its kind,the only really decent place where Earthmen can get a gander at theother species of the universe. The office buzzer sounded. Auchinleck said unctuously, The firstapplicant is ready to see you, sir. Send him, her or it in. The door opened and a timid-looking life-form advanced toward me onnervous little legs. He was a globular creature about the size of abig basketball, yellowish-green, with two spindly double-kneed legs andfive double-elbowed arms, the latter spaced regularly around his body.There was a lidless eye at the top of his head and five lidded ones,one above each arm. Plus a big, gaping, toothless mouth. His voice was a surprisingly resounding basso. You are Mr. Corrigan? That's right. I reached for a data blank. Before we begin, I'll needcertain information about— I am a being of Regulus II, came the grave, booming reply, evenbefore I had picked up the blank. I need no special care and I am nota fugitive from the law of any world. Your name? Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I throttled my exclamation of surprise, concealing it behind a quickcough. Let me have that again, please? Certainly. My name is Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. The 'R' stands forRaymond. Of course, that's not the name you were born with. The being closed his eyes and toddled around in a 360-degree rotation,remaining in place. On his world, that gesture is the equivalent ofan apologetic smile. My Regulan name no longer matters. I am now andshall evermore be Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I am a Terraphile, you see. <doc-sep>The little Regulan was as good as hired. Only the formalities remained.You understand our terms, Mr. Fitzgerald? I'll be placed on exhibition at your Institute on Earth. You'll payfor my services, transportation and expenses. I'll be required toremain on exhibit no more than one-third of each Terran sidereal day. And the pay will be—ah—$50 Galactic a week, plus expenses andtransportation. The spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clappingon one side, two on the other. Wonderful! I will see Earth at last! Iaccept the terms! I buzzed for Ludlow and gave him the fast signal that meant we weresigning this alien up at half the usual pay, and Ludlow took him intothe other office to sign him up. I grinned, pleased with myself. We needed a green Regulan in our show;the last one had quit four years ago. But just because we needed himdidn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. A Terraphile alienwho goes to the extent of rechristening himself with a Terran monickerwould work for nothing, or even pay us, just so long as we let him getto Earth. My conscience won't let me really exploit a being, but Idon't believe in throwing money away, either. The next applicant was a beefy ursinoid from Aldebaran IX. Our outfithas all the ursinoids it needs or is likely to need in the next fewdecades, and so I got rid of him in a couple of minutes. He wasfollowed by a roly-poly blue-skinned humanoid from Donovan's Planet,four feet high and five hundred pounds heavy. We already had a coupleof his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, beingso plump and cheerful. I passed him along to Auchinleck to sign atanything short of top rate. Next came a bedraggled Sirian spider who was more interested in ahandout than a job. If there's any species we have a real over-supplyof, it's those silver-colored spiders, but this seedy specimen gave ita try anyway. He got the gate in half a minute, and he didn't even getthe handout he was angling for. I don't approve of begging. The flora of applicants was steady. Ghryne is in the heart of theCaledonia Cluster, where the interstellar crossroads meet. We hadfigured to pick up plenty of new exhibits here and we were right. <doc-sep>It was the isolationism of the late 29th century that turned me intothe successful proprietor of Corrigan's Institute, after some yearsas an impoverished carnival man in the Betelgeuse system. Back in2903, the World Congress declared Terra off-bounds for non-terrestrialbeings, as an offshoot of the Terra for Terrans movement. Before then, anyone could visit Earth. After the gate clanged down,a non-terrestrial could only get onto Sol III as a specimen in ascientific collection—in short, as an exhibit in a zoo. That's what the Corrigan Institute of Morphological Science really is,of course. A zoo. But we don't go out and hunt for our specimens; weadvertise and they come flocking to us. Every alien wants to see Earthonce in his lifetime, and there's only one way he can do it. We don't keep too big an inventory. At last count, we had 690 specimensbefore this trip, representing 298 different intelligent life-forms.My goal is at least one member of at least 500 different races. When Ireach that, I'll sit back and let the competition catch up—if it can. After an hour of steady work that morning, we had signed eleven newspecimens. At the same time, we had turned away a dozen ursinoids,fifty of the reptilian natives of Ghryne, seven Sirian spiders, and noless than nineteen chlorine-breathing Procyonites wearing gas masks. It was also my sad duty to nix a Vegan who was negotiating through aGhrynian agent. A Vegan would be a top-flight attraction, being some400 feet long and appropriately fearsome to the eye, but I didn't seehow we could take one on. They're gentle and likable beings, but theirupkeep runs into literally tons of fresh meat a day, and not just anyold kind of meat either. So we had to do without the Vegan. One more specimen before lunch, I told Stebbins, to make it an evendozen. He looked at me queerly and nodded. A being entered. I took a longclose look at the life-form when it came in, and after that I tookanother one. I wondered what kind of stunt was being pulled. So far asI could tell, the being was quite plainly nothing but an Earthman. He sat down facing me without being asked and crossed his legs. He wastall and extremely thin, with pale blue eyes and dirty-blond hair, andthough he was clean and reasonably well dressed, he had a shabby lookabout him. He said, in level Terran accents, I'm looking for a jobwith your outfit, Corrigan. There's been a mistake. We're interested in non-terrestrials only. I'm a non-terrestrial. My name is Ildwar Gorb, of the planet WazzenazzXIII. <doc-sep>I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity. I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job. Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am. I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus? No. And it's not a circus. It's— A scientific institute. I stand corrected. There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well? I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech. Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb. He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And— I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated. All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll— Good-by, Mr. Gorb! He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance. He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job! But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome. I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands. <doc-sep>The first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of aKallerian. The Kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. Ihad turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from Miazan,and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the Delta Worlds.Hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when theKallerian came striding in, not even waiting for Stebbins to admit himofficially. He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high,and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his threestocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture,and growled, I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign meimmediately to a contract. Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks. You will grant me a contract! Will you please sit down? He said sulkily, I will remain standing. As you prefer. My desk has a few concealed features which aresometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointedlife-forms. My fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case oftrouble. The Kallerian stood motionless before me. They're hairy creatures, andthis one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering hisbody. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanketof fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of hiswarlike race. I said, You'll have to understand, Freeman Heraal, that it's not ourpolicy to maintain more than a few members of each species at ourInstitute. And we're not currently in need of any Kallerian males,because— You will hire me or trouble I will make! I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were alreadycarrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty. The beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. Yes, you havefour representatives—of the Clan Verdrokh! None of the Clan Gursdrinn!For three years, I have waited for a chance to avenge this insult tothe noble Clan Gursdrinn! At the key-word avenge , I readied myself to ensnarl the Kallerianin a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but hedidn't move. He bellowed, I have vowed a vow, Earthman. Take me toEarth, enroll a Gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible! <doc-sep>I'm a man of principles, like all straightforward double-dealers, andone of the most important of those principles is that I never letmyself be bullied by anyone. I deeply regret having unintentionallyinsulted your clan, Freeman Heraal. Will you accept my apologies? He glared at me in silence. I went on, Please be assured that I'll undo the insult at the earliestpossible opportunity. It's not feasible for us to hire anotherKallerian now, but I'll give preference to the Clan Gursdrinn as soonas a vacancy— No. You will hire me now. It can't be done, Freeman Heraal. We have a budget, and we stick toit. You will rue! I will take drastic measures! Threats will get you nowhere, Freeman Heraal. I give you my word I'llget in touch with you as soon as our organization has room for anotherKallerian. And now, please, there are many applicants waiting— You'd think it would be sort of humiliating to become a specimen in azoo, but most of these races take it as an honor. And there's alwaysthe chance that, by picking a given member of a race, we're insultingall the others. I nudged the trouble-button on the side of my desk and Auchinleck andLudlow appeared simultaneously from the two doors at right and left.They surrounded the towering Kallerian and sweet-talkingly led himaway. He wasn't minded to quarrel physically, or he could have knockedthem both into the next city with a backhand swipe of his shaggy paw,but he kept up a growling flow of invective and threats until he wasout in the hall. I mopped sweat from my forehead and began to buzz Stebbins for the nextapplicant. But before my finger touched the button, the door poppedopen and a small being came scooting in, followed by an angry Stebbins. Come here, you! Stebbins? I said gently. I'm sorry, Mr. Corrigan. I lost sight of this one for a moment, and hecame running in— Please, please, squeaked the little alien pitifully. I must see you,honored sir! It isn't his turn in line, Stebbins protested. There are at leastfifty ahead of him. All right, I said tiredly. As long as he's in here already, I mightas well see him. Be more careful next time, Stebbins. Stebbins nodded dolefully and backed out. <doc-sep>The alien was a pathetic sight: a Stortulian, a squirrely-lookingcreature about three feet high. His fur, which should have been alustrous black, was a dull gray, and his eyes were wet and sad. Histail drooped. His voice was little more than a faint whimper, even atfull volume. Begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. I am abeing of Stortul XII, having sold my last few possessions to travelto Ghryne for the miserable purpose of obtaining an interview withyourself. I said, I'd better tell you right at the outset that we're alreadycarrying our full complement of Stortulians. We have both a male and afemale now and— This is known to me. The female—is her name perchance Tiress? I glanced down at the inventory chart until I found the Stortulianentry. Yes, that's her name. The little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. It is she!It is she! I'm afraid we don't have room for any more— You are not in full understanding of my plight. The female Tiress,she is—was—my own Fire-sent spouse, my comfort and my warmth, my lifeand my love. Funny, I said. When we signed her three years ago, she said she wassingle. It's right here on the chart. She lied! She left my burrow because she longed to see the splendorsof Earth. And I am alone, bound by our sacred customs never to remarry,languishing in sadness and pining for her return. You must take me toEarth! But— I must see her—her and this disgrace-bringing lover of hers. I mustreason with her. Earthman, can't you see I must appeal to her innerflame? I must bring her back! My face was expressionless. You don't really intend to join ourorganization at all—you just want free passage to Earth? Yes, yes! wailed the Stortulian. Find some other member of my race,if you must! Let me have my wife again, Earthman! Is your heart a deadlump of stone? <doc-sep>It isn't, but another of my principles is to refuse to be swayed bysentiment. I felt sorry for this being's domestic troubles, but Iwasn't going to break up a good act just to make an alien squirrelhappy—not to mention footing the transportation. I said, I don't see how we can manage it. The laws are very stricton the subject of bringing alien life to Earth. It has to be forscientific purposes only. And if I know in advance that your purpose incoming isn't scientific, I can't in all conscience lie for you, canI? Well— Of course not. I took advantage of his pathetic upset to steam rightalong. Now if you had come in here and simply asked me to sign you up,I might conceivably have done it. But no—you had to go unburden yourheart to me. I thought the truth would move you. It did. But in effect you're now asking me to conspire in a fraudulentcriminal act. Friend, I can't do it. My reputation means too much tome, I said piously. Then you will refuse me? My heart melts to nothingness for you. But I can't take you to Earth. Perhaps you will send my wife to me here? There's a clause in every contract that allows me to jettison anunwanted specimen. All I have to do is declare it no longer ofscientific interest, and the World Government will deport theundesirable alien back to its home world. But I wouldn't pull a lowtrick like that on our female Stortulian. I said, I'll ask her about coming home. But I won't ship her backagainst her will. And maybe she's happier where she is. The Stortulian seemed to shrivel. His eyelids closed half-way to maskhis tears. He turned and shambled slowly to the door, walking like aliving dishrag. In a bleak voice, he said, There is no hope then. Allis lost. I will never see my soulmate again. Good day, Earthman. He spoke in a drab monotone that almost, but not quite, had me weeping.I watched him shuffle out. I do have some conscience, and I had theuneasy feeling I had just been talking to a being who was about tocommit suicide on my account. <doc-sep>About fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. Then lifestarted to get complicated again. Nine of the fifty were okay. The rest were unacceptable for one reasonor another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. The haul for theday so far was close to two dozen new life-forms under contract. I had just about begun to forget about the incidents of the Kallerian'soutraged pride and the Stortulian's flighty wife when the door openedand the Earthman who called himself Ildwar Gorb of Wazzenazz XIIIstepped in. How did you get in here? I demanded. Your man happened to be looking the wrong way, he said cheerily.Change your mind about me yet? Get out before I have you thrown out. Gorb shrugged. I figured you hadn't changed your mind, so I've changedmy pitch a bit. If you won't believe I'm from Wazzenazz XIII, suppose Itell you that I am Earthborn, and that I'm looking for a job on yourstaff. I don't care what your story is! Get out or— —you'll have me thrown out. Okay, okay. Just give me half a second.Corrigan, you're no fool, and neither am I—but that fellow of yoursoutside is . He doesn't know how to handle alien beings. How manytimes today has a life-form come in here unexpectedly? I scowled at him. Too damn many. You see? He's incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead.I've been living in the outworlds half my life; I know all there is toknow about alien life-forms. You can use me, Corrigan. I took a deep breath and glanced all around the paneled ceiling ofthe office before I spoke. Listen, Gorb, or whatever your name is,I've had a hard day. There's been a Kallerian in here who just aboutthreatened murder, and there's been a Stortulian in here who's aboutto commit suicide because of me. I have a conscience and it's troublingme. But get this: I just want to finish off my recruiting, pack up andgo home to Earth. I don't want you hanging around here bothering me.I'm not looking to hire new staff members, and if you switch back toclaiming you're an unknown life-form from Wazzenazz XIII, the answer isthat I'm not looking for any of those either. Now will you scram or— The office door crashed open at that point and Heraal, the Kallerian,came thundering in. He was dressed from head to toe in glitteringmetalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster, he was wieldinga sword the length of a human being. Stebbins and Auchinleck camedragging helplessly along in his wake, hanging desperately to his belt. Sorry, Chief, Stebbins gasped. I tried to keep him out, but— Heraal, who had planted himself in front of my desk, drowned him outwith a roar. Earthman, you have mortally insulted the Clan Gursdrinn! <doc-sep>Sitting with my hands poised near the meshgun trigger, I was ready tolet him have it at the first sight of actual violence. Heraal boomed, You are responsible for what is to happen now. I havenotified the authorities and you prosecuted will be for causing thedeath of a life-form! Suffer, Earthborn ape! Suffer! Watch it, Chief, Stebbins yelled. He's going to— An instant before my numb fingers could tighten on the meshguntrigger, Heraal swung that huge sword through the air and plunged itsavagely through his body. He toppled forward onto the carpet with thesword projecting a couple of feet out of his back. A few driblets ofbluish-purple blood spread from beneath him. Before I could react to the big life-form's hara-kiri, the office doorflew open again and three sleek reptilian beings entered, garbed in thegreen sashes of the local police force. Their golden eyes goggled downat the figure on the floor, then came to rest on me. You are J. F. Corrigan? the leader asked. Y-yes. We have received word of a complaint against you. Said complaintbeing— —that your unethical actions have directly contributed to theuntimely death of an intelligent life-form, filled in the second ofthe Ghrynian policemen. The evidence lies before us, intoned the leader, in the cadaverof the unfortunate Kallerian who filed the complaint with us severalminutes ago. And therefore, said the third lizard, it is our duty to arrestyou for this crime and declare you subject to a fine of no less than$100,000 Galactic or two years in prison. Hold on! I stormed. You mean that any being from anywhere in theUniverse can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and I'm responsible? This is the law. Do you deny that your stubborn refusal to yield tothis late life-form's request lies at the root of his sad demise? Well, no, but— Failure to deny is admission of guilt. You are guilty, Earthman. <doc-sep>Closing my eyes wearily, I tried to wish the whole babbling lot of themaway. If I had to, I could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it wasgoing to put an awful dent in this year's take. And I shuddered when Iremembered that any minute that scrawny little Stortulian was likely tocome bursting in here to kill himself too. Was it a fine of $100,000per suicide? At that rate, I could be out of business by nightfall. I was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannouncedarrival. The small figure of the Stortulian trudged through the open doorwayand stationed itself limply near the threshold. The three Ghrynianpolicemen and my three assistants forgot the dead Kallerian for amoment and turned to eye the newcomer. I had visions of unending troubles with the law here on Ghryne. Iresolved never to come here on a recruiting trip again—or, if I did come, to figure out some more effective way of screening myself againstcrackpots. In heart-rending tones, the Stortulian declared, Life is no longerworth living. My last hope is gone. There is only one thing left for meto do. I was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackersgoing down the drain. Stop him, somebody! He's going to kill himself!He's— Then somebody sprinted toward me, hit me amidships, and knocked meflying out from behind my desk before I had a chance to fire themeshgun. My head walloped the floor, and for five or six seconds, Iguess I wasn't fully aware of what was going on. Gradually the scene took shape around me. There was a monstrous holein the wall behind my desk; a smoking blaster lay on the floor, and Isaw the three Ghrynian policemen sitting on the raving Stortulian. Theman who called himself Ildwar Gorb was getting to his feet and dustinghimself off. He helped me up. Sorry to have had to tackle you, Corrigan. But thatStortulian wasn't here to commit suicide, you see. He was out to getyou. I weaved dizzily toward my desk and dropped into my chair. A flyingfragment of wall had deflated my pneumatic cushion. The smell of ashedplaster was everywhere. The police were effectively cocooning thestruggling little alien in an unbreakable tanglemesh. Evidently you don't know as much as you think you do about Stortulianpsychology, Corrigan, Gorb said lightly. Suicide is completelyabhorrent to them. When they're troubled, they kill the person whocaused their trouble. In this case, you. <doc-sep>I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than afull-bodied laugh. Funny, I said. What is? asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian. These aliens. Big blustery Heraal came in with murder in his eye andkilled himself , and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek andpathetic damn near blew my head off. I shuddered. Thanks for thetackle job. Don't mention it, Gorb said. I glared at the Ghrynian police. Well? What are you waiting for? Takethat murderous little beast out of here! Or isn't murder against thelocal laws? The Stortulian will be duly punished, replied the leader of theGhrynian cops calmly. But there is the matter of the dead Kallerianand the fine of— —one hundred thousand dollars. I know. I groaned and turned toStebbins. Get the Terran Consulate on the phone, Stebbins. Have themsend down a legal adviser. Find out if there's any way we can get outof this mess with our skins intact. Right, Chief. Stebbins moved toward the visiphone. Gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest. Hold it, the Wazzenazzian said crisply. The Consulate can't helpyou. I can. You? I said. I can get you out of this cheap. How cheap? Gorb grinned rakishly. Five thousand in cash plus a contract as aspecimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That's a heck of alot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn't it? I eyed Gorb uncertainly. The Terran Consulate people probably wouldn'tbe much help; they tried to keep out of local squabbles unless theywere really serious, and I knew from past experiences that no officialsever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand,giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition. Tell you what, I said finally. You've got yourself a deal—but ona contingency basis. Get me out of this and you'll have five grand andthe contract. Otherwise, nothing. Gorb shrugged. What have I to lose? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Lawrence Raymond Fitzgerald is a being of Regulus II, who is a self-procclaimed Terrophile, who changed his name to a famous human’s which pleases Mr. Corrigan.Mr. Fitzgerald had a very deep voice, and was a yellow-green spherical shape the size of a basketball, with two double-kneed legs and five double-elbowed arms. He had size eyes, one with no eyelid right at the top of his head, and a mouth with no teeth.He was fortunate to be in-demand for the zoo - Mr. Corrigan saying that he needed a Regulan - and is signed extremely quickly onto contract with Mr. Corrigan during his interview. He’ll be paid $50 Galactic per week on Earth, which is very pleasing for him.

<s> Birds of a Feather By ROBERT SILVERBERG Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine November 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo was no problem—they battled for the honor—but now I had to fight like a wildcat to keep a display from making a monkey of me! It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alienlife-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rentedoffice. As I came down the block from the hotel, I could hear and seeand smell them with ease. My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwisein front of me. I peered between them to size the crop up. The alienscame in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all ofthem eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarrebeings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the oldexhibitionist urge. Send them in one at a time, I told Stebbins. I ducked into theoffice, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession tobegin. The name of the planet was MacTavish IV (if you went by the officialTerran listing) or Ghryne (if you called it by what its people wereaccustomed to calling it). I thought of it privately as MacTavish IVand referred to it publicly as Ghryne. I believe in keeping the localshappy wherever I go. Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridimsign plastered to a facing wall: WANTED—EXTRATERRESTRIALS! We hadsaturated MacTavish IV with our promotional poop for a month precedingarrival. Stuff like this: Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusiveworld? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrillsof show business on romantic Terra? If you are a non-terrestrial,there may be a place for you in the Corrigan Institute ofMorphological Science. No freaks wanted—normal beings only. J. F.Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday toFifthday of Tenmonth. His last visit to the Caledonia Cluster until2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and richescan be yours! <doc-sep>Broadsides like that, distributed wholesale in half a thousandlanguages, always bring them running. And the Corrigan Institute reallypacks in the crowds back on Earth. Why not? It's the best of its kind,the only really decent place where Earthmen can get a gander at theother species of the universe. The office buzzer sounded. Auchinleck said unctuously, The firstapplicant is ready to see you, sir. Send him, her or it in. The door opened and a timid-looking life-form advanced toward me onnervous little legs. He was a globular creature about the size of abig basketball, yellowish-green, with two spindly double-kneed legs andfive double-elbowed arms, the latter spaced regularly around his body.There was a lidless eye at the top of his head and five lidded ones,one above each arm. Plus a big, gaping, toothless mouth. His voice was a surprisingly resounding basso. You are Mr. Corrigan? That's right. I reached for a data blank. Before we begin, I'll needcertain information about— I am a being of Regulus II, came the grave, booming reply, evenbefore I had picked up the blank. I need no special care and I am nota fugitive from the law of any world. Your name? Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I throttled my exclamation of surprise, concealing it behind a quickcough. Let me have that again, please? Certainly. My name is Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. The 'R' stands forRaymond. Of course, that's not the name you were born with. The being closed his eyes and toddled around in a 360-degree rotation,remaining in place. On his world, that gesture is the equivalent ofan apologetic smile. My Regulan name no longer matters. I am now andshall evermore be Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I am a Terraphile, you see. <doc-sep>The little Regulan was as good as hired. Only the formalities remained.You understand our terms, Mr. Fitzgerald? I'll be placed on exhibition at your Institute on Earth. You'll payfor my services, transportation and expenses. I'll be required toremain on exhibit no more than one-third of each Terran sidereal day. And the pay will be—ah—$50 Galactic a week, plus expenses andtransportation. The spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clappingon one side, two on the other. Wonderful! I will see Earth at last! Iaccept the terms! I buzzed for Ludlow and gave him the fast signal that meant we weresigning this alien up at half the usual pay, and Ludlow took him intothe other office to sign him up. I grinned, pleased with myself. We needed a green Regulan in our show;the last one had quit four years ago. But just because we needed himdidn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. A Terraphile alienwho goes to the extent of rechristening himself with a Terran monickerwould work for nothing, or even pay us, just so long as we let him getto Earth. My conscience won't let me really exploit a being, but Idon't believe in throwing money away, either. The next applicant was a beefy ursinoid from Aldebaran IX. Our outfithas all the ursinoids it needs or is likely to need in the next fewdecades, and so I got rid of him in a couple of minutes. He wasfollowed by a roly-poly blue-skinned humanoid from Donovan's Planet,four feet high and five hundred pounds heavy. We already had a coupleof his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, beingso plump and cheerful. I passed him along to Auchinleck to sign atanything short of top rate. Next came a bedraggled Sirian spider who was more interested in ahandout than a job. If there's any species we have a real over-supplyof, it's those silver-colored spiders, but this seedy specimen gave ita try anyway. He got the gate in half a minute, and he didn't even getthe handout he was angling for. I don't approve of begging. The flora of applicants was steady. Ghryne is in the heart of theCaledonia Cluster, where the interstellar crossroads meet. We hadfigured to pick up plenty of new exhibits here and we were right. <doc-sep>It was the isolationism of the late 29th century that turned me intothe successful proprietor of Corrigan's Institute, after some yearsas an impoverished carnival man in the Betelgeuse system. Back in2903, the World Congress declared Terra off-bounds for non-terrestrialbeings, as an offshoot of the Terra for Terrans movement. Before then, anyone could visit Earth. After the gate clanged down,a non-terrestrial could only get onto Sol III as a specimen in ascientific collection—in short, as an exhibit in a zoo. That's what the Corrigan Institute of Morphological Science really is,of course. A zoo. But we don't go out and hunt for our specimens; weadvertise and they come flocking to us. Every alien wants to see Earthonce in his lifetime, and there's only one way he can do it. We don't keep too big an inventory. At last count, we had 690 specimensbefore this trip, representing 298 different intelligent life-forms.My goal is at least one member of at least 500 different races. When Ireach that, I'll sit back and let the competition catch up—if it can. After an hour of steady work that morning, we had signed eleven newspecimens. At the same time, we had turned away a dozen ursinoids,fifty of the reptilian natives of Ghryne, seven Sirian spiders, and noless than nineteen chlorine-breathing Procyonites wearing gas masks. It was also my sad duty to nix a Vegan who was negotiating through aGhrynian agent. A Vegan would be a top-flight attraction, being some400 feet long and appropriately fearsome to the eye, but I didn't seehow we could take one on. They're gentle and likable beings, but theirupkeep runs into literally tons of fresh meat a day, and not just anyold kind of meat either. So we had to do without the Vegan. One more specimen before lunch, I told Stebbins, to make it an evendozen. He looked at me queerly and nodded. A being entered. I took a longclose look at the life-form when it came in, and after that I tookanother one. I wondered what kind of stunt was being pulled. So far asI could tell, the being was quite plainly nothing but an Earthman. He sat down facing me without being asked and crossed his legs. He wastall and extremely thin, with pale blue eyes and dirty-blond hair, andthough he was clean and reasonably well dressed, he had a shabby lookabout him. He said, in level Terran accents, I'm looking for a jobwith your outfit, Corrigan. There's been a mistake. We're interested in non-terrestrials only. I'm a non-terrestrial. My name is Ildwar Gorb, of the planet WazzenazzXIII. <doc-sep>I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity. I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job. Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am. I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus? No. And it's not a circus. It's— A scientific institute. I stand corrected. There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well? I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech. Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb. He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And— I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated. All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll— Good-by, Mr. Gorb! He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance. He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job! But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome. I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands. <doc-sep>The first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of aKallerian. The Kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. Ihad turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from Miazan,and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the Delta Worlds.Hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when theKallerian came striding in, not even waiting for Stebbins to admit himofficially. He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high,and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his threestocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture,and growled, I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign meimmediately to a contract. Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks. You will grant me a contract! Will you please sit down? He said sulkily, I will remain standing. As you prefer. My desk has a few concealed features which aresometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointedlife-forms. My fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case oftrouble. The Kallerian stood motionless before me. They're hairy creatures, andthis one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering hisbody. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanketof fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of hiswarlike race. I said, You'll have to understand, Freeman Heraal, that it's not ourpolicy to maintain more than a few members of each species at ourInstitute. And we're not currently in need of any Kallerian males,because— You will hire me or trouble I will make! I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were alreadycarrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty. The beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. Yes, you havefour representatives—of the Clan Verdrokh! None of the Clan Gursdrinn!For three years, I have waited for a chance to avenge this insult tothe noble Clan Gursdrinn! At the key-word avenge , I readied myself to ensnarl the Kallerianin a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but hedidn't move. He bellowed, I have vowed a vow, Earthman. Take me toEarth, enroll a Gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible! <doc-sep>I'm a man of principles, like all straightforward double-dealers, andone of the most important of those principles is that I never letmyself be bullied by anyone. I deeply regret having unintentionallyinsulted your clan, Freeman Heraal. Will you accept my apologies? He glared at me in silence. I went on, Please be assured that I'll undo the insult at the earliestpossible opportunity. It's not feasible for us to hire anotherKallerian now, but I'll give preference to the Clan Gursdrinn as soonas a vacancy— No. You will hire me now. It can't be done, Freeman Heraal. We have a budget, and we stick toit. You will rue! I will take drastic measures! Threats will get you nowhere, Freeman Heraal. I give you my word I'llget in touch with you as soon as our organization has room for anotherKallerian. And now, please, there are many applicants waiting— You'd think it would be sort of humiliating to become a specimen in azoo, but most of these races take it as an honor. And there's alwaysthe chance that, by picking a given member of a race, we're insultingall the others. I nudged the trouble-button on the side of my desk and Auchinleck andLudlow appeared simultaneously from the two doors at right and left.They surrounded the towering Kallerian and sweet-talkingly led himaway. He wasn't minded to quarrel physically, or he could have knockedthem both into the next city with a backhand swipe of his shaggy paw,but he kept up a growling flow of invective and threats until he wasout in the hall. I mopped sweat from my forehead and began to buzz Stebbins for the nextapplicant. But before my finger touched the button, the door poppedopen and a small being came scooting in, followed by an angry Stebbins. Come here, you! Stebbins? I said gently. I'm sorry, Mr. Corrigan. I lost sight of this one for a moment, and hecame running in— Please, please, squeaked the little alien pitifully. I must see you,honored sir! It isn't his turn in line, Stebbins protested. There are at leastfifty ahead of him. All right, I said tiredly. As long as he's in here already, I mightas well see him. Be more careful next time, Stebbins. Stebbins nodded dolefully and backed out. <doc-sep>The alien was a pathetic sight: a Stortulian, a squirrely-lookingcreature about three feet high. His fur, which should have been alustrous black, was a dull gray, and his eyes were wet and sad. Histail drooped. His voice was little more than a faint whimper, even atfull volume. Begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. I am abeing of Stortul XII, having sold my last few possessions to travelto Ghryne for the miserable purpose of obtaining an interview withyourself. I said, I'd better tell you right at the outset that we're alreadycarrying our full complement of Stortulians. We have both a male and afemale now and— This is known to me. The female—is her name perchance Tiress? I glanced down at the inventory chart until I found the Stortulianentry. Yes, that's her name. The little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. It is she!It is she! I'm afraid we don't have room for any more— You are not in full understanding of my plight. The female Tiress,she is—was—my own Fire-sent spouse, my comfort and my warmth, my lifeand my love. Funny, I said. When we signed her three years ago, she said she wassingle. It's right here on the chart. She lied! She left my burrow because she longed to see the splendorsof Earth. And I am alone, bound by our sacred customs never to remarry,languishing in sadness and pining for her return. You must take me toEarth! But— I must see her—her and this disgrace-bringing lover of hers. I mustreason with her. Earthman, can't you see I must appeal to her innerflame? I must bring her back! My face was expressionless. You don't really intend to join ourorganization at all—you just want free passage to Earth? Yes, yes! wailed the Stortulian. Find some other member of my race,if you must! Let me have my wife again, Earthman! Is your heart a deadlump of stone? <doc-sep>It isn't, but another of my principles is to refuse to be swayed bysentiment. I felt sorry for this being's domestic troubles, but Iwasn't going to break up a good act just to make an alien squirrelhappy—not to mention footing the transportation. I said, I don't see how we can manage it. The laws are very stricton the subject of bringing alien life to Earth. It has to be forscientific purposes only. And if I know in advance that your purpose incoming isn't scientific, I can't in all conscience lie for you, canI? Well— Of course not. I took advantage of his pathetic upset to steam rightalong. Now if you had come in here and simply asked me to sign you up,I might conceivably have done it. But no—you had to go unburden yourheart to me. I thought the truth would move you. It did. But in effect you're now asking me to conspire in a fraudulentcriminal act. Friend, I can't do it. My reputation means too much tome, I said piously. Then you will refuse me? My heart melts to nothingness for you. But I can't take you to Earth. Perhaps you will send my wife to me here? There's a clause in every contract that allows me to jettison anunwanted specimen. All I have to do is declare it no longer ofscientific interest, and the World Government will deport theundesirable alien back to its home world. But I wouldn't pull a lowtrick like that on our female Stortulian. I said, I'll ask her about coming home. But I won't ship her backagainst her will. And maybe she's happier where she is. The Stortulian seemed to shrivel. His eyelids closed half-way to maskhis tears. He turned and shambled slowly to the door, walking like aliving dishrag. In a bleak voice, he said, There is no hope then. Allis lost. I will never see my soulmate again. Good day, Earthman. He spoke in a drab monotone that almost, but not quite, had me weeping.I watched him shuffle out. I do have some conscience, and I had theuneasy feeling I had just been talking to a being who was about tocommit suicide on my account. <doc-sep>About fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. Then lifestarted to get complicated again. Nine of the fifty were okay. The rest were unacceptable for one reasonor another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. The haul for theday so far was close to two dozen new life-forms under contract. I had just about begun to forget about the incidents of the Kallerian'soutraged pride and the Stortulian's flighty wife when the door openedand the Earthman who called himself Ildwar Gorb of Wazzenazz XIIIstepped in. How did you get in here? I demanded. Your man happened to be looking the wrong way, he said cheerily.Change your mind about me yet? Get out before I have you thrown out. Gorb shrugged. I figured you hadn't changed your mind, so I've changedmy pitch a bit. If you won't believe I'm from Wazzenazz XIII, suppose Itell you that I am Earthborn, and that I'm looking for a job on yourstaff. I don't care what your story is! Get out or— —you'll have me thrown out. Okay, okay. Just give me half a second.Corrigan, you're no fool, and neither am I—but that fellow of yoursoutside is . He doesn't know how to handle alien beings. How manytimes today has a life-form come in here unexpectedly? I scowled at him. Too damn many. You see? He's incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead.I've been living in the outworlds half my life; I know all there is toknow about alien life-forms. You can use me, Corrigan. I took a deep breath and glanced all around the paneled ceiling ofthe office before I spoke. Listen, Gorb, or whatever your name is,I've had a hard day. There's been a Kallerian in here who just aboutthreatened murder, and there's been a Stortulian in here who's aboutto commit suicide because of me. I have a conscience and it's troublingme. But get this: I just want to finish off my recruiting, pack up andgo home to Earth. I don't want you hanging around here bothering me.I'm not looking to hire new staff members, and if you switch back toclaiming you're an unknown life-form from Wazzenazz XIII, the answer isthat I'm not looking for any of those either. Now will you scram or— The office door crashed open at that point and Heraal, the Kallerian,came thundering in. He was dressed from head to toe in glitteringmetalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster, he was wieldinga sword the length of a human being. Stebbins and Auchinleck camedragging helplessly along in his wake, hanging desperately to his belt. Sorry, Chief, Stebbins gasped. I tried to keep him out, but— Heraal, who had planted himself in front of my desk, drowned him outwith a roar. Earthman, you have mortally insulted the Clan Gursdrinn! <doc-sep>Sitting with my hands poised near the meshgun trigger, I was ready tolet him have it at the first sight of actual violence. Heraal boomed, You are responsible for what is to happen now. I havenotified the authorities and you prosecuted will be for causing thedeath of a life-form! Suffer, Earthborn ape! Suffer! Watch it, Chief, Stebbins yelled. He's going to— An instant before my numb fingers could tighten on the meshguntrigger, Heraal swung that huge sword through the air and plunged itsavagely through his body. He toppled forward onto the carpet with thesword projecting a couple of feet out of his back. A few driblets ofbluish-purple blood spread from beneath him. Before I could react to the big life-form's hara-kiri, the office doorflew open again and three sleek reptilian beings entered, garbed in thegreen sashes of the local police force. Their golden eyes goggled downat the figure on the floor, then came to rest on me. You are J. F. Corrigan? the leader asked. Y-yes. We have received word of a complaint against you. Said complaintbeing— —that your unethical actions have directly contributed to theuntimely death of an intelligent life-form, filled in the second ofthe Ghrynian policemen. The evidence lies before us, intoned the leader, in the cadaverof the unfortunate Kallerian who filed the complaint with us severalminutes ago. And therefore, said the third lizard, it is our duty to arrestyou for this crime and declare you subject to a fine of no less than$100,000 Galactic or two years in prison. Hold on! I stormed. You mean that any being from anywhere in theUniverse can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and I'm responsible? This is the law. Do you deny that your stubborn refusal to yield tothis late life-form's request lies at the root of his sad demise? Well, no, but— Failure to deny is admission of guilt. You are guilty, Earthman. <doc-sep>Closing my eyes wearily, I tried to wish the whole babbling lot of themaway. If I had to, I could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it wasgoing to put an awful dent in this year's take. And I shuddered when Iremembered that any minute that scrawny little Stortulian was likely tocome bursting in here to kill himself too. Was it a fine of $100,000per suicide? At that rate, I could be out of business by nightfall. I was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannouncedarrival. The small figure of the Stortulian trudged through the open doorwayand stationed itself limply near the threshold. The three Ghrynianpolicemen and my three assistants forgot the dead Kallerian for amoment and turned to eye the newcomer. I had visions of unending troubles with the law here on Ghryne. Iresolved never to come here on a recruiting trip again—or, if I did come, to figure out some more effective way of screening myself againstcrackpots. In heart-rending tones, the Stortulian declared, Life is no longerworth living. My last hope is gone. There is only one thing left for meto do. I was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackersgoing down the drain. Stop him, somebody! He's going to kill himself!He's— Then somebody sprinted toward me, hit me amidships, and knocked meflying out from behind my desk before I had a chance to fire themeshgun. My head walloped the floor, and for five or six seconds, Iguess I wasn't fully aware of what was going on. Gradually the scene took shape around me. There was a monstrous holein the wall behind my desk; a smoking blaster lay on the floor, and Isaw the three Ghrynian policemen sitting on the raving Stortulian. Theman who called himself Ildwar Gorb was getting to his feet and dustinghimself off. He helped me up. Sorry to have had to tackle you, Corrigan. But thatStortulian wasn't here to commit suicide, you see. He was out to getyou. I weaved dizzily toward my desk and dropped into my chair. A flyingfragment of wall had deflated my pneumatic cushion. The smell of ashedplaster was everywhere. The police were effectively cocooning thestruggling little alien in an unbreakable tanglemesh. Evidently you don't know as much as you think you do about Stortulianpsychology, Corrigan, Gorb said lightly. Suicide is completelyabhorrent to them. When they're troubled, they kill the person whocaused their trouble. In this case, you. <doc-sep>I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than afull-bodied laugh. Funny, I said. What is? asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian. These aliens. Big blustery Heraal came in with murder in his eye andkilled himself , and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek andpathetic damn near blew my head off. I shuddered. Thanks for thetackle job. Don't mention it, Gorb said. I glared at the Ghrynian police. Well? What are you waiting for? Takethat murderous little beast out of here! Or isn't murder against thelocal laws? The Stortulian will be duly punished, replied the leader of theGhrynian cops calmly. But there is the matter of the dead Kallerianand the fine of— —one hundred thousand dollars. I know. I groaned and turned toStebbins. Get the Terran Consulate on the phone, Stebbins. Have themsend down a legal adviser. Find out if there's any way we can get outof this mess with our skins intact. Right, Chief. Stebbins moved toward the visiphone. Gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest. Hold it, the Wazzenazzian said crisply. The Consulate can't helpyou. I can. You? I said. I can get you out of this cheap. How cheap? Gorb grinned rakishly. Five thousand in cash plus a contract as aspecimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That's a heck of alot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn't it? I eyed Gorb uncertainly. The Terran Consulate people probably wouldn'tbe much help; they tried to keep out of local squabbles unless theywere really serious, and I knew from past experiences that no officialsever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand,giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition. Tell you what, I said finally. You've got yourself a deal—but ona contingency basis. Get me out of this and you'll have five grand andthe contract. Otherwise, nothing. Gorb shrugged. What have I to lose? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Ildwar Gorb is a human-looking alien of the planet Wazzenazz XIII in the Crab Nebula. He claims to have never been within “a dozen parsecs of Earth,” but to look so human-like due to an evolutionary fluke. As he is interviewing with Mr. Corrigan, he says he is not actually speaking, but is a telepathic that communicates in symbols that are translated into the colloquial speech of the person he is interacting with.He appeals to Mr. Corrigan to be exhibited as a specimen, but when Corrigan in unconvinced Gorb isn’t just a regular human trying to fool him, he also tries to appeal to him to hire him as a member of his human staff. This is also a no, since Mr. Corrigan would be breaking the law to do so if he was an alien.Gorb throws himself at Mr. Corrigan to tackle him and save his life from a murder attempt by the Stortulian. This gesture buys him enough goodwill for Corrigan to accept his offer to get him out of the trouble with the Ghrynian cops. He will do the job for $5000 and a contract to the Corrigan Institute - ultimately getting him what he wanted in the first place.

<s> Birds of a Feather By ROBERT SILVERBERG Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine November 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo was no problem—they battled for the honor—but now I had to fight like a wildcat to keep a display from making a monkey of me! It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alienlife-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rentedoffice. As I came down the block from the hotel, I could hear and seeand smell them with ease. My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwisein front of me. I peered between them to size the crop up. The alienscame in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all ofthem eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarrebeings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the oldexhibitionist urge. Send them in one at a time, I told Stebbins. I ducked into theoffice, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession tobegin. The name of the planet was MacTavish IV (if you went by the officialTerran listing) or Ghryne (if you called it by what its people wereaccustomed to calling it). I thought of it privately as MacTavish IVand referred to it publicly as Ghryne. I believe in keeping the localshappy wherever I go. Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridimsign plastered to a facing wall: WANTED—EXTRATERRESTRIALS! We hadsaturated MacTavish IV with our promotional poop for a month precedingarrival. Stuff like this: Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusiveworld? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrillsof show business on romantic Terra? If you are a non-terrestrial,there may be a place for you in the Corrigan Institute ofMorphological Science. No freaks wanted—normal beings only. J. F.Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday toFifthday of Tenmonth. His last visit to the Caledonia Cluster until2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and richescan be yours! <doc-sep>Broadsides like that, distributed wholesale in half a thousandlanguages, always bring them running. And the Corrigan Institute reallypacks in the crowds back on Earth. Why not? It's the best of its kind,the only really decent place where Earthmen can get a gander at theother species of the universe. The office buzzer sounded. Auchinleck said unctuously, The firstapplicant is ready to see you, sir. Send him, her or it in. The door opened and a timid-looking life-form advanced toward me onnervous little legs. He was a globular creature about the size of abig basketball, yellowish-green, with two spindly double-kneed legs andfive double-elbowed arms, the latter spaced regularly around his body.There was a lidless eye at the top of his head and five lidded ones,one above each arm. Plus a big, gaping, toothless mouth. His voice was a surprisingly resounding basso. You are Mr. Corrigan? That's right. I reached for a data blank. Before we begin, I'll needcertain information about— I am a being of Regulus II, came the grave, booming reply, evenbefore I had picked up the blank. I need no special care and I am nota fugitive from the law of any world. Your name? Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I throttled my exclamation of surprise, concealing it behind a quickcough. Let me have that again, please? Certainly. My name is Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. The 'R' stands forRaymond. Of course, that's not the name you were born with. The being closed his eyes and toddled around in a 360-degree rotation,remaining in place. On his world, that gesture is the equivalent ofan apologetic smile. My Regulan name no longer matters. I am now andshall evermore be Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I am a Terraphile, you see. <doc-sep>The little Regulan was as good as hired. Only the formalities remained.You understand our terms, Mr. Fitzgerald? I'll be placed on exhibition at your Institute on Earth. You'll payfor my services, transportation and expenses. I'll be required toremain on exhibit no more than one-third of each Terran sidereal day. And the pay will be—ah—$50 Galactic a week, plus expenses andtransportation. The spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clappingon one side, two on the other. Wonderful! I will see Earth at last! Iaccept the terms! I buzzed for Ludlow and gave him the fast signal that meant we weresigning this alien up at half the usual pay, and Ludlow took him intothe other office to sign him up. I grinned, pleased with myself. We needed a green Regulan in our show;the last one had quit four years ago. But just because we needed himdidn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. A Terraphile alienwho goes to the extent of rechristening himself with a Terran monickerwould work for nothing, or even pay us, just so long as we let him getto Earth. My conscience won't let me really exploit a being, but Idon't believe in throwing money away, either. The next applicant was a beefy ursinoid from Aldebaran IX. Our outfithas all the ursinoids it needs or is likely to need in the next fewdecades, and so I got rid of him in a couple of minutes. He wasfollowed by a roly-poly blue-skinned humanoid from Donovan's Planet,four feet high and five hundred pounds heavy. We already had a coupleof his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, beingso plump and cheerful. I passed him along to Auchinleck to sign atanything short of top rate. Next came a bedraggled Sirian spider who was more interested in ahandout than a job. If there's any species we have a real over-supplyof, it's those silver-colored spiders, but this seedy specimen gave ita try anyway. He got the gate in half a minute, and he didn't even getthe handout he was angling for. I don't approve of begging. The flora of applicants was steady. Ghryne is in the heart of theCaledonia Cluster, where the interstellar crossroads meet. We hadfigured to pick up plenty of new exhibits here and we were right. <doc-sep>It was the isolationism of the late 29th century that turned me intothe successful proprietor of Corrigan's Institute, after some yearsas an impoverished carnival man in the Betelgeuse system. Back in2903, the World Congress declared Terra off-bounds for non-terrestrialbeings, as an offshoot of the Terra for Terrans movement. Before then, anyone could visit Earth. After the gate clanged down,a non-terrestrial could only get onto Sol III as a specimen in ascientific collection—in short, as an exhibit in a zoo. That's what the Corrigan Institute of Morphological Science really is,of course. A zoo. But we don't go out and hunt for our specimens; weadvertise and they come flocking to us. Every alien wants to see Earthonce in his lifetime, and there's only one way he can do it. We don't keep too big an inventory. At last count, we had 690 specimensbefore this trip, representing 298 different intelligent life-forms.My goal is at least one member of at least 500 different races. When Ireach that, I'll sit back and let the competition catch up—if it can. After an hour of steady work that morning, we had signed eleven newspecimens. At the same time, we had turned away a dozen ursinoids,fifty of the reptilian natives of Ghryne, seven Sirian spiders, and noless than nineteen chlorine-breathing Procyonites wearing gas masks. It was also my sad duty to nix a Vegan who was negotiating through aGhrynian agent. A Vegan would be a top-flight attraction, being some400 feet long and appropriately fearsome to the eye, but I didn't seehow we could take one on. They're gentle and likable beings, but theirupkeep runs into literally tons of fresh meat a day, and not just anyold kind of meat either. So we had to do without the Vegan. One more specimen before lunch, I told Stebbins, to make it an evendozen. He looked at me queerly and nodded. A being entered. I took a longclose look at the life-form when it came in, and after that I tookanother one. I wondered what kind of stunt was being pulled. So far asI could tell, the being was quite plainly nothing but an Earthman. He sat down facing me without being asked and crossed his legs. He wastall and extremely thin, with pale blue eyes and dirty-blond hair, andthough he was clean and reasonably well dressed, he had a shabby lookabout him. He said, in level Terran accents, I'm looking for a jobwith your outfit, Corrigan. There's been a mistake. We're interested in non-terrestrials only. I'm a non-terrestrial. My name is Ildwar Gorb, of the planet WazzenazzXIII. <doc-sep>I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity. I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job. Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am. I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus? No. And it's not a circus. It's— A scientific institute. I stand corrected. There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well? I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech. Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb. He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And— I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated. All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll— Good-by, Mr. Gorb! He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance. He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job! But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome. I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands. <doc-sep>The first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of aKallerian. The Kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. Ihad turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from Miazan,and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the Delta Worlds.Hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when theKallerian came striding in, not even waiting for Stebbins to admit himofficially. He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high,and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his threestocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture,and growled, I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign meimmediately to a contract. Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks. You will grant me a contract! Will you please sit down? He said sulkily, I will remain standing. As you prefer. My desk has a few concealed features which aresometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointedlife-forms. My fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case oftrouble. The Kallerian stood motionless before me. They're hairy creatures, andthis one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering hisbody. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanketof fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of hiswarlike race. I said, You'll have to understand, Freeman Heraal, that it's not ourpolicy to maintain more than a few members of each species at ourInstitute. And we're not currently in need of any Kallerian males,because— You will hire me or trouble I will make! I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were alreadycarrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty. The beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. Yes, you havefour representatives—of the Clan Verdrokh! None of the Clan Gursdrinn!For three years, I have waited for a chance to avenge this insult tothe noble Clan Gursdrinn! At the key-word avenge , I readied myself to ensnarl the Kallerianin a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but hedidn't move. He bellowed, I have vowed a vow, Earthman. Take me toEarth, enroll a Gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible! <doc-sep>I'm a man of principles, like all straightforward double-dealers, andone of the most important of those principles is that I never letmyself be bullied by anyone. I deeply regret having unintentionallyinsulted your clan, Freeman Heraal. Will you accept my apologies? He glared at me in silence. I went on, Please be assured that I'll undo the insult at the earliestpossible opportunity. It's not feasible for us to hire anotherKallerian now, but I'll give preference to the Clan Gursdrinn as soonas a vacancy— No. You will hire me now. It can't be done, Freeman Heraal. We have a budget, and we stick toit. You will rue! I will take drastic measures! Threats will get you nowhere, Freeman Heraal. I give you my word I'llget in touch with you as soon as our organization has room for anotherKallerian. And now, please, there are many applicants waiting— You'd think it would be sort of humiliating to become a specimen in azoo, but most of these races take it as an honor. And there's alwaysthe chance that, by picking a given member of a race, we're insultingall the others. I nudged the trouble-button on the side of my desk and Auchinleck andLudlow appeared simultaneously from the two doors at right and left.They surrounded the towering Kallerian and sweet-talkingly led himaway. He wasn't minded to quarrel physically, or he could have knockedthem both into the next city with a backhand swipe of his shaggy paw,but he kept up a growling flow of invective and threats until he wasout in the hall. I mopped sweat from my forehead and began to buzz Stebbins for the nextapplicant. But before my finger touched the button, the door poppedopen and a small being came scooting in, followed by an angry Stebbins. Come here, you! Stebbins? I said gently. I'm sorry, Mr. Corrigan. I lost sight of this one for a moment, and hecame running in— Please, please, squeaked the little alien pitifully. I must see you,honored sir! It isn't his turn in line, Stebbins protested. There are at leastfifty ahead of him. All right, I said tiredly. As long as he's in here already, I mightas well see him. Be more careful next time, Stebbins. Stebbins nodded dolefully and backed out. <doc-sep>The alien was a pathetic sight: a Stortulian, a squirrely-lookingcreature about three feet high. His fur, which should have been alustrous black, was a dull gray, and his eyes were wet and sad. Histail drooped. His voice was little more than a faint whimper, even atfull volume. Begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. I am abeing of Stortul XII, having sold my last few possessions to travelto Ghryne for the miserable purpose of obtaining an interview withyourself. I said, I'd better tell you right at the outset that we're alreadycarrying our full complement of Stortulians. We have both a male and afemale now and— This is known to me. The female—is her name perchance Tiress? I glanced down at the inventory chart until I found the Stortulianentry. Yes, that's her name. The little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. It is she!It is she! I'm afraid we don't have room for any more— You are not in full understanding of my plight. The female Tiress,she is—was—my own Fire-sent spouse, my comfort and my warmth, my lifeand my love. Funny, I said. When we signed her three years ago, she said she wassingle. It's right here on the chart. She lied! She left my burrow because she longed to see the splendorsof Earth. And I am alone, bound by our sacred customs never to remarry,languishing in sadness and pining for her return. You must take me toEarth! But— I must see her—her and this disgrace-bringing lover of hers. I mustreason with her. Earthman, can't you see I must appeal to her innerflame? I must bring her back! My face was expressionless. You don't really intend to join ourorganization at all—you just want free passage to Earth? Yes, yes! wailed the Stortulian. Find some other member of my race,if you must! Let me have my wife again, Earthman! Is your heart a deadlump of stone? <doc-sep>It isn't, but another of my principles is to refuse to be swayed bysentiment. I felt sorry for this being's domestic troubles, but Iwasn't going to break up a good act just to make an alien squirrelhappy—not to mention footing the transportation. I said, I don't see how we can manage it. The laws are very stricton the subject of bringing alien life to Earth. It has to be forscientific purposes only. And if I know in advance that your purpose incoming isn't scientific, I can't in all conscience lie for you, canI? Well— Of course not. I took advantage of his pathetic upset to steam rightalong. Now if you had come in here and simply asked me to sign you up,I might conceivably have done it. But no—you had to go unburden yourheart to me. I thought the truth would move you. It did. But in effect you're now asking me to conspire in a fraudulentcriminal act. Friend, I can't do it. My reputation means too much tome, I said piously. Then you will refuse me? My heart melts to nothingness for you. But I can't take you to Earth. Perhaps you will send my wife to me here? There's a clause in every contract that allows me to jettison anunwanted specimen. All I have to do is declare it no longer ofscientific interest, and the World Government will deport theundesirable alien back to its home world. But I wouldn't pull a lowtrick like that on our female Stortulian. I said, I'll ask her about coming home. But I won't ship her backagainst her will. And maybe she's happier where she is. The Stortulian seemed to shrivel. His eyelids closed half-way to maskhis tears. He turned and shambled slowly to the door, walking like aliving dishrag. In a bleak voice, he said, There is no hope then. Allis lost. I will never see my soulmate again. Good day, Earthman. He spoke in a drab monotone that almost, but not quite, had me weeping.I watched him shuffle out. I do have some conscience, and I had theuneasy feeling I had just been talking to a being who was about tocommit suicide on my account. <doc-sep>About fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. Then lifestarted to get complicated again. Nine of the fifty were okay. The rest were unacceptable for one reasonor another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. The haul for theday so far was close to two dozen new life-forms under contract. I had just about begun to forget about the incidents of the Kallerian'soutraged pride and the Stortulian's flighty wife when the door openedand the Earthman who called himself Ildwar Gorb of Wazzenazz XIIIstepped in. How did you get in here? I demanded. Your man happened to be looking the wrong way, he said cheerily.Change your mind about me yet? Get out before I have you thrown out. Gorb shrugged. I figured you hadn't changed your mind, so I've changedmy pitch a bit. If you won't believe I'm from Wazzenazz XIII, suppose Itell you that I am Earthborn, and that I'm looking for a job on yourstaff. I don't care what your story is! Get out or— —you'll have me thrown out. Okay, okay. Just give me half a second.Corrigan, you're no fool, and neither am I—but that fellow of yoursoutside is . He doesn't know how to handle alien beings. How manytimes today has a life-form come in here unexpectedly? I scowled at him. Too damn many. You see? He's incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead.I've been living in the outworlds half my life; I know all there is toknow about alien life-forms. You can use me, Corrigan. I took a deep breath and glanced all around the paneled ceiling ofthe office before I spoke. Listen, Gorb, or whatever your name is,I've had a hard day. There's been a Kallerian in here who just aboutthreatened murder, and there's been a Stortulian in here who's aboutto commit suicide because of me. I have a conscience and it's troublingme. But get this: I just want to finish off my recruiting, pack up andgo home to Earth. I don't want you hanging around here bothering me.I'm not looking to hire new staff members, and if you switch back toclaiming you're an unknown life-form from Wazzenazz XIII, the answer isthat I'm not looking for any of those either. Now will you scram or— The office door crashed open at that point and Heraal, the Kallerian,came thundering in. He was dressed from head to toe in glitteringmetalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster, he was wieldinga sword the length of a human being. Stebbins and Auchinleck camedragging helplessly along in his wake, hanging desperately to his belt. Sorry, Chief, Stebbins gasped. I tried to keep him out, but— Heraal, who had planted himself in front of my desk, drowned him outwith a roar. Earthman, you have mortally insulted the Clan Gursdrinn! <doc-sep>Sitting with my hands poised near the meshgun trigger, I was ready tolet him have it at the first sight of actual violence. Heraal boomed, You are responsible for what is to happen now. I havenotified the authorities and you prosecuted will be for causing thedeath of a life-form! Suffer, Earthborn ape! Suffer! Watch it, Chief, Stebbins yelled. He's going to— An instant before my numb fingers could tighten on the meshguntrigger, Heraal swung that huge sword through the air and plunged itsavagely through his body. He toppled forward onto the carpet with thesword projecting a couple of feet out of his back. A few driblets ofbluish-purple blood spread from beneath him. Before I could react to the big life-form's hara-kiri, the office doorflew open again and three sleek reptilian beings entered, garbed in thegreen sashes of the local police force. Their golden eyes goggled downat the figure on the floor, then came to rest on me. You are J. F. Corrigan? the leader asked. Y-yes. We have received word of a complaint against you. Said complaintbeing— —that your unethical actions have directly contributed to theuntimely death of an intelligent life-form, filled in the second ofthe Ghrynian policemen. The evidence lies before us, intoned the leader, in the cadaverof the unfortunate Kallerian who filed the complaint with us severalminutes ago. And therefore, said the third lizard, it is our duty to arrestyou for this crime and declare you subject to a fine of no less than$100,000 Galactic or two years in prison. Hold on! I stormed. You mean that any being from anywhere in theUniverse can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and I'm responsible? This is the law. Do you deny that your stubborn refusal to yield tothis late life-form's request lies at the root of his sad demise? Well, no, but— Failure to deny is admission of guilt. You are guilty, Earthman. <doc-sep>Closing my eyes wearily, I tried to wish the whole babbling lot of themaway. If I had to, I could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it wasgoing to put an awful dent in this year's take. And I shuddered when Iremembered that any minute that scrawny little Stortulian was likely tocome bursting in here to kill himself too. Was it a fine of $100,000per suicide? At that rate, I could be out of business by nightfall. I was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannouncedarrival. The small figure of the Stortulian trudged through the open doorwayand stationed itself limply near the threshold. The three Ghrynianpolicemen and my three assistants forgot the dead Kallerian for amoment and turned to eye the newcomer. I had visions of unending troubles with the law here on Ghryne. Iresolved never to come here on a recruiting trip again—or, if I did come, to figure out some more effective way of screening myself againstcrackpots. In heart-rending tones, the Stortulian declared, Life is no longerworth living. My last hope is gone. There is only one thing left for meto do. I was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackersgoing down the drain. Stop him, somebody! He's going to kill himself!He's— Then somebody sprinted toward me, hit me amidships, and knocked meflying out from behind my desk before I had a chance to fire themeshgun. My head walloped the floor, and for five or six seconds, Iguess I wasn't fully aware of what was going on. Gradually the scene took shape around me. There was a monstrous holein the wall behind my desk; a smoking blaster lay on the floor, and Isaw the three Ghrynian policemen sitting on the raving Stortulian. Theman who called himself Ildwar Gorb was getting to his feet and dustinghimself off. He helped me up. Sorry to have had to tackle you, Corrigan. But thatStortulian wasn't here to commit suicide, you see. He was out to getyou. I weaved dizzily toward my desk and dropped into my chair. A flyingfragment of wall had deflated my pneumatic cushion. The smell of ashedplaster was everywhere. The police were effectively cocooning thestruggling little alien in an unbreakable tanglemesh. Evidently you don't know as much as you think you do about Stortulianpsychology, Corrigan, Gorb said lightly. Suicide is completelyabhorrent to them. When they're troubled, they kill the person whocaused their trouble. In this case, you. <doc-sep>I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than afull-bodied laugh. Funny, I said. What is? asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian. These aliens. Big blustery Heraal came in with murder in his eye andkilled himself , and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek andpathetic damn near blew my head off. I shuddered. Thanks for thetackle job. Don't mention it, Gorb said. I glared at the Ghrynian police. Well? What are you waiting for? Takethat murderous little beast out of here! Or isn't murder against thelocal laws? The Stortulian will be duly punished, replied the leader of theGhrynian cops calmly. But there is the matter of the dead Kallerianand the fine of— —one hundred thousand dollars. I know. I groaned and turned toStebbins. Get the Terran Consulate on the phone, Stebbins. Have themsend down a legal adviser. Find out if there's any way we can get outof this mess with our skins intact. Right, Chief. Stebbins moved toward the visiphone. Gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest. Hold it, the Wazzenazzian said crisply. The Consulate can't helpyou. I can. You? I said. I can get you out of this cheap. How cheap? Gorb grinned rakishly. Five thousand in cash plus a contract as aspecimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That's a heck of alot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn't it? I eyed Gorb uncertainly. The Terran Consulate people probably wouldn'tbe much help; they tried to keep out of local squabbles unless theywere really serious, and I knew from past experiences that no officialsever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand,giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition. Tell you what, I said finally. You've got yourself a deal—but ona contingency basis. Get me out of this and you'll have five grand andthe contract. Otherwise, nothing. Gorb shrugged. What have I to lose? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Mr. Corrigan was an impoverished carnival man in the Betelgeuse system prior to the year 2903, when the World Congress made it illegal for aliens to travel to the planet Earth. He seized a business opportunity to open Corrigan’s Institute and collect aliens as scientific specimens, charging humans money to see them on Earth. This turned out to be a very lucrative business, and the zoo was very popular.Mr. Corrigan tries to be fair to those he is interviewing, but is having an exceptionally hard day that is straining his patience. He does not allow himself to be swayed or pushed around by the sad stories (the Stortulian) or the demands (Heraal) of those in the interviews. He is resolved in his assumptions, and is truly shocked when the outcome of who would commit suicide and who would attempt to kill him is revealed.

<s> Birds of a Feather By ROBERT SILVERBERG Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine November 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo was no problem—they battled for the honor—but now I had to fight like a wildcat to keep a display from making a monkey of me! It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alienlife-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rentedoffice. As I came down the block from the hotel, I could hear and seeand smell them with ease. My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwisein front of me. I peered between them to size the crop up. The alienscame in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all ofthem eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarrebeings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the oldexhibitionist urge. Send them in one at a time, I told Stebbins. I ducked into theoffice, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession tobegin. The name of the planet was MacTavish IV (if you went by the officialTerran listing) or Ghryne (if you called it by what its people wereaccustomed to calling it). I thought of it privately as MacTavish IVand referred to it publicly as Ghryne. I believe in keeping the localshappy wherever I go. Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridimsign plastered to a facing wall: WANTED—EXTRATERRESTRIALS! We hadsaturated MacTavish IV with our promotional poop for a month precedingarrival. Stuff like this: Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusiveworld? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrillsof show business on romantic Terra? If you are a non-terrestrial,there may be a place for you in the Corrigan Institute ofMorphological Science. No freaks wanted—normal beings only. J. F.Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday toFifthday of Tenmonth. His last visit to the Caledonia Cluster until2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and richescan be yours! <doc-sep>Broadsides like that, distributed wholesale in half a thousandlanguages, always bring them running. And the Corrigan Institute reallypacks in the crowds back on Earth. Why not? It's the best of its kind,the only really decent place where Earthmen can get a gander at theother species of the universe. The office buzzer sounded. Auchinleck said unctuously, The firstapplicant is ready to see you, sir. Send him, her or it in. The door opened and a timid-looking life-form advanced toward me onnervous little legs. He was a globular creature about the size of abig basketball, yellowish-green, with two spindly double-kneed legs andfive double-elbowed arms, the latter spaced regularly around his body.There was a lidless eye at the top of his head and five lidded ones,one above each arm. Plus a big, gaping, toothless mouth. His voice was a surprisingly resounding basso. You are Mr. Corrigan? That's right. I reached for a data blank. Before we begin, I'll needcertain information about— I am a being of Regulus II, came the grave, booming reply, evenbefore I had picked up the blank. I need no special care and I am nota fugitive from the law of any world. Your name? Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I throttled my exclamation of surprise, concealing it behind a quickcough. Let me have that again, please? Certainly. My name is Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. The 'R' stands forRaymond. Of course, that's not the name you were born with. The being closed his eyes and toddled around in a 360-degree rotation,remaining in place. On his world, that gesture is the equivalent ofan apologetic smile. My Regulan name no longer matters. I am now andshall evermore be Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I am a Terraphile, you see. <doc-sep>The little Regulan was as good as hired. Only the formalities remained.You understand our terms, Mr. Fitzgerald? I'll be placed on exhibition at your Institute on Earth. You'll payfor my services, transportation and expenses. I'll be required toremain on exhibit no more than one-third of each Terran sidereal day. And the pay will be—ah—$50 Galactic a week, plus expenses andtransportation. The spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clappingon one side, two on the other. Wonderful! I will see Earth at last! Iaccept the terms! I buzzed for Ludlow and gave him the fast signal that meant we weresigning this alien up at half the usual pay, and Ludlow took him intothe other office to sign him up. I grinned, pleased with myself. We needed a green Regulan in our show;the last one had quit four years ago. But just because we needed himdidn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. A Terraphile alienwho goes to the extent of rechristening himself with a Terran monickerwould work for nothing, or even pay us, just so long as we let him getto Earth. My conscience won't let me really exploit a being, but Idon't believe in throwing money away, either. The next applicant was a beefy ursinoid from Aldebaran IX. Our outfithas all the ursinoids it needs or is likely to need in the next fewdecades, and so I got rid of him in a couple of minutes. He wasfollowed by a roly-poly blue-skinned humanoid from Donovan's Planet,four feet high and five hundred pounds heavy. We already had a coupleof his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, beingso plump and cheerful. I passed him along to Auchinleck to sign atanything short of top rate. Next came a bedraggled Sirian spider who was more interested in ahandout than a job. If there's any species we have a real over-supplyof, it's those silver-colored spiders, but this seedy specimen gave ita try anyway. He got the gate in half a minute, and he didn't even getthe handout he was angling for. I don't approve of begging. The flora of applicants was steady. Ghryne is in the heart of theCaledonia Cluster, where the interstellar crossroads meet. We hadfigured to pick up plenty of new exhibits here and we were right. <doc-sep>It was the isolationism of the late 29th century that turned me intothe successful proprietor of Corrigan's Institute, after some yearsas an impoverished carnival man in the Betelgeuse system. Back in2903, the World Congress declared Terra off-bounds for non-terrestrialbeings, as an offshoot of the Terra for Terrans movement. Before then, anyone could visit Earth. After the gate clanged down,a non-terrestrial could only get onto Sol III as a specimen in ascientific collection—in short, as an exhibit in a zoo. That's what the Corrigan Institute of Morphological Science really is,of course. A zoo. But we don't go out and hunt for our specimens; weadvertise and they come flocking to us. Every alien wants to see Earthonce in his lifetime, and there's only one way he can do it. We don't keep too big an inventory. At last count, we had 690 specimensbefore this trip, representing 298 different intelligent life-forms.My goal is at least one member of at least 500 different races. When Ireach that, I'll sit back and let the competition catch up—if it can. After an hour of steady work that morning, we had signed eleven newspecimens. At the same time, we had turned away a dozen ursinoids,fifty of the reptilian natives of Ghryne, seven Sirian spiders, and noless than nineteen chlorine-breathing Procyonites wearing gas masks. It was also my sad duty to nix a Vegan who was negotiating through aGhrynian agent. A Vegan would be a top-flight attraction, being some400 feet long and appropriately fearsome to the eye, but I didn't seehow we could take one on. They're gentle and likable beings, but theirupkeep runs into literally tons of fresh meat a day, and not just anyold kind of meat either. So we had to do without the Vegan. One more specimen before lunch, I told Stebbins, to make it an evendozen. He looked at me queerly and nodded. A being entered. I took a longclose look at the life-form when it came in, and after that I tookanother one. I wondered what kind of stunt was being pulled. So far asI could tell, the being was quite plainly nothing but an Earthman. He sat down facing me without being asked and crossed his legs. He wastall and extremely thin, with pale blue eyes and dirty-blond hair, andthough he was clean and reasonably well dressed, he had a shabby lookabout him. He said, in level Terran accents, I'm looking for a jobwith your outfit, Corrigan. There's been a mistake. We're interested in non-terrestrials only. I'm a non-terrestrial. My name is Ildwar Gorb, of the planet WazzenazzXIII. <doc-sep>I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity. I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job. Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am. I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus? No. And it's not a circus. It's— A scientific institute. I stand corrected. There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well? I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech. Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb. He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And— I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated. All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll— Good-by, Mr. Gorb! He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance. He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job! But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome. I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands. <doc-sep>The first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of aKallerian. The Kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. Ihad turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from Miazan,and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the Delta Worlds.Hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when theKallerian came striding in, not even waiting for Stebbins to admit himofficially. He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high,and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his threestocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture,and growled, I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign meimmediately to a contract. Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks. You will grant me a contract! Will you please sit down? He said sulkily, I will remain standing. As you prefer. My desk has a few concealed features which aresometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointedlife-forms. My fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case oftrouble. The Kallerian stood motionless before me. They're hairy creatures, andthis one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering hisbody. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanketof fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of hiswarlike race. I said, You'll have to understand, Freeman Heraal, that it's not ourpolicy to maintain more than a few members of each species at ourInstitute. And we're not currently in need of any Kallerian males,because— You will hire me or trouble I will make! I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were alreadycarrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty. The beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. Yes, you havefour representatives—of the Clan Verdrokh! None of the Clan Gursdrinn!For three years, I have waited for a chance to avenge this insult tothe noble Clan Gursdrinn! At the key-word avenge , I readied myself to ensnarl the Kallerianin a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but hedidn't move. He bellowed, I have vowed a vow, Earthman. Take me toEarth, enroll a Gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible! <doc-sep>I'm a man of principles, like all straightforward double-dealers, andone of the most important of those principles is that I never letmyself be bullied by anyone. I deeply regret having unintentionallyinsulted your clan, Freeman Heraal. Will you accept my apologies? He glared at me in silence. I went on, Please be assured that I'll undo the insult at the earliestpossible opportunity. It's not feasible for us to hire anotherKallerian now, but I'll give preference to the Clan Gursdrinn as soonas a vacancy— No. You will hire me now. It can't be done, Freeman Heraal. We have a budget, and we stick toit. You will rue! I will take drastic measures! Threats will get you nowhere, Freeman Heraal. I give you my word I'llget in touch with you as soon as our organization has room for anotherKallerian. And now, please, there are many applicants waiting— You'd think it would be sort of humiliating to become a specimen in azoo, but most of these races take it as an honor. And there's alwaysthe chance that, by picking a given member of a race, we're insultingall the others. I nudged the trouble-button on the side of my desk and Auchinleck andLudlow appeared simultaneously from the two doors at right and left.They surrounded the towering Kallerian and sweet-talkingly led himaway. He wasn't minded to quarrel physically, or he could have knockedthem both into the next city with a backhand swipe of his shaggy paw,but he kept up a growling flow of invective and threats until he wasout in the hall. I mopped sweat from my forehead and began to buzz Stebbins for the nextapplicant. But before my finger touched the button, the door poppedopen and a small being came scooting in, followed by an angry Stebbins. Come here, you! Stebbins? I said gently. I'm sorry, Mr. Corrigan. I lost sight of this one for a moment, and hecame running in— Please, please, squeaked the little alien pitifully. I must see you,honored sir! It isn't his turn in line, Stebbins protested. There are at leastfifty ahead of him. All right, I said tiredly. As long as he's in here already, I mightas well see him. Be more careful next time, Stebbins. Stebbins nodded dolefully and backed out. <doc-sep>The alien was a pathetic sight: a Stortulian, a squirrely-lookingcreature about three feet high. His fur, which should have been alustrous black, was a dull gray, and his eyes were wet and sad. Histail drooped. His voice was little more than a faint whimper, even atfull volume. Begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. I am abeing of Stortul XII, having sold my last few possessions to travelto Ghryne for the miserable purpose of obtaining an interview withyourself. I said, I'd better tell you right at the outset that we're alreadycarrying our full complement of Stortulians. We have both a male and afemale now and— This is known to me. The female—is her name perchance Tiress? I glanced down at the inventory chart until I found the Stortulianentry. Yes, that's her name. The little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. It is she!It is she! I'm afraid we don't have room for any more— You are not in full understanding of my plight. The female Tiress,she is—was—my own Fire-sent spouse, my comfort and my warmth, my lifeand my love. Funny, I said. When we signed her three years ago, she said she wassingle. It's right here on the chart. She lied! She left my burrow because she longed to see the splendorsof Earth. And I am alone, bound by our sacred customs never to remarry,languishing in sadness and pining for her return. You must take me toEarth! But— I must see her—her and this disgrace-bringing lover of hers. I mustreason with her. Earthman, can't you see I must appeal to her innerflame? I must bring her back! My face was expressionless. You don't really intend to join ourorganization at all—you just want free passage to Earth? Yes, yes! wailed the Stortulian. Find some other member of my race,if you must! Let me have my wife again, Earthman! Is your heart a deadlump of stone? <doc-sep>It isn't, but another of my principles is to refuse to be swayed bysentiment. I felt sorry for this being's domestic troubles, but Iwasn't going to break up a good act just to make an alien squirrelhappy—not to mention footing the transportation. I said, I don't see how we can manage it. The laws are very stricton the subject of bringing alien life to Earth. It has to be forscientific purposes only. And if I know in advance that your purpose incoming isn't scientific, I can't in all conscience lie for you, canI? Well— Of course not. I took advantage of his pathetic upset to steam rightalong. Now if you had come in here and simply asked me to sign you up,I might conceivably have done it. But no—you had to go unburden yourheart to me. I thought the truth would move you. It did. But in effect you're now asking me to conspire in a fraudulentcriminal act. Friend, I can't do it. My reputation means too much tome, I said piously. Then you will refuse me? My heart melts to nothingness for you. But I can't take you to Earth. Perhaps you will send my wife to me here? There's a clause in every contract that allows me to jettison anunwanted specimen. All I have to do is declare it no longer ofscientific interest, and the World Government will deport theundesirable alien back to its home world. But I wouldn't pull a lowtrick like that on our female Stortulian. I said, I'll ask her about coming home. But I won't ship her backagainst her will. And maybe she's happier where she is. The Stortulian seemed to shrivel. His eyelids closed half-way to maskhis tears. He turned and shambled slowly to the door, walking like aliving dishrag. In a bleak voice, he said, There is no hope then. Allis lost. I will never see my soulmate again. Good day, Earthman. He spoke in a drab monotone that almost, but not quite, had me weeping.I watched him shuffle out. I do have some conscience, and I had theuneasy feeling I had just been talking to a being who was about tocommit suicide on my account. <doc-sep>About fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. Then lifestarted to get complicated again. Nine of the fifty were okay. The rest were unacceptable for one reasonor another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. The haul for theday so far was close to two dozen new life-forms under contract. I had just about begun to forget about the incidents of the Kallerian'soutraged pride and the Stortulian's flighty wife when the door openedand the Earthman who called himself Ildwar Gorb of Wazzenazz XIIIstepped in. How did you get in here? I demanded. Your man happened to be looking the wrong way, he said cheerily.Change your mind about me yet? Get out before I have you thrown out. Gorb shrugged. I figured you hadn't changed your mind, so I've changedmy pitch a bit. If you won't believe I'm from Wazzenazz XIII, suppose Itell you that I am Earthborn, and that I'm looking for a job on yourstaff. I don't care what your story is! Get out or— —you'll have me thrown out. Okay, okay. Just give me half a second.Corrigan, you're no fool, and neither am I—but that fellow of yoursoutside is . He doesn't know how to handle alien beings. How manytimes today has a life-form come in here unexpectedly? I scowled at him. Too damn many. You see? He's incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead.I've been living in the outworlds half my life; I know all there is toknow about alien life-forms. You can use me, Corrigan. I took a deep breath and glanced all around the paneled ceiling ofthe office before I spoke. Listen, Gorb, or whatever your name is,I've had a hard day. There's been a Kallerian in here who just aboutthreatened murder, and there's been a Stortulian in here who's aboutto commit suicide because of me. I have a conscience and it's troublingme. But get this: I just want to finish off my recruiting, pack up andgo home to Earth. I don't want you hanging around here bothering me.I'm not looking to hire new staff members, and if you switch back toclaiming you're an unknown life-form from Wazzenazz XIII, the answer isthat I'm not looking for any of those either. Now will you scram or— The office door crashed open at that point and Heraal, the Kallerian,came thundering in. He was dressed from head to toe in glitteringmetalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster, he was wieldinga sword the length of a human being. Stebbins and Auchinleck camedragging helplessly along in his wake, hanging desperately to his belt. Sorry, Chief, Stebbins gasped. I tried to keep him out, but— Heraal, who had planted himself in front of my desk, drowned him outwith a roar. Earthman, you have mortally insulted the Clan Gursdrinn! <doc-sep>Sitting with my hands poised near the meshgun trigger, I was ready tolet him have it at the first sight of actual violence. Heraal boomed, You are responsible for what is to happen now. I havenotified the authorities and you prosecuted will be for causing thedeath of a life-form! Suffer, Earthborn ape! Suffer! Watch it, Chief, Stebbins yelled. He's going to— An instant before my numb fingers could tighten on the meshguntrigger, Heraal swung that huge sword through the air and plunged itsavagely through his body. He toppled forward onto the carpet with thesword projecting a couple of feet out of his back. A few driblets ofbluish-purple blood spread from beneath him. Before I could react to the big life-form's hara-kiri, the office doorflew open again and three sleek reptilian beings entered, garbed in thegreen sashes of the local police force. Their golden eyes goggled downat the figure on the floor, then came to rest on me. You are J. F. Corrigan? the leader asked. Y-yes. We have received word of a complaint against you. Said complaintbeing— —that your unethical actions have directly contributed to theuntimely death of an intelligent life-form, filled in the second ofthe Ghrynian policemen. The evidence lies before us, intoned the leader, in the cadaverof the unfortunate Kallerian who filed the complaint with us severalminutes ago. And therefore, said the third lizard, it is our duty to arrestyou for this crime and declare you subject to a fine of no less than$100,000 Galactic or two years in prison. Hold on! I stormed. You mean that any being from anywhere in theUniverse can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and I'm responsible? This is the law. Do you deny that your stubborn refusal to yield tothis late life-form's request lies at the root of his sad demise? Well, no, but— Failure to deny is admission of guilt. You are guilty, Earthman. <doc-sep>Closing my eyes wearily, I tried to wish the whole babbling lot of themaway. If I had to, I could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it wasgoing to put an awful dent in this year's take. And I shuddered when Iremembered that any minute that scrawny little Stortulian was likely tocome bursting in here to kill himself too. Was it a fine of $100,000per suicide? At that rate, I could be out of business by nightfall. I was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannouncedarrival. The small figure of the Stortulian trudged through the open doorwayand stationed itself limply near the threshold. The three Ghrynianpolicemen and my three assistants forgot the dead Kallerian for amoment and turned to eye the newcomer. I had visions of unending troubles with the law here on Ghryne. Iresolved never to come here on a recruiting trip again—or, if I did come, to figure out some more effective way of screening myself againstcrackpots. In heart-rending tones, the Stortulian declared, Life is no longerworth living. My last hope is gone. There is only one thing left for meto do. I was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackersgoing down the drain. Stop him, somebody! He's going to kill himself!He's— Then somebody sprinted toward me, hit me amidships, and knocked meflying out from behind my desk before I had a chance to fire themeshgun. My head walloped the floor, and for five or six seconds, Iguess I wasn't fully aware of what was going on. Gradually the scene took shape around me. There was a monstrous holein the wall behind my desk; a smoking blaster lay on the floor, and Isaw the three Ghrynian policemen sitting on the raving Stortulian. Theman who called himself Ildwar Gorb was getting to his feet and dustinghimself off. He helped me up. Sorry to have had to tackle you, Corrigan. But thatStortulian wasn't here to commit suicide, you see. He was out to getyou. I weaved dizzily toward my desk and dropped into my chair. A flyingfragment of wall had deflated my pneumatic cushion. The smell of ashedplaster was everywhere. The police were effectively cocooning thestruggling little alien in an unbreakable tanglemesh. Evidently you don't know as much as you think you do about Stortulianpsychology, Corrigan, Gorb said lightly. Suicide is completelyabhorrent to them. When they're troubled, they kill the person whocaused their trouble. In this case, you. <doc-sep>I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than afull-bodied laugh. Funny, I said. What is? asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian. These aliens. Big blustery Heraal came in with murder in his eye andkilled himself , and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek andpathetic damn near blew my head off. I shuddered. Thanks for thetackle job. Don't mention it, Gorb said. I glared at the Ghrynian police. Well? What are you waiting for? Takethat murderous little beast out of here! Or isn't murder against thelocal laws? The Stortulian will be duly punished, replied the leader of theGhrynian cops calmly. But there is the matter of the dead Kallerianand the fine of— —one hundred thousand dollars. I know. I groaned and turned toStebbins. Get the Terran Consulate on the phone, Stebbins. Have themsend down a legal adviser. Find out if there's any way we can get outof this mess with our skins intact. Right, Chief. Stebbins moved toward the visiphone. Gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest. Hold it, the Wazzenazzian said crisply. The Consulate can't helpyou. I can. You? I said. I can get you out of this cheap. How cheap? Gorb grinned rakishly. Five thousand in cash plus a contract as aspecimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That's a heck of alot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn't it? I eyed Gorb uncertainly. The Terran Consulate people probably wouldn'tbe much help; they tried to keep out of local squabbles unless theywere really serious, and I knew from past experiences that no officialsever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand,giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition. Tell you what, I said finally. You've got yourself a deal—but ona contingency basis. Get me out of this and you'll have five grand andthe contract. Otherwise, nothing. Gorb shrugged. What have I to lose? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story takes place during a single day in Mr. Corrigan’s rented office on the planet Ghryne some time after the year 2903. His office has a desk, chairs for his interviewees to sit in, and a sign advertising that extraterrestrials are wanted. There is a waiting room outside the office, and applicants are buzzed in by Corrigan’s assistant.On this planet, there is a strong desire for aliens to want to go on exhibit on Earth. Mr. Corrigan profits from having them on display, and is willing to go through long and stressful interview days to hand select his specimens. His desire is to have at least 500 different alien races in his collection.There is frequent reference to the location of the Corrigan Institute on Earth, though it is never visited in the story. The Institute is very popular with humans, and has 690 specimens, representing 298 different types of aliens.

<s> A Coffin for Jacob By EDWARD W. LUDWIG Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] With never a moment to rest, the pursuit through space felt like a game of hounds and hares ... or was it follow the leader? Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him. His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets. Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians. Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand. Coma esta, senor? a small voice piped. Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet? Ben looked down. The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees. I'm American, Ben muttered. Ah, buena ! I speak English tres fine, senor . I have Martianfriend, she tres pretty and tres fat. She weigh almost eightypounds, monsieur . I take you to her, si ? Ben shook his head. <doc-sep>He thought, I don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opiumor your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'dbring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul. It is deal, monsieur ? Five dollars or twenty keelis for visitMartian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams— I'm not buying. The dirty-faced kid shrugged. Then I show you to good table,— tresbien . I do not charge you, senor . The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason forresisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke andthrough the drone of alcohol-cracked voices. They passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyedEarthmen—merchant spacemen. They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusianmarble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketedtombstones. Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO 2 -breathingVenusians, the first he'd ever seen. They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyesunblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heardthey were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine. Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's SecurityPolice. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-clubagainst the stone booths. Keep walking , Ben told himself. You look the same as anyone elsehere. Keep walking. Look straight ahead. The officer passed. Ben breathed easier. Here we are, monsieur , piped the Martian boy. A tres fine table.Close in the shadows. Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man. He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra. The Martians were fragile, doll-like creatures with heads too large fortheir spindly bodies. Their long fingers played upon the strings oftheir cirillas or crawled over the holes of their flutes like spiderlegs. Their tune was sad. Even when they played an Earth tune, it stillseemed a song of old Mars, charged with echoes of lost voices andforgotten grandeur. For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the deadman. He thought, What are they doing here, these Martians? Here, ina smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,felt the challenge of new worlds? He sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinesewaiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over thefaces of the Inn's other occupants. You've got to find him , he thought. You've got to find the man withthe red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man. <doc-sep>The dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby andabout forty and he hated spacemen. His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outsideLuna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much apart of Ben as sight in his eyes. Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lipsspitting whiskey-slurred curses. Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fistthudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in thewhiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would tricklefrom a corner of the gaping mouth. You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him orignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from amemory that has burned into your mind. It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands hadbeen successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobbplopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him. Spacemen, he muttered, are getting like flies. Everywhere, all yousee's spacemen. He was a neatly dressed civilian. Ben smiled. If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here. The name's Cobb. The man hiccoughed. Spacemen in their white monkeysuits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're alittle tin god. He downed a shot of whiskey. Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,crimson-braided uniform of the Odyssey's junior astrogation officer.He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shininguniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe. He'd sought long for that key. <doc-sep>At the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the nightsky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd groundhis first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed onthe government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed hiscollection of astronomy and rocketry books. At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from BoysTown No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, amongthe grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends whounderstood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to theU. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space. And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the Odyssey —the first ship, itwas rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhapsbeyond. Cobb was persistent: Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet? The guy's drunk , Ben thought. He took his drink and moved threestools down the bar. Cobb followed. You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't likepeople to call you a sucker. Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm andheld him there. Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'llbe dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker! Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly andwithout warning, it welled up into savage fury. His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shockedhorror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge ofthe bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end oflife. He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw. Ben knew that he was dead. Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger. He ran. <doc-sep>For some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare worldof dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet. At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He sawthat he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of thecity. He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shoneabove him through Luna City's transparent dome. He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision. You can do two things , he thought. You can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntarymanslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years inprison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free. But you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want newmen over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-classjet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'dget the rest of the thrill of conquering space through video and bypeeking through electric fences of spaceports. Or— There were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen whooperated from the Solar System's frontiers. The spacemen weren'toutlaws. They were misfits, rejectees from the clearing houses on Earth. And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, thesouped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Theirheadquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular andfantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be ared-bearded giant. So , Ben reflected, you can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change yourname. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with yourduty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself fromEarth. After all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificantsecond, to destroy a man's life and his dream? <doc-sep>He was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his lastflight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of newpersonnel even more so. Ben Curtis made it to Venus. There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that thememory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow himas constantly as breath flowed into his lungs. But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring deadvoice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spacewaysobscure the dead face? So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once. You look for someone, senor ? He jumped. Oh. You still here? Oui. The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. Ikeep you company on your first night in Hoover City, n'est-ce-pas ? This isn't my first night here, Ben lied. I've been around a while. You are spacemen? Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. Here. Take off, willyou? Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin. Ich danke, senor. Youknow why city is called Hoover City? Ben didn't answer. They say it is because after women come, they want first thing athousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner, monsieur ? Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy. Ai-yee , I go. You keep listen to good Martian music. The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness. Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade offaces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloonfaces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, andoccasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there aface with a red beard. A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one ofa dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this. He needed help. But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. Areward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? TheMartian kid, perhaps? Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash ofwhite. He tensed. Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought. His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness. And then he saw another and another and another. Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of awheel with Ben as their focal point. You idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known! <doc-sep>Light showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had beenturned on. The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of broodingwickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor. Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements anda chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were liketatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away. Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,falling. The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised. A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk withfeline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remainedundisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily inBen's direction. Curtis! one of the policemen yelled. You're covered! Hold it! Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit intowhich the musicians had disappeared. A hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed airescaping from a container. A dime-sized section of the concrete wallahead of him crumbled. He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not themildly stunning neuro-clubs. Another hiss passed his cheek. He was about twelve feet from the exit. Another second , his brain screamed. Just another second— Or would the exits be guarded? He heard the hiss. It hit directly in the small of his back. There was no pain, just aslight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle. <doc-sep>He froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. His body seemed to begrowing, swelling into balloon proportions. He knew that the tinyneedle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzingmortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle ofhis body. He staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. He'd havefifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind andbody overpowered him. In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voiceyell, Turn on the damn lights! Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized thatsomeone had seized it. A soft feminine voice spoke to him. You're wounded? They hit you? Yes. His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word. You want to escape—even now? Yes. You may die if you don't give yourself up. No, no. He tried to stumble toward the exit. All right then. Not that way. Here, this way. Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlightflicked on. Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. Adoor closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from hisvision—if he still had vision. You're sure? the voice persisted. I'm sure, Ben managed to say. I have no antidote. You may die. His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocainwithin half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread toheart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effectiveweapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrenderat once. Anti ... anti ... The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forcedfrom his throat. No ... I'm sure ... sure. He didn't hear the answer or anything else. <doc-sep>Ben Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return toconsciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of blacknothingness to a dream-like state of awareness. He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation andsensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed totransfer itself to his own body. For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt weldedshut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave wayto a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hoveredconstantly above him—a face, he supposed. He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound wasa deep, staccato grunting. But he heard someone say, Don't try to talk. It was the same gentlevoice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. Don't talk. Just lie still andrest. Everything'll be all right. Everything all right , he thought dimly. There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. Therewere periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware ofthings. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygenmask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blanketsswathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth andhe would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach. Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuringmist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears: Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food. Or, Close youreyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better. Better , he'd think. Getting better.... At last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. Themist brightened, then dissolved. He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorlesswalls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of hisaluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket. Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side. You are better? the kind voice asked. <doc-sep>The face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-fiveand thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-lookingpallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at thesame time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Herstraight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, anddrawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck. I—I am better, he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. Iam going to live? You will live. He thought for a moment. How long have I been here? Nine days. You took care of me? He noted the deep, dark circles beneath hersleep-robbed eyes. She nodded. You're the one who carried me when I was shot? Yes. Why? Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen maskin readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it. Why? he asked again. It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow. A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk? He lay back then, panting, exhausted. You have nothing to worry about, the girl said softly. Her cool handtouched his hot forehead. Rest. We'll talk later. His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept. When he next awoke, his gaze turned first to the window. There waslight outside, but he had no way of knowing if this was morning, noonor afternoon—or on what planet. He saw no white-domed buildings of Hoover City, no formal lines ofgreen-treed parks, no streams of buzzing gyro-cars. There was only atranslucent and infinite whiteness. It was as if the window were set onthe edge of the Universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterlessvoid. The girl entered the room. Hi, she said, smiling. The dark half-moons under her eyes were lessprominent. Her face was relaxed. She increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him riseto a sitting position. Where are we? he asked. Venus. We're not in Hoover City? No. He looked at her, wondering. You won't tell me? Not yet. Later, perhaps. Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn? <doc-sep>She shrugged. We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in thecity, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—thesecan be had for a price. You'll tell me your name? Maggie. Why did you save me? Her eyes twinkled mischievously. Because you're a good astrogator. His own eyes widened. How did you know that? She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. I know everything about you,Lieutenant Curtis. How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers— I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduatedfrom the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in aclass of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 inHistory of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on? Fascinated, Ben nodded. You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the Odyssey .You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroomfight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, apre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder andescape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group ofspacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in theBlast Inn. He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. I—don'tget it. There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, wehave many friends. He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly. I'm sorry, she said. I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happybecause you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon. Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walkagain. She lowered her gaze. I hope you'll be able to. But you don't think I will, do you? I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.Rest. He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture. Just one more question, he almost whispered. Yes? The man I killed—did he have a wife? She hesitated. He thought, Damn it, of all the questions, why did Iask that? Finally she said, He had a wife. Children? Two. I don't know their ages. She left the room. <doc-sep>He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room. He sat straight up, his chest heaving. The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed red beard ! Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain. The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night. And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears. His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him. He awoke still screaming.... A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind. She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard? She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You were looking for him, weren't you? Who is he? She sat on the chair beside him. My husband, she said softly. He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me? We need all the good men we can get. Where is he? She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him. Why aren't you with him now? He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate? He told her the tales he'd heard. <doc-sep>She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies. Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one. Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob. Jacob? Your husband? She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either. She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies. Don't the authorities object? Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business. She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown. Ben scowled. What happens if there is a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then. Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It could be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own. <doc-sep>Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator. Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely. Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego? Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob. He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her. The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay? Okay, he said. When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo. He was like two people, he thought. Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal. He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions: A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful. Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years. Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Ben Curtis enters a dark gin mill followed by the dead man and a boy offers him a wench. Ben denies and follows to a table past drinking men from different planets and a policeman, whose presence makes Ben anxious. He is followed by the dead man everywhere and has to find some red-bearded man to escape the dead man. A week ago Ben met a drunk man Cobb in a bar and they had a fight which led to Cobb's death by accident. Ben ran and didn't give in not to end his space career. He starts searching for the red-bearded man on Venus who led a group of renegade spacemen. In the gin mill Ben gets hopeless and is surrounded by the police, he runs again. He is paralyzed by the police but a woman who doesn't have an antidote helps him escape. He wakes up and can't talk, the woman massages him and looks after. When Ben gains consciousness he asks questions, he is not in Hoover city any longer but still on Venus. Turns out the woman knows a lot about her patient and saved him with a use of money. She doesn't know if he is to walk again but he will live. Ben learns the dead man had a family and they haunt him in nightmares. He also sees a photo of a red-bearded man, and it turns out the woman is his wife and they need an astrogator. She tells about her husband, his team and goal. Ben understands he won't be let go if he denies the job.

<s> A Coffin for Jacob By EDWARD W. LUDWIG Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] With never a moment to rest, the pursuit through space felt like a game of hounds and hares ... or was it follow the leader? Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him. His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets. Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians. Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand. Coma esta, senor? a small voice piped. Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet? Ben looked down. The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees. I'm American, Ben muttered. Ah, buena ! I speak English tres fine, senor . I have Martianfriend, she tres pretty and tres fat. She weigh almost eightypounds, monsieur . I take you to her, si ? Ben shook his head. <doc-sep>He thought, I don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opiumor your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'dbring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul. It is deal, monsieur ? Five dollars or twenty keelis for visitMartian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams— I'm not buying. The dirty-faced kid shrugged. Then I show you to good table,— tresbien . I do not charge you, senor . The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason forresisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke andthrough the drone of alcohol-cracked voices. They passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyedEarthmen—merchant spacemen. They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusianmarble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketedtombstones. Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO 2 -breathingVenusians, the first he'd ever seen. They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyesunblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heardthey were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine. Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's SecurityPolice. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-clubagainst the stone booths. Keep walking , Ben told himself. You look the same as anyone elsehere. Keep walking. Look straight ahead. The officer passed. Ben breathed easier. Here we are, monsieur , piped the Martian boy. A tres fine table.Close in the shadows. Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man. He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra. The Martians were fragile, doll-like creatures with heads too large fortheir spindly bodies. Their long fingers played upon the strings oftheir cirillas or crawled over the holes of their flutes like spiderlegs. Their tune was sad. Even when they played an Earth tune, it stillseemed a song of old Mars, charged with echoes of lost voices andforgotten grandeur. For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the deadman. He thought, What are they doing here, these Martians? Here, ina smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,felt the challenge of new worlds? He sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinesewaiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over thefaces of the Inn's other occupants. You've got to find him , he thought. You've got to find the man withthe red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man. <doc-sep>The dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby andabout forty and he hated spacemen. His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outsideLuna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much apart of Ben as sight in his eyes. Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lipsspitting whiskey-slurred curses. Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fistthudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in thewhiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would tricklefrom a corner of the gaping mouth. You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him orignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from amemory that has burned into your mind. It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands hadbeen successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobbplopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him. Spacemen, he muttered, are getting like flies. Everywhere, all yousee's spacemen. He was a neatly dressed civilian. Ben smiled. If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here. The name's Cobb. The man hiccoughed. Spacemen in their white monkeysuits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're alittle tin god. He downed a shot of whiskey. Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,crimson-braided uniform of the Odyssey's junior astrogation officer.He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shininguniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe. He'd sought long for that key. <doc-sep>At the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the nightsky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd groundhis first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed onthe government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed hiscollection of astronomy and rocketry books. At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from BoysTown No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, amongthe grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends whounderstood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to theU. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space. And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the Odyssey —the first ship, itwas rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhapsbeyond. Cobb was persistent: Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet? The guy's drunk , Ben thought. He took his drink and moved threestools down the bar. Cobb followed. You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't likepeople to call you a sucker. Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm andheld him there. Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'llbe dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker! Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly andwithout warning, it welled up into savage fury. His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shockedhorror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge ofthe bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end oflife. He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw. Ben knew that he was dead. Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger. He ran. <doc-sep>For some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare worldof dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet. At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He sawthat he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of thecity. He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shoneabove him through Luna City's transparent dome. He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision. You can do two things , he thought. You can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntarymanslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years inprison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free. But you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want newmen over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-classjet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'dget the rest of the thrill of conquering space through video and bypeeking through electric fences of spaceports. Or— There were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen whooperated from the Solar System's frontiers. The spacemen weren'toutlaws. They were misfits, rejectees from the clearing houses on Earth. And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, thesouped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Theirheadquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular andfantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be ared-bearded giant. So , Ben reflected, you can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change yourname. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with yourduty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself fromEarth. After all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificantsecond, to destroy a man's life and his dream? <doc-sep>He was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his lastflight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of newpersonnel even more so. Ben Curtis made it to Venus. There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that thememory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow himas constantly as breath flowed into his lungs. But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring deadvoice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spacewaysobscure the dead face? So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once. You look for someone, senor ? He jumped. Oh. You still here? Oui. The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. Ikeep you company on your first night in Hoover City, n'est-ce-pas ? This isn't my first night here, Ben lied. I've been around a while. You are spacemen? Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. Here. Take off, willyou? Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin. Ich danke, senor. Youknow why city is called Hoover City? Ben didn't answer. They say it is because after women come, they want first thing athousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner, monsieur ? Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy. Ai-yee , I go. You keep listen to good Martian music. The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness. Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade offaces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloonfaces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, andoccasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there aface with a red beard. A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one ofa dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this. He needed help. But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. Areward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? TheMartian kid, perhaps? Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash ofwhite. He tensed. Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought. His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness. And then he saw another and another and another. Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of awheel with Ben as their focal point. You idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known! <doc-sep>Light showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had beenturned on. The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of broodingwickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor. Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements anda chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were liketatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away. Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,falling. The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised. A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk withfeline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remainedundisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily inBen's direction. Curtis! one of the policemen yelled. You're covered! Hold it! Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit intowhich the musicians had disappeared. A hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed airescaping from a container. A dime-sized section of the concrete wallahead of him crumbled. He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not themildly stunning neuro-clubs. Another hiss passed his cheek. He was about twelve feet from the exit. Another second , his brain screamed. Just another second— Or would the exits be guarded? He heard the hiss. It hit directly in the small of his back. There was no pain, just aslight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle. <doc-sep>He froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. His body seemed to begrowing, swelling into balloon proportions. He knew that the tinyneedle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzingmortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle ofhis body. He staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. He'd havefifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind andbody overpowered him. In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voiceyell, Turn on the damn lights! Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized thatsomeone had seized it. A soft feminine voice spoke to him. You're wounded? They hit you? Yes. His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word. You want to escape—even now? Yes. You may die if you don't give yourself up. No, no. He tried to stumble toward the exit. All right then. Not that way. Here, this way. Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlightflicked on. Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. Adoor closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from hisvision—if he still had vision. You're sure? the voice persisted. I'm sure, Ben managed to say. I have no antidote. You may die. His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocainwithin half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread toheart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effectiveweapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrenderat once. Anti ... anti ... The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forcedfrom his throat. No ... I'm sure ... sure. He didn't hear the answer or anything else. <doc-sep>Ben Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return toconsciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of blacknothingness to a dream-like state of awareness. He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation andsensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed totransfer itself to his own body. For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt weldedshut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave wayto a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hoveredconstantly above him—a face, he supposed. He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound wasa deep, staccato grunting. But he heard someone say, Don't try to talk. It was the same gentlevoice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. Don't talk. Just lie still andrest. Everything'll be all right. Everything all right , he thought dimly. There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. Therewere periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware ofthings. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygenmask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blanketsswathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth andhe would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach. Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuringmist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears: Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food. Or, Close youreyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better. Better , he'd think. Getting better.... At last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. Themist brightened, then dissolved. He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorlesswalls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of hisaluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket. Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side. You are better? the kind voice asked. <doc-sep>The face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-fiveand thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-lookingpallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at thesame time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Herstraight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, anddrawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck. I—I am better, he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. Iam going to live? You will live. He thought for a moment. How long have I been here? Nine days. You took care of me? He noted the deep, dark circles beneath hersleep-robbed eyes. She nodded. You're the one who carried me when I was shot? Yes. Why? Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen maskin readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it. Why? he asked again. It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow. A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk? He lay back then, panting, exhausted. You have nothing to worry about, the girl said softly. Her cool handtouched his hot forehead. Rest. We'll talk later. His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept. When he next awoke, his gaze turned first to the window. There waslight outside, but he had no way of knowing if this was morning, noonor afternoon—or on what planet. He saw no white-domed buildings of Hoover City, no formal lines ofgreen-treed parks, no streams of buzzing gyro-cars. There was only atranslucent and infinite whiteness. It was as if the window were set onthe edge of the Universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterlessvoid. The girl entered the room. Hi, she said, smiling. The dark half-moons under her eyes were lessprominent. Her face was relaxed. She increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him riseto a sitting position. Where are we? he asked. Venus. We're not in Hoover City? No. He looked at her, wondering. You won't tell me? Not yet. Later, perhaps. Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn? <doc-sep>She shrugged. We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in thecity, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—thesecan be had for a price. You'll tell me your name? Maggie. Why did you save me? Her eyes twinkled mischievously. Because you're a good astrogator. His own eyes widened. How did you know that? She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. I know everything about you,Lieutenant Curtis. How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers— I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduatedfrom the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in aclass of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 inHistory of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on? Fascinated, Ben nodded. You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the Odyssey .You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroomfight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, apre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder andescape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group ofspacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in theBlast Inn. He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. I—don'tget it. There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, wehave many friends. He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly. I'm sorry, she said. I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happybecause you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon. Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walkagain. She lowered her gaze. I hope you'll be able to. But you don't think I will, do you? I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.Rest. He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture. Just one more question, he almost whispered. Yes? The man I killed—did he have a wife? She hesitated. He thought, Damn it, of all the questions, why did Iask that? Finally she said, He had a wife. Children? Two. I don't know their ages. She left the room. <doc-sep>He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room. He sat straight up, his chest heaving. The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed red beard ! Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain. The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night. And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears. His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him. He awoke still screaming.... A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind. She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard? She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You were looking for him, weren't you? Who is he? She sat on the chair beside him. My husband, she said softly. He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me? We need all the good men we can get. Where is he? She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him. Why aren't you with him now? He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate? He told her the tales he'd heard. <doc-sep>She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies. Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one. Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob. Jacob? Your husband? She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either. She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies. Don't the authorities object? Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business. She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown. Ben scowled. What happens if there is a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then. Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It could be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own. <doc-sep>Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator. Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely. Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego? Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob. He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her. The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay? Okay, he said. When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo. He was like two people, he thought. Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal. He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions: A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful. Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years. Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story begins in the Blast Inn, a dim gin mill with a sense of evil. The huge room is obscure with smoke and full of people from different planets drinking and smoking. Ben's table is in the shadows far away, a lonely Martian orchestra is playing. Then the story goes to one week ago, a bar on Earth and a fight. There was a chase then through the rocket front alleys with a thousand stars above. Ben fled to Venus. In the gin mill's shadow, the light is suddenly on, the orchestra leaves and Ben is surrendered to the police. He runs and wakes up in a place he can't see. He is with a woman who looks after him, the room is small with a small window with infinite whiteness outside. He was moved to a different city on Venus. Soon, there turns out to be a photo of a red-bearded man in the room. Nightmares and memories haunt Ben in this room.

<s> A Coffin for Jacob By EDWARD W. LUDWIG Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] With never a moment to rest, the pursuit through space felt like a game of hounds and hares ... or was it follow the leader? Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him. His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets. Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians. Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand. Coma esta, senor? a small voice piped. Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet? Ben looked down. The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees. I'm American, Ben muttered. Ah, buena ! I speak English tres fine, senor . I have Martianfriend, she tres pretty and tres fat. She weigh almost eightypounds, monsieur . I take you to her, si ? Ben shook his head. <doc-sep>He thought, I don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opiumor your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'dbring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul. It is deal, monsieur ? Five dollars or twenty keelis for visitMartian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams— I'm not buying. The dirty-faced kid shrugged. Then I show you to good table,— tresbien . I do not charge you, senor . The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason forresisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke andthrough the drone of alcohol-cracked voices. They passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyedEarthmen—merchant spacemen. They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusianmarble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketedtombstones. Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO 2 -breathingVenusians, the first he'd ever seen. They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyesunblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heardthey were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine. Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's SecurityPolice. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-clubagainst the stone booths. Keep walking , Ben told himself. You look the same as anyone elsehere. Keep walking. Look straight ahead. The officer passed. Ben breathed easier. Here we are, monsieur , piped the Martian boy. A tres fine table.Close in the shadows. Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man. He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra. The Martians were fragile, doll-like creatures with heads too large fortheir spindly bodies. Their long fingers played upon the strings oftheir cirillas or crawled over the holes of their flutes like spiderlegs. Their tune was sad. Even when they played an Earth tune, it stillseemed a song of old Mars, charged with echoes of lost voices andforgotten grandeur. For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the deadman. He thought, What are they doing here, these Martians? Here, ina smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,felt the challenge of new worlds? He sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinesewaiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over thefaces of the Inn's other occupants. You've got to find him , he thought. You've got to find the man withthe red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man. <doc-sep>The dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby andabout forty and he hated spacemen. His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outsideLuna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much apart of Ben as sight in his eyes. Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lipsspitting whiskey-slurred curses. Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fistthudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in thewhiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would tricklefrom a corner of the gaping mouth. You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him orignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from amemory that has burned into your mind. It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands hadbeen successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobbplopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him. Spacemen, he muttered, are getting like flies. Everywhere, all yousee's spacemen. He was a neatly dressed civilian. Ben smiled. If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here. The name's Cobb. The man hiccoughed. Spacemen in their white monkeysuits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're alittle tin god. He downed a shot of whiskey. Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,crimson-braided uniform of the Odyssey's junior astrogation officer.He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shininguniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe. He'd sought long for that key. <doc-sep>At the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the nightsky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd groundhis first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed onthe government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed hiscollection of astronomy and rocketry books. At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from BoysTown No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, amongthe grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends whounderstood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to theU. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space. And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the Odyssey —the first ship, itwas rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhapsbeyond. Cobb was persistent: Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet? The guy's drunk , Ben thought. He took his drink and moved threestools down the bar. Cobb followed. You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't likepeople to call you a sucker. Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm andheld him there. Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'llbe dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker! Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly andwithout warning, it welled up into savage fury. His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shockedhorror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge ofthe bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end oflife. He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw. Ben knew that he was dead. Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger. He ran. <doc-sep>For some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare worldof dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet. At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He sawthat he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of thecity. He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shoneabove him through Luna City's transparent dome. He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision. You can do two things , he thought. You can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntarymanslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years inprison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free. But you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want newmen over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-classjet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'dget the rest of the thrill of conquering space through video and bypeeking through electric fences of spaceports. Or— There were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen whooperated from the Solar System's frontiers. The spacemen weren'toutlaws. They were misfits, rejectees from the clearing houses on Earth. And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, thesouped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Theirheadquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular andfantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be ared-bearded giant. So , Ben reflected, you can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change yourname. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with yourduty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself fromEarth. After all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificantsecond, to destroy a man's life and his dream? <doc-sep>He was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his lastflight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of newpersonnel even more so. Ben Curtis made it to Venus. There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that thememory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow himas constantly as breath flowed into his lungs. But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring deadvoice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spacewaysobscure the dead face? So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once. You look for someone, senor ? He jumped. Oh. You still here? Oui. The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. Ikeep you company on your first night in Hoover City, n'est-ce-pas ? This isn't my first night here, Ben lied. I've been around a while. You are spacemen? Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. Here. Take off, willyou? Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin. Ich danke, senor. Youknow why city is called Hoover City? Ben didn't answer. They say it is because after women come, they want first thing athousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner, monsieur ? Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy. Ai-yee , I go. You keep listen to good Martian music. The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness. Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade offaces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloonfaces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, andoccasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there aface with a red beard. A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one ofa dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this. He needed help. But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. Areward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? TheMartian kid, perhaps? Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash ofwhite. He tensed. Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought. His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness. And then he saw another and another and another. Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of awheel with Ben as their focal point. You idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known! <doc-sep>Light showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had beenturned on. The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of broodingwickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor. Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements anda chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were liketatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away. Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,falling. The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised. A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk withfeline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remainedundisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily inBen's direction. Curtis! one of the policemen yelled. You're covered! Hold it! Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit intowhich the musicians had disappeared. A hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed airescaping from a container. A dime-sized section of the concrete wallahead of him crumbled. He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not themildly stunning neuro-clubs. Another hiss passed his cheek. He was about twelve feet from the exit. Another second , his brain screamed. Just another second— Or would the exits be guarded? He heard the hiss. It hit directly in the small of his back. There was no pain, just aslight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle. <doc-sep>He froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. His body seemed to begrowing, swelling into balloon proportions. He knew that the tinyneedle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzingmortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle ofhis body. He staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. He'd havefifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind andbody overpowered him. In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voiceyell, Turn on the damn lights! Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized thatsomeone had seized it. A soft feminine voice spoke to him. You're wounded? They hit you? Yes. His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word. You want to escape—even now? Yes. You may die if you don't give yourself up. No, no. He tried to stumble toward the exit. All right then. Not that way. Here, this way. Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlightflicked on. Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. Adoor closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from hisvision—if he still had vision. You're sure? the voice persisted. I'm sure, Ben managed to say. I have no antidote. You may die. His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocainwithin half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread toheart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effectiveweapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrenderat once. Anti ... anti ... The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forcedfrom his throat. No ... I'm sure ... sure. He didn't hear the answer or anything else. <doc-sep>Ben Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return toconsciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of blacknothingness to a dream-like state of awareness. He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation andsensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed totransfer itself to his own body. For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt weldedshut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave wayto a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hoveredconstantly above him—a face, he supposed. He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound wasa deep, staccato grunting. But he heard someone say, Don't try to talk. It was the same gentlevoice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. Don't talk. Just lie still andrest. Everything'll be all right. Everything all right , he thought dimly. There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. Therewere periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware ofthings. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygenmask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blanketsswathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth andhe would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach. Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuringmist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears: Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food. Or, Close youreyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better. Better , he'd think. Getting better.... At last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. Themist brightened, then dissolved. He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorlesswalls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of hisaluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket. Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side. You are better? the kind voice asked. <doc-sep>The face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-fiveand thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-lookingpallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at thesame time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Herstraight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, anddrawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck. I—I am better, he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. Iam going to live? You will live. He thought for a moment. How long have I been here? Nine days. You took care of me? He noted the deep, dark circles beneath hersleep-robbed eyes. She nodded. You're the one who carried me when I was shot? Yes. Why? Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen maskin readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it. Why? he asked again. It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow. A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk? He lay back then, panting, exhausted. You have nothing to worry about, the girl said softly. Her cool handtouched his hot forehead. Rest. We'll talk later. His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept. When he next awoke, his gaze turned first to the window. There waslight outside, but he had no way of knowing if this was morning, noonor afternoon—or on what planet. He saw no white-domed buildings of Hoover City, no formal lines ofgreen-treed parks, no streams of buzzing gyro-cars. There was only atranslucent and infinite whiteness. It was as if the window were set onthe edge of the Universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterlessvoid. The girl entered the room. Hi, she said, smiling. The dark half-moons under her eyes were lessprominent. Her face was relaxed. She increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him riseto a sitting position. Where are we? he asked. Venus. We're not in Hoover City? No. He looked at her, wondering. You won't tell me? Not yet. Later, perhaps. Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn? <doc-sep>She shrugged. We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in thecity, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—thesecan be had for a price. You'll tell me your name? Maggie. Why did you save me? Her eyes twinkled mischievously. Because you're a good astrogator. His own eyes widened. How did you know that? She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. I know everything about you,Lieutenant Curtis. How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers— I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduatedfrom the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in aclass of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 inHistory of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on? Fascinated, Ben nodded. You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the Odyssey .You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroomfight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, apre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder andescape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group ofspacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in theBlast Inn. He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. I—don'tget it. There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, wehave many friends. He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly. I'm sorry, she said. I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happybecause you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon. Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walkagain. She lowered her gaze. I hope you'll be able to. But you don't think I will, do you? I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.Rest. He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture. Just one more question, he almost whispered. Yes? The man I killed—did he have a wife? She hesitated. He thought, Damn it, of all the questions, why did Iask that? Finally she said, He had a wife. Children? Two. I don't know their ages. She left the room. <doc-sep>He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room. He sat straight up, his chest heaving. The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed red beard ! Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain. The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night. And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears. His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him. He awoke still screaming.... A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind. She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard? She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You were looking for him, weren't you? Who is he? She sat on the chair beside him. My husband, she said softly. He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me? We need all the good men we can get. Where is he? She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him. Why aren't you with him now? He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate? He told her the tales he'd heard. <doc-sep>She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies. Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one. Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob. Jacob? Your husband? She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either. She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies. Don't the authorities object? Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business. She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown. Ben scowled. What happens if there is a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then. Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It could be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own. <doc-sep>Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator. Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely. Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego? Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob. He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her. The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay? Okay, he said. When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo. He was like two people, he thought. Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal. He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions: A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful. Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years. Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The man is the leader of renegade spacemen who operate from the Solar System's frontiers and are not outlaws. The man is almost a myth. Right now the man is exploring new parts of space and is building a new base. The team is huge and the base has moved from Venus towards the Pole for a while, planning to move to an asteroid later. Half the team are wanted but their livings are still honest. The man is banned from Earth and brings cargo to the frontiers and the authorities close their eyes. They want to go further than the System itself and need a good astrogator like Ben out there.

<s> A Coffin for Jacob By EDWARD W. LUDWIG Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] With never a moment to rest, the pursuit through space felt like a game of hounds and hares ... or was it follow the leader? Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him. His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets. Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians. Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand. Coma esta, senor? a small voice piped. Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet? Ben looked down. The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees. I'm American, Ben muttered. Ah, buena ! I speak English tres fine, senor . I have Martianfriend, she tres pretty and tres fat. She weigh almost eightypounds, monsieur . I take you to her, si ? Ben shook his head. <doc-sep>He thought, I don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opiumor your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'dbring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul. It is deal, monsieur ? Five dollars or twenty keelis for visitMartian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams— I'm not buying. The dirty-faced kid shrugged. Then I show you to good table,— tresbien . I do not charge you, senor . The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason forresisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke andthrough the drone of alcohol-cracked voices. They passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyedEarthmen—merchant spacemen. They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusianmarble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketedtombstones. Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO 2 -breathingVenusians, the first he'd ever seen. They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyesunblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heardthey were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine. Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's SecurityPolice. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-clubagainst the stone booths. Keep walking , Ben told himself. You look the same as anyone elsehere. Keep walking. Look straight ahead. The officer passed. Ben breathed easier. Here we are, monsieur , piped the Martian boy. A tres fine table.Close in the shadows. Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man. He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra. The Martians were fragile, doll-like creatures with heads too large fortheir spindly bodies. Their long fingers played upon the strings oftheir cirillas or crawled over the holes of their flutes like spiderlegs. Their tune was sad. Even when they played an Earth tune, it stillseemed a song of old Mars, charged with echoes of lost voices andforgotten grandeur. For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the deadman. He thought, What are they doing here, these Martians? Here, ina smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,felt the challenge of new worlds? He sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinesewaiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over thefaces of the Inn's other occupants. You've got to find him , he thought. You've got to find the man withthe red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man. <doc-sep>The dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby andabout forty and he hated spacemen. His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outsideLuna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much apart of Ben as sight in his eyes. Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lipsspitting whiskey-slurred curses. Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fistthudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in thewhiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would tricklefrom a corner of the gaping mouth. You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him orignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from amemory that has burned into your mind. It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands hadbeen successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobbplopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him. Spacemen, he muttered, are getting like flies. Everywhere, all yousee's spacemen. He was a neatly dressed civilian. Ben smiled. If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here. The name's Cobb. The man hiccoughed. Spacemen in their white monkeysuits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're alittle tin god. He downed a shot of whiskey. Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,crimson-braided uniform of the Odyssey's junior astrogation officer.He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shininguniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe. He'd sought long for that key. <doc-sep>At the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the nightsky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd groundhis first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed onthe government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed hiscollection of astronomy and rocketry books. At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from BoysTown No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, amongthe grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends whounderstood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to theU. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space. And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the Odyssey —the first ship, itwas rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhapsbeyond. Cobb was persistent: Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet? The guy's drunk , Ben thought. He took his drink and moved threestools down the bar. Cobb followed. You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't likepeople to call you a sucker. Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm andheld him there. Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'llbe dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker! Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly andwithout warning, it welled up into savage fury. His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shockedhorror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge ofthe bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end oflife. He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw. Ben knew that he was dead. Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger. He ran. <doc-sep>For some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare worldof dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet. At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He sawthat he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of thecity. He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shoneabove him through Luna City's transparent dome. He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision. You can do two things , he thought. You can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntarymanslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years inprison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free. But you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want newmen over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-classjet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'dget the rest of the thrill of conquering space through video and bypeeking through electric fences of spaceports. Or— There were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen whooperated from the Solar System's frontiers. The spacemen weren'toutlaws. They were misfits, rejectees from the clearing houses on Earth. And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, thesouped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Theirheadquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular andfantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be ared-bearded giant. So , Ben reflected, you can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change yourname. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with yourduty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself fromEarth. After all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificantsecond, to destroy a man's life and his dream? <doc-sep>He was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his lastflight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of newpersonnel even more so. Ben Curtis made it to Venus. There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that thememory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow himas constantly as breath flowed into his lungs. But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring deadvoice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spacewaysobscure the dead face? So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once. You look for someone, senor ? He jumped. Oh. You still here? Oui. The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. Ikeep you company on your first night in Hoover City, n'est-ce-pas ? This isn't my first night here, Ben lied. I've been around a while. You are spacemen? Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. Here. Take off, willyou? Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin. Ich danke, senor. Youknow why city is called Hoover City? Ben didn't answer. They say it is because after women come, they want first thing athousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner, monsieur ? Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy. Ai-yee , I go. You keep listen to good Martian music. The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness. Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade offaces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloonfaces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, andoccasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there aface with a red beard. A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one ofa dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this. He needed help. But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. Areward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? TheMartian kid, perhaps? Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash ofwhite. He tensed. Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought. His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness. And then he saw another and another and another. Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of awheel with Ben as their focal point. You idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known! <doc-sep>Light showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had beenturned on. The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of broodingwickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor. Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements anda chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were liketatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away. Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,falling. The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised. A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk withfeline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remainedundisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily inBen's direction. Curtis! one of the policemen yelled. You're covered! Hold it! Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit intowhich the musicians had disappeared. A hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed airescaping from a container. A dime-sized section of the concrete wallahead of him crumbled. He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not themildly stunning neuro-clubs. Another hiss passed his cheek. He was about twelve feet from the exit. Another second , his brain screamed. Just another second— Or would the exits be guarded? He heard the hiss. It hit directly in the small of his back. There was no pain, just aslight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle. <doc-sep>He froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. His body seemed to begrowing, swelling into balloon proportions. He knew that the tinyneedle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzingmortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle ofhis body. He staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. He'd havefifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind andbody overpowered him. In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voiceyell, Turn on the damn lights! Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized thatsomeone had seized it. A soft feminine voice spoke to him. You're wounded? They hit you? Yes. His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word. You want to escape—even now? Yes. You may die if you don't give yourself up. No, no. He tried to stumble toward the exit. All right then. Not that way. Here, this way. Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlightflicked on. Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. Adoor closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from hisvision—if he still had vision. You're sure? the voice persisted. I'm sure, Ben managed to say. I have no antidote. You may die. His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocainwithin half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread toheart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effectiveweapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrenderat once. Anti ... anti ... The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forcedfrom his throat. No ... I'm sure ... sure. He didn't hear the answer or anything else. <doc-sep>Ben Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return toconsciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of blacknothingness to a dream-like state of awareness. He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation andsensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed totransfer itself to his own body. For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt weldedshut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave wayto a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hoveredconstantly above him—a face, he supposed. He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound wasa deep, staccato grunting. But he heard someone say, Don't try to talk. It was the same gentlevoice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. Don't talk. Just lie still andrest. Everything'll be all right. Everything all right , he thought dimly. There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. Therewere periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware ofthings. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygenmask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blanketsswathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth andhe would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach. Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuringmist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears: Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food. Or, Close youreyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better. Better , he'd think. Getting better.... At last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. Themist brightened, then dissolved. He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorlesswalls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of hisaluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket. Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side. You are better? the kind voice asked. <doc-sep>The face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-fiveand thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-lookingpallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at thesame time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Herstraight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, anddrawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck. I—I am better, he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. Iam going to live? You will live. He thought for a moment. How long have I been here? Nine days. You took care of me? He noted the deep, dark circles beneath hersleep-robbed eyes. She nodded. You're the one who carried me when I was shot? Yes. Why? Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen maskin readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it. Why? he asked again. It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow. A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk? He lay back then, panting, exhausted. You have nothing to worry about, the girl said softly. Her cool handtouched his hot forehead. Rest. We'll talk later. His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept. When he next awoke, his gaze turned first to the window. There waslight outside, but he had no way of knowing if this was morning, noonor afternoon—or on what planet. He saw no white-domed buildings of Hoover City, no formal lines ofgreen-treed parks, no streams of buzzing gyro-cars. There was only atranslucent and infinite whiteness. It was as if the window were set onthe edge of the Universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterlessvoid. The girl entered the room. Hi, she said, smiling. The dark half-moons under her eyes were lessprominent. Her face was relaxed. She increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him riseto a sitting position. Where are we? he asked. Venus. We're not in Hoover City? No. He looked at her, wondering. You won't tell me? Not yet. Later, perhaps. Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn? <doc-sep>She shrugged. We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in thecity, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—thesecan be had for a price. You'll tell me your name? Maggie. Why did you save me? Her eyes twinkled mischievously. Because you're a good astrogator. His own eyes widened. How did you know that? She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. I know everything about you,Lieutenant Curtis. How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers— I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduatedfrom the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in aclass of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 inHistory of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on? Fascinated, Ben nodded. You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the Odyssey .You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroomfight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, apre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder andescape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group ofspacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in theBlast Inn. He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. I—don'tget it. There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, wehave many friends. He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly. I'm sorry, she said. I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happybecause you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon. Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walkagain. She lowered her gaze. I hope you'll be able to. But you don't think I will, do you? I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.Rest. He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture. Just one more question, he almost whispered. Yes? The man I killed—did he have a wife? She hesitated. He thought, Damn it, of all the questions, why did Iask that? Finally she said, He had a wife. Children? Two. I don't know their ages. She left the room. <doc-sep>He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room. He sat straight up, his chest heaving. The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed red beard ! Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain. The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night. And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears. His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him. He awoke still screaming.... A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind. She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard? She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You were looking for him, weren't you? Who is he? She sat on the chair beside him. My husband, she said softly. He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me? We need all the good men we can get. Where is he? She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him. Why aren't you with him now? He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate? He told her the tales he'd heard. <doc-sep>She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies. Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one. Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob. Jacob? Your husband? She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either. She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies. Don't the authorities object? Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business. She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown. Ben scowled. What happens if there is a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then. Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It could be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own. <doc-sep>Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator. Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely. Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego? Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob. He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her. The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay? Okay, he said. When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo. He was like two people, he thought. Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal. He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions: A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful. Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years. Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Ben lost his parents at four in a a crash in space and has wanted to be a spaceman ever since. All his life he has been passionate about space. He graduated from an academy as an astrogation major and was a great student. After one month he signed aboard the ship called Odyssey. The bar fight occurred when he was celebrating his successful flight and he was proud of his uniform yet considering it a key for everything - the idea he had for a long time before.

<s> A Coffin for Jacob By EDWARD W. LUDWIG Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] With never a moment to rest, the pursuit through space felt like a game of hounds and hares ... or was it follow the leader? Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him. His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets. Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians. Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand. Coma esta, senor? a small voice piped. Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet? Ben looked down. The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees. I'm American, Ben muttered. Ah, buena ! I speak English tres fine, senor . I have Martianfriend, she tres pretty and tres fat. She weigh almost eightypounds, monsieur . I take you to her, si ? Ben shook his head. <doc-sep>He thought, I don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opiumor your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'dbring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul. It is deal, monsieur ? Five dollars or twenty keelis for visitMartian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams— I'm not buying. The dirty-faced kid shrugged. Then I show you to good table,— tresbien . I do not charge you, senor . The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason forresisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke andthrough the drone of alcohol-cracked voices. They passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyedEarthmen—merchant spacemen. They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusianmarble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketedtombstones. Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO 2 -breathingVenusians, the first he'd ever seen. They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyesunblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heardthey were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine. Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's SecurityPolice. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-clubagainst the stone booths. Keep walking , Ben told himself. You look the same as anyone elsehere. Keep walking. Look straight ahead. The officer passed. Ben breathed easier. Here we are, monsieur , piped the Martian boy. A tres fine table.Close in the shadows. Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man. He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra. The Martians were fragile, doll-like creatures with heads too large fortheir spindly bodies. Their long fingers played upon the strings oftheir cirillas or crawled over the holes of their flutes like spiderlegs. Their tune was sad. Even when they played an Earth tune, it stillseemed a song of old Mars, charged with echoes of lost voices andforgotten grandeur. For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the deadman. He thought, What are they doing here, these Martians? Here, ina smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,felt the challenge of new worlds? He sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinesewaiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over thefaces of the Inn's other occupants. You've got to find him , he thought. You've got to find the man withthe red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man. <doc-sep>The dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby andabout forty and he hated spacemen. His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outsideLuna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much apart of Ben as sight in his eyes. Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lipsspitting whiskey-slurred curses. Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fistthudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in thewhiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would tricklefrom a corner of the gaping mouth. You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him orignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from amemory that has burned into your mind. It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands hadbeen successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobbplopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him. Spacemen, he muttered, are getting like flies. Everywhere, all yousee's spacemen. He was a neatly dressed civilian. Ben smiled. If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here. The name's Cobb. The man hiccoughed. Spacemen in their white monkeysuits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're alittle tin god. He downed a shot of whiskey. Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,crimson-braided uniform of the Odyssey's junior astrogation officer.He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shininguniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe. He'd sought long for that key. <doc-sep>At the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the nightsky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd groundhis first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed onthe government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed hiscollection of astronomy and rocketry books. At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from BoysTown No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, amongthe grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends whounderstood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to theU. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space. And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the Odyssey —the first ship, itwas rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhapsbeyond. Cobb was persistent: Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet? The guy's drunk , Ben thought. He took his drink and moved threestools down the bar. Cobb followed. You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't likepeople to call you a sucker. Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm andheld him there. Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'llbe dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker! Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly andwithout warning, it welled up into savage fury. His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shockedhorror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge ofthe bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end oflife. He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw. Ben knew that he was dead. Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger. He ran. <doc-sep>For some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare worldof dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet. At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He sawthat he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of thecity. He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shoneabove him through Luna City's transparent dome. He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision. You can do two things , he thought. You can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntarymanslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years inprison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free. But you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want newmen over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-classjet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'dget the rest of the thrill of conquering space through video and bypeeking through electric fences of spaceports. Or— There were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen whooperated from the Solar System's frontiers. The spacemen weren'toutlaws. They were misfits, rejectees from the clearing houses on Earth. And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, thesouped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Theirheadquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular andfantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be ared-bearded giant. So , Ben reflected, you can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change yourname. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with yourduty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself fromEarth. After all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificantsecond, to destroy a man's life and his dream? <doc-sep>He was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his lastflight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of newpersonnel even more so. Ben Curtis made it to Venus. There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that thememory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow himas constantly as breath flowed into his lungs. But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring deadvoice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spacewaysobscure the dead face? So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once. You look for someone, senor ? He jumped. Oh. You still here? Oui. The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. Ikeep you company on your first night in Hoover City, n'est-ce-pas ? This isn't my first night here, Ben lied. I've been around a while. You are spacemen? Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. Here. Take off, willyou? Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin. Ich danke, senor. Youknow why city is called Hoover City? Ben didn't answer. They say it is because after women come, they want first thing athousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner, monsieur ? Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy. Ai-yee , I go. You keep listen to good Martian music. The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness. Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade offaces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloonfaces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, andoccasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there aface with a red beard. A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one ofa dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this. He needed help. But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. Areward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? TheMartian kid, perhaps? Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash ofwhite. He tensed. Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought. His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness. And then he saw another and another and another. Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of awheel with Ben as their focal point. You idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known! <doc-sep>Light showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had beenturned on. The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of broodingwickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor. Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements anda chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were liketatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away. Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,falling. The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised. A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk withfeline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remainedundisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily inBen's direction. Curtis! one of the policemen yelled. You're covered! Hold it! Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit intowhich the musicians had disappeared. A hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed airescaping from a container. A dime-sized section of the concrete wallahead of him crumbled. He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not themildly stunning neuro-clubs. Another hiss passed his cheek. He was about twelve feet from the exit. Another second , his brain screamed. Just another second— Or would the exits be guarded? He heard the hiss. It hit directly in the small of his back. There was no pain, just aslight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle. <doc-sep>He froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. His body seemed to begrowing, swelling into balloon proportions. He knew that the tinyneedle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzingmortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle ofhis body. He staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. He'd havefifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind andbody overpowered him. In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voiceyell, Turn on the damn lights! Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized thatsomeone had seized it. A soft feminine voice spoke to him. You're wounded? They hit you? Yes. His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word. You want to escape—even now? Yes. You may die if you don't give yourself up. No, no. He tried to stumble toward the exit. All right then. Not that way. Here, this way. Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlightflicked on. Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. Adoor closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from hisvision—if he still had vision. You're sure? the voice persisted. I'm sure, Ben managed to say. I have no antidote. You may die. His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocainwithin half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread toheart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effectiveweapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrenderat once. Anti ... anti ... The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forcedfrom his throat. No ... I'm sure ... sure. He didn't hear the answer or anything else. <doc-sep>Ben Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return toconsciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of blacknothingness to a dream-like state of awareness. He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation andsensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed totransfer itself to his own body. For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt weldedshut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave wayto a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hoveredconstantly above him—a face, he supposed. He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound wasa deep, staccato grunting. But he heard someone say, Don't try to talk. It was the same gentlevoice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. Don't talk. Just lie still andrest. Everything'll be all right. Everything all right , he thought dimly. There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. Therewere periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware ofthings. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygenmask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blanketsswathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth andhe would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach. Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuringmist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears: Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food. Or, Close youreyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better. Better , he'd think. Getting better.... At last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. Themist brightened, then dissolved. He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorlesswalls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of hisaluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket. Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side. You are better? the kind voice asked. <doc-sep>The face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-fiveand thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-lookingpallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at thesame time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Herstraight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, anddrawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck. I—I am better, he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. Iam going to live? You will live. He thought for a moment. How long have I been here? Nine days. You took care of me? He noted the deep, dark circles beneath hersleep-robbed eyes. She nodded. You're the one who carried me when I was shot? Yes. Why? Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen maskin readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it. Why? he asked again. It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow. A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk? He lay back then, panting, exhausted. You have nothing to worry about, the girl said softly. Her cool handtouched his hot forehead. Rest. We'll talk later. His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept. When he next awoke, his gaze turned first to the window. There waslight outside, but he had no way of knowing if this was morning, noonor afternoon—or on what planet. He saw no white-domed buildings of Hoover City, no formal lines ofgreen-treed parks, no streams of buzzing gyro-cars. There was only atranslucent and infinite whiteness. It was as if the window were set onthe edge of the Universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterlessvoid. The girl entered the room. Hi, she said, smiling. The dark half-moons under her eyes were lessprominent. Her face was relaxed. She increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him riseto a sitting position. Where are we? he asked. Venus. We're not in Hoover City? No. He looked at her, wondering. You won't tell me? Not yet. Later, perhaps. Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn? <doc-sep>She shrugged. We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in thecity, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—thesecan be had for a price. You'll tell me your name? Maggie. Why did you save me? Her eyes twinkled mischievously. Because you're a good astrogator. His own eyes widened. How did you know that? She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. I know everything about you,Lieutenant Curtis. How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers— I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduatedfrom the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in aclass of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 inHistory of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on? Fascinated, Ben nodded. You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the Odyssey .You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroomfight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, apre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder andescape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group ofspacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in theBlast Inn. He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. I—don'tget it. There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, wehave many friends. He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly. I'm sorry, she said. I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happybecause you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon. Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walkagain. She lowered her gaze. I hope you'll be able to. But you don't think I will, do you? I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.Rest. He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture. Just one more question, he almost whispered. Yes? The man I killed—did he have a wife? She hesitated. He thought, Damn it, of all the questions, why did Iask that? Finally she said, He had a wife. Children? Two. I don't know their ages. She left the room. <doc-sep>He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room. He sat straight up, his chest heaving. The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed red beard ! Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain. The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night. And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears. His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him. He awoke still screaming.... A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind. She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard? She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You were looking for him, weren't you? Who is he? She sat on the chair beside him. My husband, she said softly. He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me? We need all the good men we can get. Where is he? She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him. Why aren't you with him now? He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate? He told her the tales he'd heard. <doc-sep>She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies. Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one. Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob. Jacob? Your husband? She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either. She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies. Don't the authorities object? Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business. She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown. Ben scowled. What happens if there is a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then. Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It could be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own. <doc-sep>Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator. Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely. Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego? Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob. He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her. The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay? Okay, he said. When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo. He was like two people, he thought. Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal. He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions: A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful. Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years. Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Ben is haunted with the image of a dead man. In a bar a man, Cobb, picked a fight with Ben claiming that spacemen suck. Ben soon surrendered to his anger and hit the man, who died by accident. Now Ben is followed everywhere by the scary rage of the dead man with blood in his mouth. Ben is even more upset when he learns that Cobb had a wife and two kids. The whole family haunts Ben in nightmares. He is constantly scared of being found as well and deprived of being a spaceman.

<s> TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE [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.] Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me. The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant. Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates. You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded. Now, listen ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side? Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. You just don't listen to me , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit. Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers. Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount? Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye. All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now! You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter? Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls that hazardous duty! Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months. He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him. Looks like a little vacation , he thought, unperturbed. He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk. <doc-sep>Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter. His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted. On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes. He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles. The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation. Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside. Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver. What do you mean? They say some home-office relative is coming in on the Javelin . What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean. Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load! Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged. She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer. Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty. Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking, Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried? They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship? It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip. <doc-sep>He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city. How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough. What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne? Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else. You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous. I'll be sorry later , he reflected, but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang. Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport. Missions! You call driving a mile or so a mission ? Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression. Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission! You can call me Betty. What happened to him? I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal. Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede! I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor. You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl. She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch. Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad! Say, that's pretty good! he told himself. What a liar you are,Tolliver! He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port. In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful. I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far. His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled. I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight ,he resolved. It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better. <doc-sep>Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking. Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty. The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile. Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver? Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope. Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport. Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered. He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver. Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it. Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl. Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have some authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me. You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely. Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired! The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown. Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough. No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink! Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off. Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask. Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate. In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor. I told you no questions! bawled Jeffers. The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist. <doc-sep>Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there. He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence. After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up. He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily. I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty. Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway. I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl. Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver. The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him. What can we use to get out of here? he mused. Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do? You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon? Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers. Tolliver groaned. Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it. Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident! What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause. Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing? The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet. There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records. Better than nothing at all, he muttered. He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter. What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern. This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet! He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers. You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself. I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl. No, I don't think you'd better. Why not? Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it. Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet? Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge. The plastic yielded. That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough! <doc-sep>Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end. I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver. Why do you want them? Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through. After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself. That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off. Anybody might be listening! He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm. He caught up and touched helmets again. Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome. Where are you going? asked Betty. Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running everything ! Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help. How good? Pretty official, as a matter of fact. All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty. They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way. Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome. Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more. This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off. Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed. As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening. Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot. They'll find it, all right , Tolliver reminded himself. Don't be herewhen they do! He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock. It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her. Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it. By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned , he consoledhimself. <doc-sep>It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship. There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed. That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble. It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again. In fact, we have to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty. He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder. It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time. In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet. Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff. Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV! That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials! He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long. I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back! He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process. In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes. That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction? Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check everything . We'll worry about that after we make your call. Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket. Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact. It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform. Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously. That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me. Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all. When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman. <doc-sep>For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after. They really sent her out to nail someone , Tolliver realized. Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed! We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed. Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater. Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel. Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately. He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status. This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that. The girl grinned. Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him? You ... you...? Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate— I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later. Oh, come on ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing? I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up. He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again. We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow. I didn't expect to so soon. Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede. Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am! Yes, admitted Tolliver, there are problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV. I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly. The main problem is whether you can cook. Betty frowned at him. I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry. Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do. I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck. Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo. After a while , he promised himself, I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede! <doc-sep></s>

The story begins as Johnny Tolliver argues with Jeffers, the manager of Ganymedan branch of Koslow Spaceways, about how he doesn’t want to be involved with whatever he is doing. This makes Jeffers angry, knowing that he cannot fire Tolliver, he decides to make Tolliver’s job extremely boring. Thus, for the next few days, he simply hang around the garage, with nothing to do. Then on Friday, he gets assigned to take the creeper outside. He picks Betty up, where he told her about the dangers of Ganymede such as the volcanic puffballs and the mountain slides, he explains his high pay for driving unarmored tractor by mentioning that if he survives the six month, he will retire. However, Tolliver understand that this is completely a lie. After they go to see Jeffers, Betty states that she will not work with them, and them fires Jeffers. Jeffers order his men to lock Betty and Tolliver up. After Tolliver wakes up, they decided to escape. Betty told Tolliver about how she was able to figure out that there’s something wrong – his extremely high paycheck. After crawling through the hole by bending plastic, they finds spacesuits in the storeroom. Finally, they are able to escape by taking off on an economy orbit for Earth. After contacting with Space Patrol, Tolliver finds it odd when he says “Miss Koslow.” Questioning Betty, she admits that she works for a private investigating firm. Then, in the end, Tolliver is going to cut the fuel flow to see if Betty will suspect anything, since they are just orbiting Ganymede.

<s> TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE [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.] Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me. The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant. Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates. You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded. Now, listen ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side? Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. You just don't listen to me , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit. Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers. Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount? Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye. All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now! You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter? Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls that hazardous duty! Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months. He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him. Looks like a little vacation , he thought, unperturbed. He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk. <doc-sep>Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter. His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted. On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes. He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles. The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation. Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside. Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver. What do you mean? They say some home-office relative is coming in on the Javelin . What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean. Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load! Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged. She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer. Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty. Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking, Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried? They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship? It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip. <doc-sep>He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city. How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough. What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne? Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else. You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous. I'll be sorry later , he reflected, but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang. Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport. Missions! You call driving a mile or so a mission ? Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression. Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission! You can call me Betty. What happened to him? I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal. Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede! I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor. You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl. She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch. Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad! Say, that's pretty good! he told himself. What a liar you are,Tolliver! He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port. In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful. I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far. His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled. I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight ,he resolved. It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better. <doc-sep>Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking. Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty. The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile. Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver? Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope. Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport. Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered. He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver. Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it. Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl. Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have some authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me. You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely. Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired! The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown. Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough. No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink! Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off. Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask. Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate. In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor. I told you no questions! bawled Jeffers. The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist. <doc-sep>Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there. He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence. After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up. He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily. I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty. Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway. I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl. Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver. The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him. What can we use to get out of here? he mused. Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do? You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon? Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers. Tolliver groaned. Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it. Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident! What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause. Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing? The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet. There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records. Better than nothing at all, he muttered. He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter. What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern. This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet! He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers. You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself. I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl. No, I don't think you'd better. Why not? Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it. Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet? Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge. The plastic yielded. That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough! <doc-sep>Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end. I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver. Why do you want them? Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through. After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself. That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off. Anybody might be listening! He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm. He caught up and touched helmets again. Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome. Where are you going? asked Betty. Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running everything ! Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help. How good? Pretty official, as a matter of fact. All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty. They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way. Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome. Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more. This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off. Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed. As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening. Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot. They'll find it, all right , Tolliver reminded himself. Don't be herewhen they do! He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock. It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her. Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it. By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned , he consoledhimself. <doc-sep>It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship. There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed. That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble. It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again. In fact, we have to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty. He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder. It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time. In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet. Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff. Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV! That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials! He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long. I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back! He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process. In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes. That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction? Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check everything . We'll worry about that after we make your call. Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket. Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact. It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform. Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously. That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me. Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all. When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman. <doc-sep>For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after. They really sent her out to nail someone , Tolliver realized. Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed! We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed. Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater. Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel. Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately. He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status. This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that. The girl grinned. Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him? You ... you...? Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate— I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later. Oh, come on ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing? I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up. He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again. We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow. I didn't expect to so soon. Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede. Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am! Yes, admitted Tolliver, there are problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV. I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly. The main problem is whether you can cook. Betty frowned at him. I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry. Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do. I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck. Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo. After a while , he promised himself, I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede! <doc-sep></s>

Betty first disguises as the president’s daughter. She is five feet four, and her hair was a shade too blonde; she has blue eyes and is wearing gray slacks with a heavy sweater. She comes to Ganymedan to learn about traffic routing as well as business management of local branches. Betty is shocked by the exaggerated description that Tolliver gives on the tractor about how dangerous Ganymedan is. Once she arrives in the office, she fires Jeffers stating that she knows that he has been doing. Making Jeffers very angry, he locks her along with Tolliver into the empty office. There, Betty follows Tolliver to escape to the control room. Once she is told that they will take off, she refuses. But, in order to escape, Tolliver takes off the ship into an economy orbit for Earth anyway. Betty finally makes the microphone call to Space Patrol, telling them to capture Jeffers. From the way that the other side of the phone reacted to Tolliver calling Betty Miss Koslow, Tolliver realizes that something’s off. Then Betty tells him that she actually works for a private investigating firm, and her name is Betty Hanlon. Betty

<s> TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE [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.] Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me. The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant. Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates. You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded. Now, listen ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side? Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. You just don't listen to me , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit. Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers. Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount? Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye. All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now! You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter? Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls that hazardous duty! Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months. He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him. Looks like a little vacation , he thought, unperturbed. He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk. <doc-sep>Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter. His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted. On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes. He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles. The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation. Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside. Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver. What do you mean? They say some home-office relative is coming in on the Javelin . What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean. Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load! Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged. She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer. Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty. Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking, Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried? They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship? It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip. <doc-sep>He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city. How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough. What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne? Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else. You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous. I'll be sorry later , he reflected, but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang. Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport. Missions! You call driving a mile or so a mission ? Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression. Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission! You can call me Betty. What happened to him? I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal. Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede! I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor. You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl. She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch. Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad! Say, that's pretty good! he told himself. What a liar you are,Tolliver! He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port. In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful. I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far. His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled. I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight ,he resolved. It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better. <doc-sep>Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking. Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty. The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile. Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver? Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope. Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport. Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered. He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver. Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it. Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl. Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have some authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me. You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely. Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired! The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown. Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough. No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink! Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off. Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask. Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate. In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor. I told you no questions! bawled Jeffers. The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist. <doc-sep>Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there. He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence. After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up. He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily. I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty. Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway. I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl. Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver. The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him. What can we use to get out of here? he mused. Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do? You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon? Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers. Tolliver groaned. Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it. Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident! What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause. Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing? The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet. There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records. Better than nothing at all, he muttered. He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter. What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern. This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet! He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers. You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself. I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl. No, I don't think you'd better. Why not? Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it. Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet? Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge. The plastic yielded. That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough! <doc-sep>Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end. I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver. Why do you want them? Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through. After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself. That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off. Anybody might be listening! He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm. He caught up and touched helmets again. Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome. Where are you going? asked Betty. Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running everything ! Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help. How good? Pretty official, as a matter of fact. All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty. They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way. Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome. Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more. This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off. Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed. As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening. Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot. They'll find it, all right , Tolliver reminded himself. Don't be herewhen they do! He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock. It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her. Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it. By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned , he consoledhimself. <doc-sep>It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship. There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed. That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble. It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again. In fact, we have to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty. He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder. It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time. In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet. Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff. Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV! That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials! He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long. I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back! He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process. In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes. That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction? Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check everything . We'll worry about that after we make your call. Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket. Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact. It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform. Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously. That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me. Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all. When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman. <doc-sep>For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after. They really sent her out to nail someone , Tolliver realized. Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed! We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed. Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater. Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel. Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately. He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status. This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that. The girl grinned. Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him? You ... you...? Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate— I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later. Oh, come on ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing? I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up. He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again. We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow. I didn't expect to so soon. Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede. Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am! Yes, admitted Tolliver, there are problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV. I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly. The main problem is whether you can cook. Betty frowned at him. I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry. Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do. I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck. Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo. After a while , he promised himself, I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede! <doc-sep></s>

Jeffers is the manager of the Ganymedan branch of Koslow Spaceways. He is operating something sneaky all through the colony. When he tries to make Tolliver join him, he refuses. But Jeffers cannot legally fire him, thus he decides to make him do some very boring works as a driver of airtight tractor, which is used between the dome city and the spaceport. Then after learning that Betty knows about what he is doing and wants to fire him, he is very shocked. He orders three men to lock Betty and Tolliver up. Later, Jeffers and his partners goes to the headquarters building, plotting their next moves. Tolliver assumes that Jeffers has already warned the garage and airlocks about the two, so that they cannot escape. Finally, when Betty reaches Space Patrol through the microphone, she told them to arrest Jeffers.

<s> TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE [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.] Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me. The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant. Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates. You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded. Now, listen ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side? Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. You just don't listen to me , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit. Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers. Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount? Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye. All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now! You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter? Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls that hazardous duty! Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months. He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him. Looks like a little vacation , he thought, unperturbed. He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk. <doc-sep>Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter. His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted. On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes. He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles. The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation. Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside. Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver. What do you mean? They say some home-office relative is coming in on the Javelin . What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean. Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load! Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged. She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer. Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty. Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking, Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried? They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship? It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip. <doc-sep>He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city. How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough. What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne? Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else. You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous. I'll be sorry later , he reflected, but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang. Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport. Missions! You call driving a mile or so a mission ? Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression. Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission! You can call me Betty. What happened to him? I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal. Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede! I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor. You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl. She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch. Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad! Say, that's pretty good! he told himself. What a liar you are,Tolliver! He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port. In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful. I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far. His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled. I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight ,he resolved. It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better. <doc-sep>Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking. Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty. The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile. Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver? Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope. Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport. Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered. He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver. Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it. Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl. Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have some authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me. You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely. Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired! The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown. Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough. No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink! Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off. Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask. Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate. In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor. I told you no questions! bawled Jeffers. The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist. <doc-sep>Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there. He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence. After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up. He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily. I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty. Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway. I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl. Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver. The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him. What can we use to get out of here? he mused. Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do? You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon? Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers. Tolliver groaned. Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it. Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident! What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause. Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing? The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet. There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records. Better than nothing at all, he muttered. He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter. What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern. This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet! He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers. You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself. I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl. No, I don't think you'd better. Why not? Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it. Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet? Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge. The plastic yielded. That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough! <doc-sep>Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end. I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver. Why do you want them? Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through. After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself. That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off. Anybody might be listening! He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm. He caught up and touched helmets again. Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome. Where are you going? asked Betty. Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running everything ! Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help. How good? Pretty official, as a matter of fact. All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty. They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way. Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome. Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more. This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off. Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed. As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening. Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot. They'll find it, all right , Tolliver reminded himself. Don't be herewhen they do! He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock. It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her. Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it. By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned , he consoledhimself. <doc-sep>It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship. There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed. That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble. It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again. In fact, we have to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty. He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder. It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time. In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet. Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff. Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV! That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials! He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long. I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back! He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process. In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes. That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction? Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check everything . We'll worry about that after we make your call. Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket. Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact. It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform. Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously. That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me. Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all. When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman. <doc-sep>For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after. They really sent her out to nail someone , Tolliver realized. Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed! We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed. Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater. Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel. Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately. He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status. This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that. The girl grinned. Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him? You ... you...? Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate— I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later. Oh, come on ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing? I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up. He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again. We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow. I didn't expect to so soon. Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede. Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am! Yes, admitted Tolliver, there are problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV. I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly. The main problem is whether you can cook. Betty frowned at him. I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry. Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do. I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck. Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo. After a while , he promised himself, I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede! <doc-sep></s>

Firstly, Tolliver takes Betty towards Jeffers’ office on a tractor since it can go through the frozen surface of Ganymede. Then later, when Betty and Tolliver were put in the empty office, Tolliver uses a lighter to light up the mess of discarded records so that the plastic can be bent. Later, inside the storage room, Tolliver finds some spacesuits for the two to wear. Then finally, when they gets to the control room, they gets onto the acceleration seat. Using the ship, the two fly into the economy orbit for Earth in order to escape. In the end, Betty uses the scanner and microphone to make a call to the Space Patrol so that they will arrest Jeffers.

<s> TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE [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.] Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me. The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant. Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates. You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded. Now, listen ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side? Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. You just don't listen to me , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit. Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers. Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount? Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye. All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now! You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter? Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls that hazardous duty! Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months. He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him. Looks like a little vacation , he thought, unperturbed. He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk. <doc-sep>Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter. His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted. On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes. He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles. The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation. Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside. Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver. What do you mean? They say some home-office relative is coming in on the Javelin . What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean. Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load! Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged. She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer. Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty. Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking, Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried? They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship? It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip. <doc-sep>He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city. How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough. What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne? Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else. You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous. I'll be sorry later , he reflected, but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang. Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport. Missions! You call driving a mile or so a mission ? Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression. Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission! You can call me Betty. What happened to him? I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal. Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede! I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor. You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl. She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch. Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad! Say, that's pretty good! he told himself. What a liar you are,Tolliver! He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port. In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful. I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far. His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled. I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight ,he resolved. It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better. <doc-sep>Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking. Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty. The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile. Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver? Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope. Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport. Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered. He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver. Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it. Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl. Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have some authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me. You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely. Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired! The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown. Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough. No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink! Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off. Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask. Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate. In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor. I told you no questions! bawled Jeffers. The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist. <doc-sep>Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there. He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence. After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up. He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily. I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty. Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway. I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl. Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver. The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him. What can we use to get out of here? he mused. Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do? You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon? Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers. Tolliver groaned. Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it. Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident! What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause. Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing? The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet. There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records. Better than nothing at all, he muttered. He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter. What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern. This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet! He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers. You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself. I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl. No, I don't think you'd better. Why not? Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it. Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet? Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge. The plastic yielded. That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough! <doc-sep>Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end. I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver. Why do you want them? Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through. After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself. That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off. Anybody might be listening! He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm. He caught up and touched helmets again. Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome. Where are you going? asked Betty. Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running everything ! Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help. How good? Pretty official, as a matter of fact. All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty. They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way. Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome. Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more. This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off. Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed. As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening. Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot. They'll find it, all right , Tolliver reminded himself. Don't be herewhen they do! He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock. It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her. Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it. By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned , he consoledhimself. <doc-sep>It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship. There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed. That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble. It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again. In fact, we have to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty. He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder. It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time. In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet. Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff. Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV! That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials! He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long. I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back! He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process. In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes. That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction? Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check everything . We'll worry about that after we make your call. Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket. Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact. It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform. Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously. That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me. Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all. When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman. <doc-sep>For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after. They really sent her out to nail someone , Tolliver realized. Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed! We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed. Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater. Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel. Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately. He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status. This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that. The girl grinned. Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him? You ... you...? Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate— I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later. Oh, come on ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing? I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up. He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again. We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow. I didn't expect to so soon. Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede. Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am! Yes, admitted Tolliver, there are problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV. I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly. The main problem is whether you can cook. Betty frowned at him. I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry. Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do. I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck. Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo. After a while , he promised himself, I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede! <doc-sep></s>

First, the story starts inside Jeffers’ office where the two argues. From the office window, the transparent domes of Ganymede’s can be seen. There is also a chair and a door which is the exit from the room. Then at the empty office next to the warehouse building, Tolliver wakes up. There is an old table and half a dozen plastic crates in the empty office. The plastic crates contain a mess of discarded records. There is also a doorway. The doorway is plastic and can be bended when applied heat. Outside of the room, there’s a storeroom, which has spacesuits inside them. Many of the spacesuits are unpacked while some are standing ready for emergencies. The control room has an acceleration seat. There is a board that has the condition of the ship.

<s> Going straight meant crooked planning. He'd never make it unless he somehow managed to PICK A CRIME By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The girl was tall, wide-eyed and brunette. She had the right curves inthe right places and would have been beautiful if her nose had beensmaller, if her mouth had been larger and if her hair had been wavyinstead of straight. Hank said you wanted to see me, she said when she stopped besideJoe's table. Yeah. Joe nodded at the other chair. Have a seat. He reached into apocket, withdrew five ten-dollar bills and handed them to her. I wantyou to do a job for me. It'll only take a few minutes. The girl counted the money, then placed it in her purse. Joe noticeda small counterfeit-detector inside the purse before she closed it.What's the job? Tell you later. He gulped the remainder of his drink, almost pouringit down his throat. Hey. You trying to make yourself sick? Not sick. Drunk. Been trying to get drunk all afternoon. As theliquor settled in his stomach, he waited for the warm glow. But theglow didn't come ... the bartender had watered his drink again. Trying to get drunk? the girl inquired. Are you crazy? No. It's simple. If I get drunk, I can join the AAA and get free roomand board for a month while they give me a treatment. It was easy enough to understand, he reflected, but a lot harder to do.The CPA robot bartenders saw to it that anyone got high if they wanted,but comparatively few got drunk. Each bartender could not only mixdrinks but could also judge by a man's actions and speech when he wason the verge of drunkenness. At the proper time—since drunkenness wasillegal—a bartender always watered the drinks. Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, buthad always failed. And in all of New York's millions, there had beenonly a hundred cases of intoxication during the previous year. The girl laughed. If you're that hard up, I don't know if I shouldtake this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job likeeveryone else? As an answer, Joe handed her his CPA ID card. She grunted when shesaw the large letters that indicated the owner had Dangerous CriminalTendencies. <doc-sep>When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request. I'm sorry, the girl said. I didn't know you were a DCT. And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger— On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor. Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job! The girl's lips formed a bright red circle. Say! You really got bigplans, don't you? He smiled at her admiration. It was something big to plan a crime.A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting,blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—CrimePrevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officialshad declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to preventcrime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands ofingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crimealmost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred menin the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts. No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to killsomeone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished; hewasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where allcriminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shocktreatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy anda dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were fewcriminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city couldafford the CPA hospitals. The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods becauseit did away with the damage caused by countless crimes; did away withprisons and their guards, large police forces, squad cars and weapons. And, ironically, a man who did commit a crime was a sort of hero. Hewas a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulsesto kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only ahero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of theCPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... aman who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money.And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatmentwas commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of theword an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs. Well, the girl said. I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten.Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes. Okay. Let's go. <doc-sep>The girl followed him across the room, around tables, through a door,down a hall, through a back door and into the alley. She followed him up the dark alley until he turned suddenly and rippedher blouse and skirt. He surprised her completely, but when she recovered, she backed away,her body poised like a wrestler's. What's the big idea? Scream, Joe said. Scream as loud as you can, and when the cops gethere, tell 'em I tried to rape you. The plan was perfect, he told himself. Attempted rape was one of thefew things that was a crime merely because a man attempted it. A crimebecause it theoretically inflicted psychological injury upon theintended victim—and because millions of women voters had voted it acrime. On the other hand, attempted murder, robbery, kidnapping, etc.,were not crimes. They weren't crimes because the DCT didn't completethe act, and if he didn't complete the act, that meant simply that theCPA had once again functioned properly. The girl shook her head vigorously. Sorry, buddy. Can't help you thatway. Why didn't you tell me what you wanted? What's the matter? Joe complained. I'm not asking you to do anythingwrong. You stupid jerk. What do you think this is—the Middle Ages? Don't youknow almost every woman knows how to defend herself? I'm a sergeant inthe WSDA! Joe groaned. The WSDA—Women's Self-Defense Association—a branch ofthe CPA. The WSDA gave free instruction in judo and jujitsu, evendeveloped new techniques of wrestling and instructed only women inthose new techniques. The girl was still shaking her head. Can't do it, buddy. I'd lose myrank if you were convicted of— Do I have to make you scream? Joe inquired tiredly and advancedtoward the girl. —and that rank carries a lot of weight. Hey! Stop it! Joe discovered to his dismay that the girl was telling the truth whenshe said she was a sergeant in the WSDA. He felt her hands on his body,and in the time it takes to blink twice, he was flying through the air. The alley's concrete floor was hard—it had always been hard, but hebecame acutely aware of its lack of resiliency when his head struck it.There was a wonderful moment while the world was filled with beautifulstars and streaks of lightning through which he heard distant policesirens. But the wonderful moment didn't last long and darkness closedin on him. <doc-sep>When he awoke, a rough voice was saying, Okay. Snap out of it. He opened his eyes and recognized the police commissioner's office. Itwould be hard not to recognize: the room was large, devoid of furnitureexcept for a desk and chairs, but the walls were lined with thecontrols of television screens, electronic calculators and a hundredother machines that formed New York's mechanical police force. Commissioner Hendricks was a remarkable character. There was somethingwrong with his glands, and he was a huge, greasy bulk of a man withbushy eyebrows and a double chin. His steel-gray eyes showed somethingof his intelligence and he would have gone far in politics if fatehadn't made him so ugly, for more than half the voters who elected mento high political positions were women. Anyone who knew Hendricks well liked him, for he was a friendly,likable person. But the millions of women voters who saw his face onposters and on their TV screens saw only the ugly face and heard onlythe harsh voice. The President of the United States was a capableman, but also a very handsome one, and the fact that a man who lookedsomething like a bulldog had been elected as New York's policecommissioner was a credit to Hendricks and millions of women voters. Where's the girl? Joe asked. I processed her while you were out cold. She left. Joe, you— Okay, Joe said. I'll save you the trouble. I admit it. Attemptedrape. I confess. Hendricks smiled. Sorry, Joe. You missed the boat again. He reachedout and turned a dial on his desk top. We had a microphone hidden inthat alley. We have a lot of microphones hidden in a lot of alleys.You'd be surprised at the number of conspiracies that take place inalleys! Joe listened numbly to his voice as it came from one of the hundreds ofmachines on the walls, Scream. Scream as loud as you can, and whenthe cops get here, tell 'em I tried to rape you. And then the girl'svoice, Sorry, buddy. Can't help— He waved his hand. Okay. Shut it off. I confess to conspiracy. <doc-sep>Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe wasslouched in a chair. Give me your CPA ID. Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the worldhad collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented fromcommitting a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properlyonce again. That meant the CPA had once again prevented crime, andthe CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attemptto prevent crimes by punishment. If it did, that would be a violationof the New Civil Rights. Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched abutton. The machine hummed and a new card appeared. When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the wordsDANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was aDCT First Class. You've graduated, Hendricks said coldly. You guys never learn, doyou? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You knowwhat that means? Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how itworks? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow nightand they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this JoeHarper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep recordsof First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequentlyat Walt's Tavern. So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying notto let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, justhoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,so they can be the first ones to yell ' Police! ' They'll watch youbecause it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever did prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward andthey'd be famous. Lay off, Joe said. I got a headache. That girl— Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. You listen, Joe. This isinteresting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There'sthousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks fromreading about guys like you, but these days things are dull becauseit's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk downthe street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and nomatter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting nextto you, standing next to you. During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras thatlook like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you throughyour keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you throughbinoculars and— Lay off! <doc-sep>Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before andit was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talkingmachine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped. And the kids are the worst, Hendricks continued. They have JuniorCPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboardboxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you throughrestaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you inpublic rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyeswhile they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you lookback, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half ablock behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until theday you die, because you're a freak! Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and pacedthe floor. And it doesn't end there , Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be theobject of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stopyou on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'llask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you werea child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT FirstClass?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stopyou on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and— Okay, goddam it! Stop it! Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchiefand lit a cigarette. I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're toodumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime andcriminals ... to hate them as nothing has ever been hated before.Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hellif you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town wherethere aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or— Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously. Favor , did you say? The day youdo me a favor— Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. Not entirely a favor. Iwant to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and readbooks. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time. I couldn't leave if I wanted to, Joe said. I'm flat broke. Thanks toyour CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job. <doc-sep>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time. Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime. Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself. Umm. Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't have tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and— Go to those head-shrinkers ? Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way. Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you make me go? Violation of Civil Rights. Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime. How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done. In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself! He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room. Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime! Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it: John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St. When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks. Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything. <doc-sep>When Joe reached the street, he hurried toward the nearest subway. As achild, he had been frightened of the dark. As a man, he wasn't afraidof the dark itself, but the darkened city always made him feel illat ease. The uneasiness was, more than anything else, caused by hisown imagination. He hated the CPA and at night he couldn't shrug thefeeling that the CPA lurked in every shadow, watching him, waiting forhim to make a mistake. Imagination or not, the CPA was almost everywhere a person went.Twenty-four hours a day, millions of microphones hidden in taverns,alleys, restaurants, subways and every other place imaginable waitedfor someone to say the wrong thing. Everything the microphones pickedup was routed to the CPA Brain, a monster electronic calculator. If the words Let's see a movie were received in the Brain, theywere discarded. But if the words Let's roll this guy were received,the message was traced and a police helicopter would be at the scenein two minutes. And scattered all over the city were not only hiddenmicrophones, but hidden television cameras that relayed visual messagesto the Brain, and hidden machines that could detect a knife or a gun insomeone's pocket at forty yards. Every place of business from the largest bank to the smallest grocerystore was absolutely impenetrable. No one had even tried to rob a placeof business for years. Arson was next to impossible because of the heat-detectors—devicesplaced in every building that could detect, radarlike, any intensity ofheat above that caused by a cigarette lighter. Chemical research hadmade poisoning someone an impossibility. There were no drugs containingpoison, and while an ant-poison might kill ants, no concentrated amountof it would kill a human. The FBI had always been a powerful organization, but under thesupervision of the CPA, it was a scientific colossus and to thinkof kidnapping someone or to contemplate the use of narcotics waspointless. A counterfeiter's career was always short-lived: every placeof business and millions of individuals had small counterfeit-detectorsthat could spot a fake and report it directly to the Brain. And the percentage of crimes had dwindled even more with the appearanceof the robot police officers. Many a criminal in the past had gambledthat he could outshoot a pursuing policeman. But the robots weredifferent: they weren't flesh and blood. Bullets bounced off them andtheir aim was infallible. <doc-sep>It was like a fantastic dream come true. Only the dream wasn'tfantastic any more. With the huge atomic power plants scattered acrossthe country and supplying endless electrical power at ridiculouslylow prices, no endeavor that required power was fantastic. The powerrequired to operate the CPA devices cost each taxpayer an average offour dollars a year, and the invention, development and manufacture ofthe devices had cost even less. And the CPA had attacked crime through society itself, striking atthe individual. In every city there were neon signs that blinkedsubliminally with the statement, CRIME IS FILTH. Listening to a radioor watching television, if a person heard station identification, heinvariably heard or saw just below perception the words CRIME IS FILTH.If he went for a walk or a ride, he saw the endless subliminal postersdeclaring CRIME IS FILTH, and if he read a magazine or newspaper healways found, in those little dead spaces where an editor couldn't fitanything else, the below-perception words CRIME IS FILTH. It was monotonous and, after a while, a person looked at the words andheard them without thinking about them. And they were imprinted on hissubconscious over and over, year after year, until he knew that crimewas the same as filth and that criminals were filthy things. Except men like Joe Harper. No system is perfect. Along with thousandsof other DCTs, Joe refused to believe it, and when he reached apartment204 at 2141 Orange Street, he felt as if he'd inherited a gold mine. The hall was dimly lit, but when he stood before the door numbered 204,he could see that the wall on either side of it was new . That is,instead of being covered with dust, dirt and stains as the other wallswere, it was clean. The building was an old one, the hall was wide, andthe owner had obviously constructed a wall across the hall, creatinganother room. If the owner had reported the new room as required bylaw, it would have been wired with CPA burglarproof devices, butevidently he didn't want to pay for installation. When Joe entered the cubbyhole, he had to stand to one side in order toclose the door behind him. The place was barely large enough for thebed, chair and bureau; it was a place where a man could fall down atnight and sleep, but where no normal man could live day after day. Fearing that someone might detect him before he actually committed thecrime, Joe hurried to the bureau and searched it. <doc-sep>He broke out in a sweat when he found nothing but underwear and oldmagazines. If he stole underwear and magazines, it would still be acrime, but the newspapers would splash satirical headlines. Instead ofbeing respected as a successful criminal, he would be ridiculed. He stopped sweating when he found a watch under a pile of underwear.The crystal was broken, one hand was missing and it wouldn't run,but—perfection itself—engraved on the back was the inscription, ToJohn with Love . His trial would be a clean-cut one: it would be easyfor the CPA to prove ownership and that a crime had been committed. Chuckling with joy, he opened the window and shouted, Thief! Police!Help! He waited a few seconds and then ran. When he reached the street, apolice helicopter landed next to him. Strong metal arms seized him;cameras clicked and recorded the damning evidence. When Joe was securely handcuffed to a seat inside the helicopter, themetal police officers rang doorbells. There was a reward for anyone whoreported a crime, but no one admitted shouting the warning. <doc-sep>He was having a nightmare when he heard the voice, Hey. Wake up. Hey! He opened his eyes, saw Hendricks' ugly face and thought for a minutehe was still having the nightmare. I just saw your doctor, Hendricks said. He says your treatment isover. You can go home now. I thought I'd give you a lift. As Joe dressed, he searched his mind and tried to find some difference. During the treatment, he had been unconscious or drugged, unable tothink. Now he could think clearly, but he could find no difference inhimself. He felt more relaxed than he'd ever felt before, but that could be anafter-effect of all the sedatives he'd been given. And, he noticed whenhe looked in the mirror, he was paler. The treatment had taken monthsand he had, between operations, been locked in his room. Hendricks was standing by the window. Joe stared at the massive back.Deliberately goading his mind, he discovered the biggest change:Before, the mere sight of the man had aroused an intense hatred. Now,even when he tried, he succeeded in arousing only a mild hatred.They had toned down his capacity to hate, but not done away with italtogether. Come here and take a look at your public, said Hendricks. Joe went to the window. Three stories below, a large crowd had gatheredon the hospital steps: a band, photographers, television trucks,cameramen and autograph hunters. He'd waited a long time for this day.But now—another change in him— He put the emotion into words: I don't feel like a hero. Funny, but Idon't. Hero! Hendricks laughed and, with his powerful lungs, it soundedlike a bull snorting. You think a successful criminal is a hero? Youstupid— He laughed again and waved a hand at the crowd below them. You thinkthose people are down there because they admire what you did? They'redown there waiting for you because they're curious, because they'reglad the CPA caught you, and because they're glad you're an Ex. You'rean ex -criminal now, and because of your treatment, you'll never beable to commit another crime as long as you live. And that's the kindof guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and getyour autograph. Joe didn't understand Hendricks completely, but the part he didunderstand he didn't believe. A crowd was waiting for him. He could seethe people with his own eyes. When he left the hospital, they'd cheerand shout and ask for his autograph. If he wasn't a hero, what washe ? <doc-sep>It took half an hour to get through the crowd. Cameras clicked allaround him, a hundred kids asked for his autograph, everyone talked atonce and cheered, smiled, laughed, patted him on the back and cheeredsome more. Only one thing confused him during all the excitement: a white-hairedold lady with tears in her eyes said, Thank heaven it was only awatch. Thank heaven you didn't kill someone! God bless you, son. Andthen the old lady had handed him a box of fudge and left him in totalconfusion. What she said didn't make sense. If he had killed someone ratherthan stealing a watch, he would be even more of a hero and the crowdwould have cheered even louder. He knew: he had stood outside the CPAhospitals many times and the crowds always cheered louder when anex-murderer came out. In Hendricks' robot-chauffeured car, he ate the fudge and consoledhimself with the thought, People are funny. Who can understand 'em? Feeling happy for one of the few times in his life, he turned towardHendricks and said, Thanks for what you did. It turned out great. I'llbe able to get a good job now. That's why I met you at the hospital, Hendricks said. I want toexplain some things. I've known you for a long time and I know you'respectacularly dumb. You can't figure out some things for yourself andI don't want you walking around the rest of your life thinking I didyou a favor. Joe frowned. Few men had ever done him a favor and he had rarelythanked anyone for anything. And now ... after thanking the man who'ddone him the biggest favor of all, the man was denying it! You robbed Gralewski's apartment, Hendricks said. Gralewski is a CPAemployee and he doesn't live in the apartment you robbed. The CPA paysthe rent for that one and he lives in another. We have a lot of placeslike that. You see, it gives us a way to get rid of saps like youbefore they do real damage. We use it as a last resort when a DCT FirstClass won't take the free psycho treatment or— Well, it's still a favor. Hendricks' face hardened. Favor? You wouldn't know a favor if youstumbled over one. I did it because it's standard procedure for yourtype of case. Anyone can—free of charge—have treatment by the bestpsychologists. Any DCT can stop being a DCT by simply asking for thetreatment and taking it. But you wouldn't do that. You wanted to commita crime, get caught and be a hero ... an Ex . <doc-sep>The car passed one of the CPA playgrounds. Boys and girls of all ageswere laughing, squealing with joy as they played games designed by CPApsychologists to relieve tension. And—despite the treatment, Joeshuddered when he saw the psychologists standing to one side, quietlywatching the children. The whole world was filled with CPA employeesand volunteer workers. Everywhere you went, it was there, quietlywatching you and analyzing you, and if you showed criminal tendencies,it watched you even more closely and analyzed you even more deeplyuntil it took you apart and put you back together again the way itwanted you to be. Being an Ex, you'll get the kind of job you always wanted, Hendrickscontinued. You'll get a good-paying job, but you'll work for it.You'll work eight hours a day, work harder than you've ever workedbefore in your life, because every time you start to loaf, a voice inyour head is going to say, Work! Work! Exes always get good jobsbecause employers know they're good workers. But during these next few days, you'll discover what being an Exis like. You see, Joe, the treatment can't possibly take all thecriminal tendencies out of a man. So the treatment does the next bestthing—you'll find a set of laws written in your mind. You might want to break one now and then, but you won't be able. I'll give you anillustration.... Joe's face reddened as Hendricks proceeded to call him a series ofnames. He wanted to smash the fat, grinning face, but the muscles inhis arm froze before it moved it an inch. And worse than that, a brief pain ripped through his skull. A pain sointense that, had it lasted a second longer, he would have screamed inagony. And above the pain, a voice whispered in his head, Unlawful tostrike someone except in self-defense . He opened his mouth to tell Hendricks exactly what he thought of him,the CPA, the whole world. But the words stayed in his throat, the painreturned, and the mental voice whispered, Unlawful to curse . He had never heard how the treatment prevented an Ex from committing acrime. And now that he knew, it didn't seem fair. He decided to tellthe whole story to the newspapers as soon as he could. And as soon asthat decision formed in his mind, his body froze, the pain returned andthe voice, Unlawful to divulge CPA procedure . See what I mean? Hendricks asked. A century ago, you would have beenlocked in a prison and taxpayers' money would have supported you untilthe day you died. With the CPA system, you're returned to society, auseful citizen, unable to commit the smallest crime. And you've got abig hand in your dirty little mind that's going to slap it every timeyou get the wrong kind of thought. It'll keep slapping you until youlearn. It might take weeks, months or years, but you'll learn sooneror later to not even think about doing anything wrong. <doc-sep>He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the car's plush ceiling.It's a great system, isn't it, Joe? A true democracy. Even a jerk likeyou is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal. I think it's a lousy, filthy system. Joe's head was still tinglingwith pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now itwas also inside his head, telling him he couldn't do this, couldn't dothat. All his life it had been telling him he couldn't do things hewanted to do and now .... Hendricks laughed. You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean,wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except forfreaks like yourself, criminals are— Let me out! Joe grabbed at the door and was on the sidewalk, slammingthe door behind him before the car stopped completely. He stared at the car as it pulled away from the curb and glided intothe stream of traffic again. He realized he was a prisoner ... aprisoner inside his own body ... made a prisoner by a world that hatedhim back. He wanted to spit his contempt, but the increasingly familiar pain andvoice prevented him. It was unlawful to spit on a sidewalk. <doc-sep></s>

Joe is at a bar and hands a girl $50 to complete a task for him without telling her what it is yet. He makes small talk to the girl telling her that he is trying to get drunk but he can’t because his drinks are watered down by the CPA robot bartenders. Joe informs the girl that he is assigned a DCT (Dangerous Criminal Tendencies) designation on his CPA ID card. Joe leads the girl to an alley to move his plan into motion. His plan is for her to say that he attempted to rape her because attempted rape is a crime under CPA rules. The girl states that she does not want to go along with that plan because she will lose her rank in the Women’s Self-Defense Association, which is a branch of the CPA. Joe still persists and tries to make her scream. The girl in turn successfully defends herself against him and causes his head to strike the hard concrete floor. He loses consciousness of her actions. Joe wakes up in the police commissioner’s office. Joe’s plan does not work because the CPA had microphones monitoring the alley so they already know that the plan was not real. Joe then proceeds to confess to a conspiracy when presented with the evidence the CPA has gathered. As a result of these actions, Joe’s new designation on his CPA ID card has the words ‘Dangerous Criminal Tendencies’ in all caps and in a large, red font printed on his card. It also added that he was a DCT First Class owner. Hendricks lectures Joe about his new designation, but Joe does not care to hear him. The commissioner tries to convince Joe to leave New York or to use the free psychology service. Hendricks explains that he cannot think of a way to help Joe without committing a crime himself. In an unexpected move, Hendricks offers Joe a seemingly available victim and their address. Joe memorizes the available information and goes to the address to commit a crime. Joe enters the apartment and takes a watch. He then shouts outside a window that there is a thief. Joe proceeds to run down to the street and is caught by a police helicopter and handcuffed. Joe eventually wakes up after months of treatment in a hospital and is picked up by Hendricks. He goes through the large crowd waiting to meet him upon exiting the hospital and has an uneasy feeling about the interactions. He is confused by the reaction of the crowd. Hendrick says that it was a fake apartment that Joe went to and is one that the police use for special cases like his when a person refuses to find a solution. Joe becomes upset because he realizes that he has become a prisoner in his own body because of the treatment from the CPA and he has great contempt for the results.

<s> Going straight meant crooked planning. He'd never make it unless he somehow managed to PICK A CRIME By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The girl was tall, wide-eyed and brunette. She had the right curves inthe right places and would have been beautiful if her nose had beensmaller, if her mouth had been larger and if her hair had been wavyinstead of straight. Hank said you wanted to see me, she said when she stopped besideJoe's table. Yeah. Joe nodded at the other chair. Have a seat. He reached into apocket, withdrew five ten-dollar bills and handed them to her. I wantyou to do a job for me. It'll only take a few minutes. The girl counted the money, then placed it in her purse. Joe noticeda small counterfeit-detector inside the purse before she closed it.What's the job? Tell you later. He gulped the remainder of his drink, almost pouringit down his throat. Hey. You trying to make yourself sick? Not sick. Drunk. Been trying to get drunk all afternoon. As theliquor settled in his stomach, he waited for the warm glow. But theglow didn't come ... the bartender had watered his drink again. Trying to get drunk? the girl inquired. Are you crazy? No. It's simple. If I get drunk, I can join the AAA and get free roomand board for a month while they give me a treatment. It was easy enough to understand, he reflected, but a lot harder to do.The CPA robot bartenders saw to it that anyone got high if they wanted,but comparatively few got drunk. Each bartender could not only mixdrinks but could also judge by a man's actions and speech when he wason the verge of drunkenness. At the proper time—since drunkenness wasillegal—a bartender always watered the drinks. Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, buthad always failed. And in all of New York's millions, there had beenonly a hundred cases of intoxication during the previous year. The girl laughed. If you're that hard up, I don't know if I shouldtake this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job likeeveryone else? As an answer, Joe handed her his CPA ID card. She grunted when shesaw the large letters that indicated the owner had Dangerous CriminalTendencies. <doc-sep>When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request. I'm sorry, the girl said. I didn't know you were a DCT. And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger— On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor. Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job! The girl's lips formed a bright red circle. Say! You really got bigplans, don't you? He smiled at her admiration. It was something big to plan a crime.A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting,blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—CrimePrevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officialshad declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to preventcrime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands ofingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crimealmost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred menin the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts. No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to killsomeone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished; hewasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where allcriminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shocktreatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy anda dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were fewcriminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city couldafford the CPA hospitals. The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods becauseit did away with the damage caused by countless crimes; did away withprisons and their guards, large police forces, squad cars and weapons. And, ironically, a man who did commit a crime was a sort of hero. Hewas a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulsesto kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only ahero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of theCPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... aman who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money.And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatmentwas commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of theword an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs. Well, the girl said. I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten.Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes. Okay. Let's go. <doc-sep>The girl followed him across the room, around tables, through a door,down a hall, through a back door and into the alley. She followed him up the dark alley until he turned suddenly and rippedher blouse and skirt. He surprised her completely, but when she recovered, she backed away,her body poised like a wrestler's. What's the big idea? Scream, Joe said. Scream as loud as you can, and when the cops gethere, tell 'em I tried to rape you. The plan was perfect, he told himself. Attempted rape was one of thefew things that was a crime merely because a man attempted it. A crimebecause it theoretically inflicted psychological injury upon theintended victim—and because millions of women voters had voted it acrime. On the other hand, attempted murder, robbery, kidnapping, etc.,were not crimes. They weren't crimes because the DCT didn't completethe act, and if he didn't complete the act, that meant simply that theCPA had once again functioned properly. The girl shook her head vigorously. Sorry, buddy. Can't help you thatway. Why didn't you tell me what you wanted? What's the matter? Joe complained. I'm not asking you to do anythingwrong. You stupid jerk. What do you think this is—the Middle Ages? Don't youknow almost every woman knows how to defend herself? I'm a sergeant inthe WSDA! Joe groaned. The WSDA—Women's Self-Defense Association—a branch ofthe CPA. The WSDA gave free instruction in judo and jujitsu, evendeveloped new techniques of wrestling and instructed only women inthose new techniques. The girl was still shaking her head. Can't do it, buddy. I'd lose myrank if you were convicted of— Do I have to make you scream? Joe inquired tiredly and advancedtoward the girl. —and that rank carries a lot of weight. Hey! Stop it! Joe discovered to his dismay that the girl was telling the truth whenshe said she was a sergeant in the WSDA. He felt her hands on his body,and in the time it takes to blink twice, he was flying through the air. The alley's concrete floor was hard—it had always been hard, but hebecame acutely aware of its lack of resiliency when his head struck it.There was a wonderful moment while the world was filled with beautifulstars and streaks of lightning through which he heard distant policesirens. But the wonderful moment didn't last long and darkness closedin on him. <doc-sep>When he awoke, a rough voice was saying, Okay. Snap out of it. He opened his eyes and recognized the police commissioner's office. Itwould be hard not to recognize: the room was large, devoid of furnitureexcept for a desk and chairs, but the walls were lined with thecontrols of television screens, electronic calculators and a hundredother machines that formed New York's mechanical police force. Commissioner Hendricks was a remarkable character. There was somethingwrong with his glands, and he was a huge, greasy bulk of a man withbushy eyebrows and a double chin. His steel-gray eyes showed somethingof his intelligence and he would have gone far in politics if fatehadn't made him so ugly, for more than half the voters who elected mento high political positions were women. Anyone who knew Hendricks well liked him, for he was a friendly,likable person. But the millions of women voters who saw his face onposters and on their TV screens saw only the ugly face and heard onlythe harsh voice. The President of the United States was a capableman, but also a very handsome one, and the fact that a man who lookedsomething like a bulldog had been elected as New York's policecommissioner was a credit to Hendricks and millions of women voters. Where's the girl? Joe asked. I processed her while you were out cold. She left. Joe, you— Okay, Joe said. I'll save you the trouble. I admit it. Attemptedrape. I confess. Hendricks smiled. Sorry, Joe. You missed the boat again. He reachedout and turned a dial on his desk top. We had a microphone hidden inthat alley. We have a lot of microphones hidden in a lot of alleys.You'd be surprised at the number of conspiracies that take place inalleys! Joe listened numbly to his voice as it came from one of the hundreds ofmachines on the walls, Scream. Scream as loud as you can, and whenthe cops get here, tell 'em I tried to rape you. And then the girl'svoice, Sorry, buddy. Can't help— He waved his hand. Okay. Shut it off. I confess to conspiracy. <doc-sep>Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe wasslouched in a chair. Give me your CPA ID. Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the worldhad collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented fromcommitting a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properlyonce again. That meant the CPA had once again prevented crime, andthe CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attemptto prevent crimes by punishment. If it did, that would be a violationof the New Civil Rights. Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched abutton. The machine hummed and a new card appeared. When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the wordsDANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was aDCT First Class. You've graduated, Hendricks said coldly. You guys never learn, doyou? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You knowwhat that means? Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how itworks? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow nightand they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this JoeHarper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep recordsof First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequentlyat Walt's Tavern. So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying notto let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, justhoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,so they can be the first ones to yell ' Police! ' They'll watch youbecause it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever did prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward andthey'd be famous. Lay off, Joe said. I got a headache. That girl— Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. You listen, Joe. This isinteresting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There'sthousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks fromreading about guys like you, but these days things are dull becauseit's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk downthe street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and nomatter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting nextto you, standing next to you. During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras thatlook like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you throughyour keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you throughbinoculars and— Lay off! <doc-sep>Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before andit was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talkingmachine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped. And the kids are the worst, Hendricks continued. They have JuniorCPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboardboxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you throughrestaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you inpublic rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyeswhile they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you lookback, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half ablock behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until theday you die, because you're a freak! Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and pacedthe floor. And it doesn't end there , Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be theobject of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stopyou on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'llask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you werea child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT FirstClass?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stopyou on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and— Okay, goddam it! Stop it! Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchiefand lit a cigarette. I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're toodumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime andcriminals ... to hate them as nothing has ever been hated before.Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hellif you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town wherethere aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or— Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously. Favor , did you say? The day youdo me a favor— Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. Not entirely a favor. Iwant to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and readbooks. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time. I couldn't leave if I wanted to, Joe said. I'm flat broke. Thanks toyour CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job. <doc-sep>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time. Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime. Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself. Umm. Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't have tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and— Go to those head-shrinkers ? Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way. Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you make me go? Violation of Civil Rights. Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime. How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done. In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself! He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room. Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime! Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it: John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St. When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks. Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything. <doc-sep>When Joe reached the street, he hurried toward the nearest subway. As achild, he had been frightened of the dark. As a man, he wasn't afraidof the dark itself, but the darkened city always made him feel illat ease. The uneasiness was, more than anything else, caused by hisown imagination. He hated the CPA and at night he couldn't shrug thefeeling that the CPA lurked in every shadow, watching him, waiting forhim to make a mistake. Imagination or not, the CPA was almost everywhere a person went.Twenty-four hours a day, millions of microphones hidden in taverns,alleys, restaurants, subways and every other place imaginable waitedfor someone to say the wrong thing. Everything the microphones pickedup was routed to the CPA Brain, a monster electronic calculator. If the words Let's see a movie were received in the Brain, theywere discarded. But if the words Let's roll this guy were received,the message was traced and a police helicopter would be at the scenein two minutes. And scattered all over the city were not only hiddenmicrophones, but hidden television cameras that relayed visual messagesto the Brain, and hidden machines that could detect a knife or a gun insomeone's pocket at forty yards. Every place of business from the largest bank to the smallest grocerystore was absolutely impenetrable. No one had even tried to rob a placeof business for years. Arson was next to impossible because of the heat-detectors—devicesplaced in every building that could detect, radarlike, any intensity ofheat above that caused by a cigarette lighter. Chemical research hadmade poisoning someone an impossibility. There were no drugs containingpoison, and while an ant-poison might kill ants, no concentrated amountof it would kill a human. The FBI had always been a powerful organization, but under thesupervision of the CPA, it was a scientific colossus and to thinkof kidnapping someone or to contemplate the use of narcotics waspointless. A counterfeiter's career was always short-lived: every placeof business and millions of individuals had small counterfeit-detectorsthat could spot a fake and report it directly to the Brain. And the percentage of crimes had dwindled even more with the appearanceof the robot police officers. Many a criminal in the past had gambledthat he could outshoot a pursuing policeman. But the robots weredifferent: they weren't flesh and blood. Bullets bounced off them andtheir aim was infallible. <doc-sep>It was like a fantastic dream come true. Only the dream wasn'tfantastic any more. With the huge atomic power plants scattered acrossthe country and supplying endless electrical power at ridiculouslylow prices, no endeavor that required power was fantastic. The powerrequired to operate the CPA devices cost each taxpayer an average offour dollars a year, and the invention, development and manufacture ofthe devices had cost even less. And the CPA had attacked crime through society itself, striking atthe individual. In every city there were neon signs that blinkedsubliminally with the statement, CRIME IS FILTH. Listening to a radioor watching television, if a person heard station identification, heinvariably heard or saw just below perception the words CRIME IS FILTH.If he went for a walk or a ride, he saw the endless subliminal postersdeclaring CRIME IS FILTH, and if he read a magazine or newspaper healways found, in those little dead spaces where an editor couldn't fitanything else, the below-perception words CRIME IS FILTH. It was monotonous and, after a while, a person looked at the words andheard them without thinking about them. And they were imprinted on hissubconscious over and over, year after year, until he knew that crimewas the same as filth and that criminals were filthy things. Except men like Joe Harper. No system is perfect. Along with thousandsof other DCTs, Joe refused to believe it, and when he reached apartment204 at 2141 Orange Street, he felt as if he'd inherited a gold mine. The hall was dimly lit, but when he stood before the door numbered 204,he could see that the wall on either side of it was new . That is,instead of being covered with dust, dirt and stains as the other wallswere, it was clean. The building was an old one, the hall was wide, andthe owner had obviously constructed a wall across the hall, creatinganother room. If the owner had reported the new room as required bylaw, it would have been wired with CPA burglarproof devices, butevidently he didn't want to pay for installation. When Joe entered the cubbyhole, he had to stand to one side in order toclose the door behind him. The place was barely large enough for thebed, chair and bureau; it was a place where a man could fall down atnight and sleep, but where no normal man could live day after day. Fearing that someone might detect him before he actually committed thecrime, Joe hurried to the bureau and searched it. <doc-sep>He broke out in a sweat when he found nothing but underwear and oldmagazines. If he stole underwear and magazines, it would still be acrime, but the newspapers would splash satirical headlines. Instead ofbeing respected as a successful criminal, he would be ridiculed. He stopped sweating when he found a watch under a pile of underwear.The crystal was broken, one hand was missing and it wouldn't run,but—perfection itself—engraved on the back was the inscription, ToJohn with Love . His trial would be a clean-cut one: it would be easyfor the CPA to prove ownership and that a crime had been committed. Chuckling with joy, he opened the window and shouted, Thief! Police!Help! He waited a few seconds and then ran. When he reached the street, apolice helicopter landed next to him. Strong metal arms seized him;cameras clicked and recorded the damning evidence. When Joe was securely handcuffed to a seat inside the helicopter, themetal police officers rang doorbells. There was a reward for anyone whoreported a crime, but no one admitted shouting the warning. <doc-sep>He was having a nightmare when he heard the voice, Hey. Wake up. Hey! He opened his eyes, saw Hendricks' ugly face and thought for a minutehe was still having the nightmare. I just saw your doctor, Hendricks said. He says your treatment isover. You can go home now. I thought I'd give you a lift. As Joe dressed, he searched his mind and tried to find some difference. During the treatment, he had been unconscious or drugged, unable tothink. Now he could think clearly, but he could find no difference inhimself. He felt more relaxed than he'd ever felt before, but that could be anafter-effect of all the sedatives he'd been given. And, he noticed whenhe looked in the mirror, he was paler. The treatment had taken monthsand he had, between operations, been locked in his room. Hendricks was standing by the window. Joe stared at the massive back.Deliberately goading his mind, he discovered the biggest change:Before, the mere sight of the man had aroused an intense hatred. Now,even when he tried, he succeeded in arousing only a mild hatred.They had toned down his capacity to hate, but not done away with italtogether. Come here and take a look at your public, said Hendricks. Joe went to the window. Three stories below, a large crowd had gatheredon the hospital steps: a band, photographers, television trucks,cameramen and autograph hunters. He'd waited a long time for this day.But now—another change in him— He put the emotion into words: I don't feel like a hero. Funny, but Idon't. Hero! Hendricks laughed and, with his powerful lungs, it soundedlike a bull snorting. You think a successful criminal is a hero? Youstupid— He laughed again and waved a hand at the crowd below them. You thinkthose people are down there because they admire what you did? They'redown there waiting for you because they're curious, because they'reglad the CPA caught you, and because they're glad you're an Ex. You'rean ex -criminal now, and because of your treatment, you'll never beable to commit another crime as long as you live. And that's the kindof guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and getyour autograph. Joe didn't understand Hendricks completely, but the part he didunderstand he didn't believe. A crowd was waiting for him. He could seethe people with his own eyes. When he left the hospital, they'd cheerand shout and ask for his autograph. If he wasn't a hero, what washe ? <doc-sep>It took half an hour to get through the crowd. Cameras clicked allaround him, a hundred kids asked for his autograph, everyone talked atonce and cheered, smiled, laughed, patted him on the back and cheeredsome more. Only one thing confused him during all the excitement: a white-hairedold lady with tears in her eyes said, Thank heaven it was only awatch. Thank heaven you didn't kill someone! God bless you, son. Andthen the old lady had handed him a box of fudge and left him in totalconfusion. What she said didn't make sense. If he had killed someone ratherthan stealing a watch, he would be even more of a hero and the crowdwould have cheered even louder. He knew: he had stood outside the CPAhospitals many times and the crowds always cheered louder when anex-murderer came out. In Hendricks' robot-chauffeured car, he ate the fudge and consoledhimself with the thought, People are funny. Who can understand 'em? Feeling happy for one of the few times in his life, he turned towardHendricks and said, Thanks for what you did. It turned out great. I'llbe able to get a good job now. That's why I met you at the hospital, Hendricks said. I want toexplain some things. I've known you for a long time and I know you'respectacularly dumb. You can't figure out some things for yourself andI don't want you walking around the rest of your life thinking I didyou a favor. Joe frowned. Few men had ever done him a favor and he had rarelythanked anyone for anything. And now ... after thanking the man who'ddone him the biggest favor of all, the man was denying it! You robbed Gralewski's apartment, Hendricks said. Gralewski is a CPAemployee and he doesn't live in the apartment you robbed. The CPA paysthe rent for that one and he lives in another. We have a lot of placeslike that. You see, it gives us a way to get rid of saps like youbefore they do real damage. We use it as a last resort when a DCT FirstClass won't take the free psycho treatment or— Well, it's still a favor. Hendricks' face hardened. Favor? You wouldn't know a favor if youstumbled over one. I did it because it's standard procedure for yourtype of case. Anyone can—free of charge—have treatment by the bestpsychologists. Any DCT can stop being a DCT by simply asking for thetreatment and taking it. But you wouldn't do that. You wanted to commita crime, get caught and be a hero ... an Ex . <doc-sep>The car passed one of the CPA playgrounds. Boys and girls of all ageswere laughing, squealing with joy as they played games designed by CPApsychologists to relieve tension. And—despite the treatment, Joeshuddered when he saw the psychologists standing to one side, quietlywatching the children. The whole world was filled with CPA employeesand volunteer workers. Everywhere you went, it was there, quietlywatching you and analyzing you, and if you showed criminal tendencies,it watched you even more closely and analyzed you even more deeplyuntil it took you apart and put you back together again the way itwanted you to be. Being an Ex, you'll get the kind of job you always wanted, Hendrickscontinued. You'll get a good-paying job, but you'll work for it.You'll work eight hours a day, work harder than you've ever workedbefore in your life, because every time you start to loaf, a voice inyour head is going to say, Work! Work! Exes always get good jobsbecause employers know they're good workers. But during these next few days, you'll discover what being an Exis like. You see, Joe, the treatment can't possibly take all thecriminal tendencies out of a man. So the treatment does the next bestthing—you'll find a set of laws written in your mind. You might want to break one now and then, but you won't be able. I'll give you anillustration.... Joe's face reddened as Hendricks proceeded to call him a series ofnames. He wanted to smash the fat, grinning face, but the muscles inhis arm froze before it moved it an inch. And worse than that, a brief pain ripped through his skull. A pain sointense that, had it lasted a second longer, he would have screamed inagony. And above the pain, a voice whispered in his head, Unlawful tostrike someone except in self-defense . He opened his mouth to tell Hendricks exactly what he thought of him,the CPA, the whole world. But the words stayed in his throat, the painreturned, and the mental voice whispered, Unlawful to curse . He had never heard how the treatment prevented an Ex from committing acrime. And now that he knew, it didn't seem fair. He decided to tellthe whole story to the newspapers as soon as he could. And as soon asthat decision formed in his mind, his body froze, the pain returned andthe voice, Unlawful to divulge CPA procedure . See what I mean? Hendricks asked. A century ago, you would have beenlocked in a prison and taxpayers' money would have supported you untilthe day you died. With the CPA system, you're returned to society, auseful citizen, unable to commit the smallest crime. And you've got abig hand in your dirty little mind that's going to slap it every timeyou get the wrong kind of thought. It'll keep slapping you until youlearn. It might take weeks, months or years, but you'll learn sooneror later to not even think about doing anything wrong. <doc-sep>He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the car's plush ceiling.It's a great system, isn't it, Joe? A true democracy. Even a jerk likeyou is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal. I think it's a lousy, filthy system. Joe's head was still tinglingwith pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now itwas also inside his head, telling him he couldn't do this, couldn't dothat. All his life it had been telling him he couldn't do things hewanted to do and now .... Hendricks laughed. You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean,wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except forfreaks like yourself, criminals are— Let me out! Joe grabbed at the door and was on the sidewalk, slammingthe door behind him before the car stopped completely. He stared at the car as it pulled away from the curb and glided intothe stream of traffic again. He realized he was a prisoner ... aprisoner inside his own body ... made a prisoner by a world that hatedhim back. He wanted to spit his contempt, but the increasingly familiar pain andvoice prevented him. It was unlawful to spit on a sidewalk. <doc-sep></s>

The CPA is meant to prevent crime and not punish crime. It stands for Crime Prevention Association. The CPA organization has made crime nearly impossible through various methods of surveillance and intelligence gathering. The crime was not punished by the CPA but addressed by sending the person to a hospital for expensive treatment to correct and remove the deviance from the person’s mind. A CPA ID card is required to be carried by everyone and when asked, a person has to present the ID card. Being drunk is illegal according to the rules of the CPA.

<s> Going straight meant crooked planning. He'd never make it unless he somehow managed to PICK A CRIME By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The girl was tall, wide-eyed and brunette. She had the right curves inthe right places and would have been beautiful if her nose had beensmaller, if her mouth had been larger and if her hair had been wavyinstead of straight. Hank said you wanted to see me, she said when she stopped besideJoe's table. Yeah. Joe nodded at the other chair. Have a seat. He reached into apocket, withdrew five ten-dollar bills and handed them to her. I wantyou to do a job for me. It'll only take a few minutes. The girl counted the money, then placed it in her purse. Joe noticeda small counterfeit-detector inside the purse before she closed it.What's the job? Tell you later. He gulped the remainder of his drink, almost pouringit down his throat. Hey. You trying to make yourself sick? Not sick. Drunk. Been trying to get drunk all afternoon. As theliquor settled in his stomach, he waited for the warm glow. But theglow didn't come ... the bartender had watered his drink again. Trying to get drunk? the girl inquired. Are you crazy? No. It's simple. If I get drunk, I can join the AAA and get free roomand board for a month while they give me a treatment. It was easy enough to understand, he reflected, but a lot harder to do.The CPA robot bartenders saw to it that anyone got high if they wanted,but comparatively few got drunk. Each bartender could not only mixdrinks but could also judge by a man's actions and speech when he wason the verge of drunkenness. At the proper time—since drunkenness wasillegal—a bartender always watered the drinks. Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, buthad always failed. And in all of New York's millions, there had beenonly a hundred cases of intoxication during the previous year. The girl laughed. If you're that hard up, I don't know if I shouldtake this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job likeeveryone else? As an answer, Joe handed her his CPA ID card. She grunted when shesaw the large letters that indicated the owner had Dangerous CriminalTendencies. <doc-sep>When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request. I'm sorry, the girl said. I didn't know you were a DCT. And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger— On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor. Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job! The girl's lips formed a bright red circle. Say! You really got bigplans, don't you? He smiled at her admiration. It was something big to plan a crime.A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting,blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—CrimePrevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officialshad declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to preventcrime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands ofingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crimealmost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred menin the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts. No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to killsomeone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished; hewasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where allcriminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shocktreatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy anda dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were fewcriminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city couldafford the CPA hospitals. The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods becauseit did away with the damage caused by countless crimes; did away withprisons and their guards, large police forces, squad cars and weapons. And, ironically, a man who did commit a crime was a sort of hero. Hewas a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulsesto kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only ahero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of theCPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... aman who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money.And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatmentwas commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of theword an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs. Well, the girl said. I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten.Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes. Okay. Let's go. <doc-sep>The girl followed him across the room, around tables, through a door,down a hall, through a back door and into the alley. She followed him up the dark alley until he turned suddenly and rippedher blouse and skirt. He surprised her completely, but when she recovered, she backed away,her body poised like a wrestler's. What's the big idea? Scream, Joe said. Scream as loud as you can, and when the cops gethere, tell 'em I tried to rape you. The plan was perfect, he told himself. Attempted rape was one of thefew things that was a crime merely because a man attempted it. A crimebecause it theoretically inflicted psychological injury upon theintended victim—and because millions of women voters had voted it acrime. On the other hand, attempted murder, robbery, kidnapping, etc.,were not crimes. They weren't crimes because the DCT didn't completethe act, and if he didn't complete the act, that meant simply that theCPA had once again functioned properly. The girl shook her head vigorously. Sorry, buddy. Can't help you thatway. Why didn't you tell me what you wanted? What's the matter? Joe complained. I'm not asking you to do anythingwrong. You stupid jerk. What do you think this is—the Middle Ages? Don't youknow almost every woman knows how to defend herself? I'm a sergeant inthe WSDA! Joe groaned. The WSDA—Women's Self-Defense Association—a branch ofthe CPA. The WSDA gave free instruction in judo and jujitsu, evendeveloped new techniques of wrestling and instructed only women inthose new techniques. The girl was still shaking her head. Can't do it, buddy. I'd lose myrank if you were convicted of— Do I have to make you scream? Joe inquired tiredly and advancedtoward the girl. —and that rank carries a lot of weight. Hey! Stop it! Joe discovered to his dismay that the girl was telling the truth whenshe said she was a sergeant in the WSDA. He felt her hands on his body,and in the time it takes to blink twice, he was flying through the air. The alley's concrete floor was hard—it had always been hard, but hebecame acutely aware of its lack of resiliency when his head struck it.There was a wonderful moment while the world was filled with beautifulstars and streaks of lightning through which he heard distant policesirens. But the wonderful moment didn't last long and darkness closedin on him. <doc-sep>When he awoke, a rough voice was saying, Okay. Snap out of it. He opened his eyes and recognized the police commissioner's office. Itwould be hard not to recognize: the room was large, devoid of furnitureexcept for a desk and chairs, but the walls were lined with thecontrols of television screens, electronic calculators and a hundredother machines that formed New York's mechanical police force. Commissioner Hendricks was a remarkable character. There was somethingwrong with his glands, and he was a huge, greasy bulk of a man withbushy eyebrows and a double chin. His steel-gray eyes showed somethingof his intelligence and he would have gone far in politics if fatehadn't made him so ugly, for more than half the voters who elected mento high political positions were women. Anyone who knew Hendricks well liked him, for he was a friendly,likable person. But the millions of women voters who saw his face onposters and on their TV screens saw only the ugly face and heard onlythe harsh voice. The President of the United States was a capableman, but also a very handsome one, and the fact that a man who lookedsomething like a bulldog had been elected as New York's policecommissioner was a credit to Hendricks and millions of women voters. Where's the girl? Joe asked. I processed her while you were out cold. She left. Joe, you— Okay, Joe said. I'll save you the trouble. I admit it. Attemptedrape. I confess. Hendricks smiled. Sorry, Joe. You missed the boat again. He reachedout and turned a dial on his desk top. We had a microphone hidden inthat alley. We have a lot of microphones hidden in a lot of alleys.You'd be surprised at the number of conspiracies that take place inalleys! Joe listened numbly to his voice as it came from one of the hundreds ofmachines on the walls, Scream. Scream as loud as you can, and whenthe cops get here, tell 'em I tried to rape you. And then the girl'svoice, Sorry, buddy. Can't help— He waved his hand. Okay. Shut it off. I confess to conspiracy. <doc-sep>Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe wasslouched in a chair. Give me your CPA ID. Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the worldhad collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented fromcommitting a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properlyonce again. That meant the CPA had once again prevented crime, andthe CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attemptto prevent crimes by punishment. If it did, that would be a violationof the New Civil Rights. Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched abutton. The machine hummed and a new card appeared. When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the wordsDANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was aDCT First Class. You've graduated, Hendricks said coldly. You guys never learn, doyou? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You knowwhat that means? Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how itworks? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow nightand they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this JoeHarper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep recordsof First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequentlyat Walt's Tavern. So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying notto let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, justhoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,so they can be the first ones to yell ' Police! ' They'll watch youbecause it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever did prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward andthey'd be famous. Lay off, Joe said. I got a headache. That girl— Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. You listen, Joe. This isinteresting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There'sthousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks fromreading about guys like you, but these days things are dull becauseit's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk downthe street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and nomatter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting nextto you, standing next to you. During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras thatlook like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you throughyour keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you throughbinoculars and— Lay off! <doc-sep>Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before andit was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talkingmachine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped. And the kids are the worst, Hendricks continued. They have JuniorCPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboardboxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you throughrestaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you inpublic rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyeswhile they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you lookback, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half ablock behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until theday you die, because you're a freak! Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and pacedthe floor. And it doesn't end there , Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be theobject of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stopyou on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'llask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you werea child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT FirstClass?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stopyou on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and— Okay, goddam it! Stop it! Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchiefand lit a cigarette. I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're toodumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime andcriminals ... to hate them as nothing has ever been hated before.Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hellif you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town wherethere aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or— Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously. Favor , did you say? The day youdo me a favor— Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. Not entirely a favor. Iwant to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and readbooks. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time. I couldn't leave if I wanted to, Joe said. I'm flat broke. Thanks toyour CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job. <doc-sep>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time. Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime. Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself. Umm. Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't have tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and— Go to those head-shrinkers ? Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way. Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you make me go? Violation of Civil Rights. Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime. How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done. In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself! He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room. Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime! Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it: John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St. When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks. Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything. <doc-sep>When Joe reached the street, he hurried toward the nearest subway. As achild, he had been frightened of the dark. As a man, he wasn't afraidof the dark itself, but the darkened city always made him feel illat ease. The uneasiness was, more than anything else, caused by hisown imagination. He hated the CPA and at night he couldn't shrug thefeeling that the CPA lurked in every shadow, watching him, waiting forhim to make a mistake. Imagination or not, the CPA was almost everywhere a person went.Twenty-four hours a day, millions of microphones hidden in taverns,alleys, restaurants, subways and every other place imaginable waitedfor someone to say the wrong thing. Everything the microphones pickedup was routed to the CPA Brain, a monster electronic calculator. If the words Let's see a movie were received in the Brain, theywere discarded. But if the words Let's roll this guy were received,the message was traced and a police helicopter would be at the scenein two minutes. And scattered all over the city were not only hiddenmicrophones, but hidden television cameras that relayed visual messagesto the Brain, and hidden machines that could detect a knife or a gun insomeone's pocket at forty yards. Every place of business from the largest bank to the smallest grocerystore was absolutely impenetrable. No one had even tried to rob a placeof business for years. Arson was next to impossible because of the heat-detectors—devicesplaced in every building that could detect, radarlike, any intensity ofheat above that caused by a cigarette lighter. Chemical research hadmade poisoning someone an impossibility. There were no drugs containingpoison, and while an ant-poison might kill ants, no concentrated amountof it would kill a human. The FBI had always been a powerful organization, but under thesupervision of the CPA, it was a scientific colossus and to thinkof kidnapping someone or to contemplate the use of narcotics waspointless. A counterfeiter's career was always short-lived: every placeof business and millions of individuals had small counterfeit-detectorsthat could spot a fake and report it directly to the Brain. And the percentage of crimes had dwindled even more with the appearanceof the robot police officers. Many a criminal in the past had gambledthat he could outshoot a pursuing policeman. But the robots weredifferent: they weren't flesh and blood. Bullets bounced off them andtheir aim was infallible. <doc-sep>It was like a fantastic dream come true. Only the dream wasn'tfantastic any more. With the huge atomic power plants scattered acrossthe country and supplying endless electrical power at ridiculouslylow prices, no endeavor that required power was fantastic. The powerrequired to operate the CPA devices cost each taxpayer an average offour dollars a year, and the invention, development and manufacture ofthe devices had cost even less. And the CPA had attacked crime through society itself, striking atthe individual. In every city there were neon signs that blinkedsubliminally with the statement, CRIME IS FILTH. Listening to a radioor watching television, if a person heard station identification, heinvariably heard or saw just below perception the words CRIME IS FILTH.If he went for a walk or a ride, he saw the endless subliminal postersdeclaring CRIME IS FILTH, and if he read a magazine or newspaper healways found, in those little dead spaces where an editor couldn't fitanything else, the below-perception words CRIME IS FILTH. It was monotonous and, after a while, a person looked at the words andheard them without thinking about them. And they were imprinted on hissubconscious over and over, year after year, until he knew that crimewas the same as filth and that criminals were filthy things. Except men like Joe Harper. No system is perfect. Along with thousandsof other DCTs, Joe refused to believe it, and when he reached apartment204 at 2141 Orange Street, he felt as if he'd inherited a gold mine. The hall was dimly lit, but when he stood before the door numbered 204,he could see that the wall on either side of it was new . That is,instead of being covered with dust, dirt and stains as the other wallswere, it was clean. The building was an old one, the hall was wide, andthe owner had obviously constructed a wall across the hall, creatinganother room. If the owner had reported the new room as required bylaw, it would have been wired with CPA burglarproof devices, butevidently he didn't want to pay for installation. When Joe entered the cubbyhole, he had to stand to one side in order toclose the door behind him. The place was barely large enough for thebed, chair and bureau; it was a place where a man could fall down atnight and sleep, but where no normal man could live day after day. Fearing that someone might detect him before he actually committed thecrime, Joe hurried to the bureau and searched it. <doc-sep>He broke out in a sweat when he found nothing but underwear and oldmagazines. If he stole underwear and magazines, it would still be acrime, but the newspapers would splash satirical headlines. Instead ofbeing respected as a successful criminal, he would be ridiculed. He stopped sweating when he found a watch under a pile of underwear.The crystal was broken, one hand was missing and it wouldn't run,but—perfection itself—engraved on the back was the inscription, ToJohn with Love . His trial would be a clean-cut one: it would be easyfor the CPA to prove ownership and that a crime had been committed. Chuckling with joy, he opened the window and shouted, Thief! Police!Help! He waited a few seconds and then ran. When he reached the street, apolice helicopter landed next to him. Strong metal arms seized him;cameras clicked and recorded the damning evidence. When Joe was securely handcuffed to a seat inside the helicopter, themetal police officers rang doorbells. There was a reward for anyone whoreported a crime, but no one admitted shouting the warning. <doc-sep>He was having a nightmare when he heard the voice, Hey. Wake up. Hey! He opened his eyes, saw Hendricks' ugly face and thought for a minutehe was still having the nightmare. I just saw your doctor, Hendricks said. He says your treatment isover. You can go home now. I thought I'd give you a lift. As Joe dressed, he searched his mind and tried to find some difference. During the treatment, he had been unconscious or drugged, unable tothink. Now he could think clearly, but he could find no difference inhimself. He felt more relaxed than he'd ever felt before, but that could be anafter-effect of all the sedatives he'd been given. And, he noticed whenhe looked in the mirror, he was paler. The treatment had taken monthsand he had, between operations, been locked in his room. Hendricks was standing by the window. Joe stared at the massive back.Deliberately goading his mind, he discovered the biggest change:Before, the mere sight of the man had aroused an intense hatred. Now,even when he tried, he succeeded in arousing only a mild hatred.They had toned down his capacity to hate, but not done away with italtogether. Come here and take a look at your public, said Hendricks. Joe went to the window. Three stories below, a large crowd had gatheredon the hospital steps: a band, photographers, television trucks,cameramen and autograph hunters. He'd waited a long time for this day.But now—another change in him— He put the emotion into words: I don't feel like a hero. Funny, but Idon't. Hero! Hendricks laughed and, with his powerful lungs, it soundedlike a bull snorting. You think a successful criminal is a hero? Youstupid— He laughed again and waved a hand at the crowd below them. You thinkthose people are down there because they admire what you did? They'redown there waiting for you because they're curious, because they'reglad the CPA caught you, and because they're glad you're an Ex. You'rean ex -criminal now, and because of your treatment, you'll never beable to commit another crime as long as you live. And that's the kindof guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and getyour autograph. Joe didn't understand Hendricks completely, but the part he didunderstand he didn't believe. A crowd was waiting for him. He could seethe people with his own eyes. When he left the hospital, they'd cheerand shout and ask for his autograph. If he wasn't a hero, what washe ? <doc-sep>It took half an hour to get through the crowd. Cameras clicked allaround him, a hundred kids asked for his autograph, everyone talked atonce and cheered, smiled, laughed, patted him on the back and cheeredsome more. Only one thing confused him during all the excitement: a white-hairedold lady with tears in her eyes said, Thank heaven it was only awatch. Thank heaven you didn't kill someone! God bless you, son. Andthen the old lady had handed him a box of fudge and left him in totalconfusion. What she said didn't make sense. If he had killed someone ratherthan stealing a watch, he would be even more of a hero and the crowdwould have cheered even louder. He knew: he had stood outside the CPAhospitals many times and the crowds always cheered louder when anex-murderer came out. In Hendricks' robot-chauffeured car, he ate the fudge and consoledhimself with the thought, People are funny. Who can understand 'em? Feeling happy for one of the few times in his life, he turned towardHendricks and said, Thanks for what you did. It turned out great. I'llbe able to get a good job now. That's why I met you at the hospital, Hendricks said. I want toexplain some things. I've known you for a long time and I know you'respectacularly dumb. You can't figure out some things for yourself andI don't want you walking around the rest of your life thinking I didyou a favor. Joe frowned. Few men had ever done him a favor and he had rarelythanked anyone for anything. And now ... after thanking the man who'ddone him the biggest favor of all, the man was denying it! You robbed Gralewski's apartment, Hendricks said. Gralewski is a CPAemployee and he doesn't live in the apartment you robbed. The CPA paysthe rent for that one and he lives in another. We have a lot of placeslike that. You see, it gives us a way to get rid of saps like youbefore they do real damage. We use it as a last resort when a DCT FirstClass won't take the free psycho treatment or— Well, it's still a favor. Hendricks' face hardened. Favor? You wouldn't know a favor if youstumbled over one. I did it because it's standard procedure for yourtype of case. Anyone can—free of charge—have treatment by the bestpsychologists. Any DCT can stop being a DCT by simply asking for thetreatment and taking it. But you wouldn't do that. You wanted to commita crime, get caught and be a hero ... an Ex . <doc-sep>The car passed one of the CPA playgrounds. Boys and girls of all ageswere laughing, squealing with joy as they played games designed by CPApsychologists to relieve tension. And—despite the treatment, Joeshuddered when he saw the psychologists standing to one side, quietlywatching the children. The whole world was filled with CPA employeesand volunteer workers. Everywhere you went, it was there, quietlywatching you and analyzing you, and if you showed criminal tendencies,it watched you even more closely and analyzed you even more deeplyuntil it took you apart and put you back together again the way itwanted you to be. Being an Ex, you'll get the kind of job you always wanted, Hendrickscontinued. You'll get a good-paying job, but you'll work for it.You'll work eight hours a day, work harder than you've ever workedbefore in your life, because every time you start to loaf, a voice inyour head is going to say, Work! Work! Exes always get good jobsbecause employers know they're good workers. But during these next few days, you'll discover what being an Exis like. You see, Joe, the treatment can't possibly take all thecriminal tendencies out of a man. So the treatment does the next bestthing—you'll find a set of laws written in your mind. You might want to break one now and then, but you won't be able. I'll give you anillustration.... Joe's face reddened as Hendricks proceeded to call him a series ofnames. He wanted to smash the fat, grinning face, but the muscles inhis arm froze before it moved it an inch. And worse than that, a brief pain ripped through his skull. A pain sointense that, had it lasted a second longer, he would have screamed inagony. And above the pain, a voice whispered in his head, Unlawful tostrike someone except in self-defense . He opened his mouth to tell Hendricks exactly what he thought of him,the CPA, the whole world. But the words stayed in his throat, the painreturned, and the mental voice whispered, Unlawful to curse . He had never heard how the treatment prevented an Ex from committing acrime. And now that he knew, it didn't seem fair. He decided to tellthe whole story to the newspapers as soon as he could. And as soon asthat decision formed in his mind, his body froze, the pain returned andthe voice, Unlawful to divulge CPA procedure . See what I mean? Hendricks asked. A century ago, you would have beenlocked in a prison and taxpayers' money would have supported you untilthe day you died. With the CPA system, you're returned to society, auseful citizen, unable to commit the smallest crime. And you've got abig hand in your dirty little mind that's going to slap it every timeyou get the wrong kind of thought. It'll keep slapping you until youlearn. It might take weeks, months or years, but you'll learn sooneror later to not even think about doing anything wrong. <doc-sep>He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the car's plush ceiling.It's a great system, isn't it, Joe? A true democracy. Even a jerk likeyou is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal. I think it's a lousy, filthy system. Joe's head was still tinglingwith pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now itwas also inside his head, telling him he couldn't do this, couldn't dothat. All his life it had been telling him he couldn't do things hewanted to do and now .... Hendricks laughed. You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean,wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except forfreaks like yourself, criminals are— Let me out! Joe grabbed at the door and was on the sidewalk, slammingthe door behind him before the car stopped completely. He stared at the car as it pulled away from the curb and glided intothe stream of traffic again. He realized he was a prisoner ... aprisoner inside his own body ... made a prisoner by a world that hatedhim back. He wanted to spit his contempt, but the increasingly familiar pain andvoice prevented him. It was unlawful to spit on a sidewalk. <doc-sep></s>

Joe hires the girl because he wants to commit a crime and be caught by the CPA. He reasons that if he commits a crime and is caught he will be treated and then labelled as an “Ex” criminal. This designation would allow him to get whatever job he desired, an actual good job. An “Ex” criminal is treated as a type of hero because they are viewed as cured and incapable of ever committing a crime again, thus they are the most trustworthy person in society. Joe hires the girl to use her to pretend that he tried to rape her.

<s> Going straight meant crooked planning. He'd never make it unless he somehow managed to PICK A CRIME By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The girl was tall, wide-eyed and brunette. She had the right curves inthe right places and would have been beautiful if her nose had beensmaller, if her mouth had been larger and if her hair had been wavyinstead of straight. Hank said you wanted to see me, she said when she stopped besideJoe's table. Yeah. Joe nodded at the other chair. Have a seat. He reached into apocket, withdrew five ten-dollar bills and handed them to her. I wantyou to do a job for me. It'll only take a few minutes. The girl counted the money, then placed it in her purse. Joe noticeda small counterfeit-detector inside the purse before she closed it.What's the job? Tell you later. He gulped the remainder of his drink, almost pouringit down his throat. Hey. You trying to make yourself sick? Not sick. Drunk. Been trying to get drunk all afternoon. As theliquor settled in his stomach, he waited for the warm glow. But theglow didn't come ... the bartender had watered his drink again. Trying to get drunk? the girl inquired. Are you crazy? No. It's simple. If I get drunk, I can join the AAA and get free roomand board for a month while they give me a treatment. It was easy enough to understand, he reflected, but a lot harder to do.The CPA robot bartenders saw to it that anyone got high if they wanted,but comparatively few got drunk. Each bartender could not only mixdrinks but could also judge by a man's actions and speech when he wason the verge of drunkenness. At the proper time—since drunkenness wasillegal—a bartender always watered the drinks. Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, buthad always failed. And in all of New York's millions, there had beenonly a hundred cases of intoxication during the previous year. The girl laughed. If you're that hard up, I don't know if I shouldtake this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job likeeveryone else? As an answer, Joe handed her his CPA ID card. She grunted when shesaw the large letters that indicated the owner had Dangerous CriminalTendencies. <doc-sep>When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request. I'm sorry, the girl said. I didn't know you were a DCT. And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger— On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor. Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job! The girl's lips formed a bright red circle. Say! You really got bigplans, don't you? He smiled at her admiration. It was something big to plan a crime.A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting,blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—CrimePrevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officialshad declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to preventcrime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands ofingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crimealmost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred menin the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts. No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to killsomeone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished; hewasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where allcriminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shocktreatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy anda dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were fewcriminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city couldafford the CPA hospitals. The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods becauseit did away with the damage caused by countless crimes; did away withprisons and their guards, large police forces, squad cars and weapons. And, ironically, a man who did commit a crime was a sort of hero. Hewas a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulsesto kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only ahero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of theCPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... aman who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money.And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatmentwas commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of theword an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs. Well, the girl said. I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten.Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes. Okay. Let's go. <doc-sep>The girl followed him across the room, around tables, through a door,down a hall, through a back door and into the alley. She followed him up the dark alley until he turned suddenly and rippedher blouse and skirt. He surprised her completely, but when she recovered, she backed away,her body poised like a wrestler's. What's the big idea? Scream, Joe said. Scream as loud as you can, and when the cops gethere, tell 'em I tried to rape you. The plan was perfect, he told himself. Attempted rape was one of thefew things that was a crime merely because a man attempted it. A crimebecause it theoretically inflicted psychological injury upon theintended victim—and because millions of women voters had voted it acrime. On the other hand, attempted murder, robbery, kidnapping, etc.,were not crimes. They weren't crimes because the DCT didn't completethe act, and if he didn't complete the act, that meant simply that theCPA had once again functioned properly. The girl shook her head vigorously. Sorry, buddy. Can't help you thatway. Why didn't you tell me what you wanted? What's the matter? Joe complained. I'm not asking you to do anythingwrong. You stupid jerk. What do you think this is—the Middle Ages? Don't youknow almost every woman knows how to defend herself? I'm a sergeant inthe WSDA! Joe groaned. The WSDA—Women's Self-Defense Association—a branch ofthe CPA. The WSDA gave free instruction in judo and jujitsu, evendeveloped new techniques of wrestling and instructed only women inthose new techniques. The girl was still shaking her head. Can't do it, buddy. I'd lose myrank if you were convicted of— Do I have to make you scream? Joe inquired tiredly and advancedtoward the girl. —and that rank carries a lot of weight. Hey! Stop it! Joe discovered to his dismay that the girl was telling the truth whenshe said she was a sergeant in the WSDA. He felt her hands on his body,and in the time it takes to blink twice, he was flying through the air. The alley's concrete floor was hard—it had always been hard, but hebecame acutely aware of its lack of resiliency when his head struck it.There was a wonderful moment while the world was filled with beautifulstars and streaks of lightning through which he heard distant policesirens. But the wonderful moment didn't last long and darkness closedin on him. <doc-sep>When he awoke, a rough voice was saying, Okay. Snap out of it. He opened his eyes and recognized the police commissioner's office. Itwould be hard not to recognize: the room was large, devoid of furnitureexcept for a desk and chairs, but the walls were lined with thecontrols of television screens, electronic calculators and a hundredother machines that formed New York's mechanical police force. Commissioner Hendricks was a remarkable character. There was somethingwrong with his glands, and he was a huge, greasy bulk of a man withbushy eyebrows and a double chin. His steel-gray eyes showed somethingof his intelligence and he would have gone far in politics if fatehadn't made him so ugly, for more than half the voters who elected mento high political positions were women. Anyone who knew Hendricks well liked him, for he was a friendly,likable person. But the millions of women voters who saw his face onposters and on their TV screens saw only the ugly face and heard onlythe harsh voice. The President of the United States was a capableman, but also a very handsome one, and the fact that a man who lookedsomething like a bulldog had been elected as New York's policecommissioner was a credit to Hendricks and millions of women voters. Where's the girl? Joe asked. I processed her while you were out cold. She left. Joe, you— Okay, Joe said. I'll save you the trouble. I admit it. Attemptedrape. I confess. Hendricks smiled. Sorry, Joe. You missed the boat again. He reachedout and turned a dial on his desk top. We had a microphone hidden inthat alley. We have a lot of microphones hidden in a lot of alleys.You'd be surprised at the number of conspiracies that take place inalleys! Joe listened numbly to his voice as it came from one of the hundreds ofmachines on the walls, Scream. Scream as loud as you can, and whenthe cops get here, tell 'em I tried to rape you. And then the girl'svoice, Sorry, buddy. Can't help— He waved his hand. Okay. Shut it off. I confess to conspiracy. <doc-sep>Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe wasslouched in a chair. Give me your CPA ID. Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the worldhad collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented fromcommitting a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properlyonce again. That meant the CPA had once again prevented crime, andthe CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attemptto prevent crimes by punishment. If it did, that would be a violationof the New Civil Rights. Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched abutton. The machine hummed and a new card appeared. When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the wordsDANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was aDCT First Class. You've graduated, Hendricks said coldly. You guys never learn, doyou? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You knowwhat that means? Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how itworks? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow nightand they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this JoeHarper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep recordsof First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequentlyat Walt's Tavern. So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying notto let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, justhoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,so they can be the first ones to yell ' Police! ' They'll watch youbecause it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever did prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward andthey'd be famous. Lay off, Joe said. I got a headache. That girl— Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. You listen, Joe. This isinteresting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There'sthousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks fromreading about guys like you, but these days things are dull becauseit's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk downthe street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and nomatter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting nextto you, standing next to you. During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras thatlook like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you throughyour keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you throughbinoculars and— Lay off! <doc-sep>Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before andit was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talkingmachine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped. And the kids are the worst, Hendricks continued. They have JuniorCPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboardboxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you throughrestaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you inpublic rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyeswhile they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you lookback, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half ablock behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until theday you die, because you're a freak! Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and pacedthe floor. And it doesn't end there , Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be theobject of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stopyou on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'llask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you werea child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT FirstClass?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stopyou on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and— Okay, goddam it! Stop it! Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchiefand lit a cigarette. I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're toodumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime andcriminals ... to hate them as nothing has ever been hated before.Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hellif you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town wherethere aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or— Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously. Favor , did you say? The day youdo me a favor— Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. Not entirely a favor. Iwant to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and readbooks. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time. I couldn't leave if I wanted to, Joe said. I'm flat broke. Thanks toyour CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job. <doc-sep>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time. Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime. Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself. Umm. Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't have tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and— Go to those head-shrinkers ? Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way. Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you make me go? Violation of Civil Rights. Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime. How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done. In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself! He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room. Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime! Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it: John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St. When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks. Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything. <doc-sep>When Joe reached the street, he hurried toward the nearest subway. As achild, he had been frightened of the dark. As a man, he wasn't afraidof the dark itself, but the darkened city always made him feel illat ease. The uneasiness was, more than anything else, caused by hisown imagination. He hated the CPA and at night he couldn't shrug thefeeling that the CPA lurked in every shadow, watching him, waiting forhim to make a mistake. Imagination or not, the CPA was almost everywhere a person went.Twenty-four hours a day, millions of microphones hidden in taverns,alleys, restaurants, subways and every other place imaginable waitedfor someone to say the wrong thing. Everything the microphones pickedup was routed to the CPA Brain, a monster electronic calculator. If the words Let's see a movie were received in the Brain, theywere discarded. But if the words Let's roll this guy were received,the message was traced and a police helicopter would be at the scenein two minutes. And scattered all over the city were not only hiddenmicrophones, but hidden television cameras that relayed visual messagesto the Brain, and hidden machines that could detect a knife or a gun insomeone's pocket at forty yards. Every place of business from the largest bank to the smallest grocerystore was absolutely impenetrable. No one had even tried to rob a placeof business for years. Arson was next to impossible because of the heat-detectors—devicesplaced in every building that could detect, radarlike, any intensity ofheat above that caused by a cigarette lighter. Chemical research hadmade poisoning someone an impossibility. There were no drugs containingpoison, and while an ant-poison might kill ants, no concentrated amountof it would kill a human. The FBI had always been a powerful organization, but under thesupervision of the CPA, it was a scientific colossus and to thinkof kidnapping someone or to contemplate the use of narcotics waspointless. A counterfeiter's career was always short-lived: every placeof business and millions of individuals had small counterfeit-detectorsthat could spot a fake and report it directly to the Brain. And the percentage of crimes had dwindled even more with the appearanceof the robot police officers. Many a criminal in the past had gambledthat he could outshoot a pursuing policeman. But the robots weredifferent: they weren't flesh and blood. Bullets bounced off them andtheir aim was infallible. <doc-sep>It was like a fantastic dream come true. Only the dream wasn'tfantastic any more. With the huge atomic power plants scattered acrossthe country and supplying endless electrical power at ridiculouslylow prices, no endeavor that required power was fantastic. The powerrequired to operate the CPA devices cost each taxpayer an average offour dollars a year, and the invention, development and manufacture ofthe devices had cost even less. And the CPA had attacked crime through society itself, striking atthe individual. In every city there were neon signs that blinkedsubliminally with the statement, CRIME IS FILTH. Listening to a radioor watching television, if a person heard station identification, heinvariably heard or saw just below perception the words CRIME IS FILTH.If he went for a walk or a ride, he saw the endless subliminal postersdeclaring CRIME IS FILTH, and if he read a magazine or newspaper healways found, in those little dead spaces where an editor couldn't fitanything else, the below-perception words CRIME IS FILTH. It was monotonous and, after a while, a person looked at the words andheard them without thinking about them. And they were imprinted on hissubconscious over and over, year after year, until he knew that crimewas the same as filth and that criminals were filthy things. Except men like Joe Harper. No system is perfect. Along with thousandsof other DCTs, Joe refused to believe it, and when he reached apartment204 at 2141 Orange Street, he felt as if he'd inherited a gold mine. The hall was dimly lit, but when he stood before the door numbered 204,he could see that the wall on either side of it was new . That is,instead of being covered with dust, dirt and stains as the other wallswere, it was clean. The building was an old one, the hall was wide, andthe owner had obviously constructed a wall across the hall, creatinganother room. If the owner had reported the new room as required bylaw, it would have been wired with CPA burglarproof devices, butevidently he didn't want to pay for installation. When Joe entered the cubbyhole, he had to stand to one side in order toclose the door behind him. The place was barely large enough for thebed, chair and bureau; it was a place where a man could fall down atnight and sleep, but where no normal man could live day after day. Fearing that someone might detect him before he actually committed thecrime, Joe hurried to the bureau and searched it. <doc-sep>He broke out in a sweat when he found nothing but underwear and oldmagazines. If he stole underwear and magazines, it would still be acrime, but the newspapers would splash satirical headlines. Instead ofbeing respected as a successful criminal, he would be ridiculed. He stopped sweating when he found a watch under a pile of underwear.The crystal was broken, one hand was missing and it wouldn't run,but—perfection itself—engraved on the back was the inscription, ToJohn with Love . His trial would be a clean-cut one: it would be easyfor the CPA to prove ownership and that a crime had been committed. Chuckling with joy, he opened the window and shouted, Thief! Police!Help! He waited a few seconds and then ran. When he reached the street, apolice helicopter landed next to him. Strong metal arms seized him;cameras clicked and recorded the damning evidence. When Joe was securely handcuffed to a seat inside the helicopter, themetal police officers rang doorbells. There was a reward for anyone whoreported a crime, but no one admitted shouting the warning. <doc-sep>He was having a nightmare when he heard the voice, Hey. Wake up. Hey! He opened his eyes, saw Hendricks' ugly face and thought for a minutehe was still having the nightmare. I just saw your doctor, Hendricks said. He says your treatment isover. You can go home now. I thought I'd give you a lift. As Joe dressed, he searched his mind and tried to find some difference. During the treatment, he had been unconscious or drugged, unable tothink. Now he could think clearly, but he could find no difference inhimself. He felt more relaxed than he'd ever felt before, but that could be anafter-effect of all the sedatives he'd been given. And, he noticed whenhe looked in the mirror, he was paler. The treatment had taken monthsand he had, between operations, been locked in his room. Hendricks was standing by the window. Joe stared at the massive back.Deliberately goading his mind, he discovered the biggest change:Before, the mere sight of the man had aroused an intense hatred. Now,even when he tried, he succeeded in arousing only a mild hatred.They had toned down his capacity to hate, but not done away with italtogether. Come here and take a look at your public, said Hendricks. Joe went to the window. Three stories below, a large crowd had gatheredon the hospital steps: a band, photographers, television trucks,cameramen and autograph hunters. He'd waited a long time for this day.But now—another change in him— He put the emotion into words: I don't feel like a hero. Funny, but Idon't. Hero! Hendricks laughed and, with his powerful lungs, it soundedlike a bull snorting. You think a successful criminal is a hero? Youstupid— He laughed again and waved a hand at the crowd below them. You thinkthose people are down there because they admire what you did? They'redown there waiting for you because they're curious, because they'reglad the CPA caught you, and because they're glad you're an Ex. You'rean ex -criminal now, and because of your treatment, you'll never beable to commit another crime as long as you live. And that's the kindof guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and getyour autograph. Joe didn't understand Hendricks completely, but the part he didunderstand he didn't believe. A crowd was waiting for him. He could seethe people with his own eyes. When he left the hospital, they'd cheerand shout and ask for his autograph. If he wasn't a hero, what washe ? <doc-sep>It took half an hour to get through the crowd. Cameras clicked allaround him, a hundred kids asked for his autograph, everyone talked atonce and cheered, smiled, laughed, patted him on the back and cheeredsome more. Only one thing confused him during all the excitement: a white-hairedold lady with tears in her eyes said, Thank heaven it was only awatch. Thank heaven you didn't kill someone! God bless you, son. Andthen the old lady had handed him a box of fudge and left him in totalconfusion. What she said didn't make sense. If he had killed someone ratherthan stealing a watch, he would be even more of a hero and the crowdwould have cheered even louder. He knew: he had stood outside the CPAhospitals many times and the crowds always cheered louder when anex-murderer came out. In Hendricks' robot-chauffeured car, he ate the fudge and consoledhimself with the thought, People are funny. Who can understand 'em? Feeling happy for one of the few times in his life, he turned towardHendricks and said, Thanks for what you did. It turned out great. I'llbe able to get a good job now. That's why I met you at the hospital, Hendricks said. I want toexplain some things. I've known you for a long time and I know you'respectacularly dumb. You can't figure out some things for yourself andI don't want you walking around the rest of your life thinking I didyou a favor. Joe frowned. Few men had ever done him a favor and he had rarelythanked anyone for anything. And now ... after thanking the man who'ddone him the biggest favor of all, the man was denying it! You robbed Gralewski's apartment, Hendricks said. Gralewski is a CPAemployee and he doesn't live in the apartment you robbed. The CPA paysthe rent for that one and he lives in another. We have a lot of placeslike that. You see, it gives us a way to get rid of saps like youbefore they do real damage. We use it as a last resort when a DCT FirstClass won't take the free psycho treatment or— Well, it's still a favor. Hendricks' face hardened. Favor? You wouldn't know a favor if youstumbled over one. I did it because it's standard procedure for yourtype of case. Anyone can—free of charge—have treatment by the bestpsychologists. Any DCT can stop being a DCT by simply asking for thetreatment and taking it. But you wouldn't do that. You wanted to commita crime, get caught and be a hero ... an Ex . <doc-sep>The car passed one of the CPA playgrounds. Boys and girls of all ageswere laughing, squealing with joy as they played games designed by CPApsychologists to relieve tension. And—despite the treatment, Joeshuddered when he saw the psychologists standing to one side, quietlywatching the children. The whole world was filled with CPA employeesand volunteer workers. Everywhere you went, it was there, quietlywatching you and analyzing you, and if you showed criminal tendencies,it watched you even more closely and analyzed you even more deeplyuntil it took you apart and put you back together again the way itwanted you to be. Being an Ex, you'll get the kind of job you always wanted, Hendrickscontinued. You'll get a good-paying job, but you'll work for it.You'll work eight hours a day, work harder than you've ever workedbefore in your life, because every time you start to loaf, a voice inyour head is going to say, Work! Work! Exes always get good jobsbecause employers know they're good workers. But during these next few days, you'll discover what being an Exis like. You see, Joe, the treatment can't possibly take all thecriminal tendencies out of a man. So the treatment does the next bestthing—you'll find a set of laws written in your mind. You might want to break one now and then, but you won't be able. I'll give you anillustration.... Joe's face reddened as Hendricks proceeded to call him a series ofnames. He wanted to smash the fat, grinning face, but the muscles inhis arm froze before it moved it an inch. And worse than that, a brief pain ripped through his skull. A pain sointense that, had it lasted a second longer, he would have screamed inagony. And above the pain, a voice whispered in his head, Unlawful tostrike someone except in self-defense . He opened his mouth to tell Hendricks exactly what he thought of him,the CPA, the whole world. But the words stayed in his throat, the painreturned, and the mental voice whispered, Unlawful to curse . He had never heard how the treatment prevented an Ex from committing acrime. And now that he knew, it didn't seem fair. He decided to tellthe whole story to the newspapers as soon as he could. And as soon asthat decision formed in his mind, his body froze, the pain returned andthe voice, Unlawful to divulge CPA procedure . See what I mean? Hendricks asked. A century ago, you would have beenlocked in a prison and taxpayers' money would have supported you untilthe day you died. With the CPA system, you're returned to society, auseful citizen, unable to commit the smallest crime. And you've got abig hand in your dirty little mind that's going to slap it every timeyou get the wrong kind of thought. It'll keep slapping you until youlearn. It might take weeks, months or years, but you'll learn sooneror later to not even think about doing anything wrong. <doc-sep>He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the car's plush ceiling.It's a great system, isn't it, Joe? A true democracy. Even a jerk likeyou is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal. I think it's a lousy, filthy system. Joe's head was still tinglingwith pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now itwas also inside his head, telling him he couldn't do this, couldn't dothat. All his life it had been telling him he couldn't do things hewanted to do and now .... Hendricks laughed. You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean,wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except forfreaks like yourself, criminals are— Let me out! Joe grabbed at the door and was on the sidewalk, slammingthe door behind him before the car stopped completely. He stared at the car as it pulled away from the curb and glided intothe stream of traffic again. He realized he was a prisoner ... aprisoner inside his own body ... made a prisoner by a world that hatedhim back. He wanted to spit his contempt, but the increasingly familiar pain andvoice prevented him. It was unlawful to spit on a sidewalk. <doc-sep></s>

DCT affects a lot of a person’s social life and work abilities. To inquire about a job opening, a person has to show their ID. Establishments are not likely to hire a person with a DCT designation unless it is for a garbage truck job, a street-cleaner positioner, or other less desirable work options. They do not leave a person in a socially favorable view as people judge those with DCT designation poorly. A DCT First Class designation means that the person’s case will be made public. People are interested in crime because it is a complete rarity in current society. The commissioner says that people will follow him wherever he goes and just watches him because they want to be the first one to call for the police when he commits a crime. A person with a first class designation will not have any privacy when out and about.

<s> Going straight meant crooked planning. He'd never make it unless he somehow managed to PICK A CRIME By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The girl was tall, wide-eyed and brunette. She had the right curves inthe right places and would have been beautiful if her nose had beensmaller, if her mouth had been larger and if her hair had been wavyinstead of straight. Hank said you wanted to see me, she said when she stopped besideJoe's table. Yeah. Joe nodded at the other chair. Have a seat. He reached into apocket, withdrew five ten-dollar bills and handed them to her. I wantyou to do a job for me. It'll only take a few minutes. The girl counted the money, then placed it in her purse. Joe noticeda small counterfeit-detector inside the purse before she closed it.What's the job? Tell you later. He gulped the remainder of his drink, almost pouringit down his throat. Hey. You trying to make yourself sick? Not sick. Drunk. Been trying to get drunk all afternoon. As theliquor settled in his stomach, he waited for the warm glow. But theglow didn't come ... the bartender had watered his drink again. Trying to get drunk? the girl inquired. Are you crazy? No. It's simple. If I get drunk, I can join the AAA and get free roomand board for a month while they give me a treatment. It was easy enough to understand, he reflected, but a lot harder to do.The CPA robot bartenders saw to it that anyone got high if they wanted,but comparatively few got drunk. Each bartender could not only mixdrinks but could also judge by a man's actions and speech when he wason the verge of drunkenness. At the proper time—since drunkenness wasillegal—a bartender always watered the drinks. Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, buthad always failed. And in all of New York's millions, there had beenonly a hundred cases of intoxication during the previous year. The girl laughed. If you're that hard up, I don't know if I shouldtake this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job likeeveryone else? As an answer, Joe handed her his CPA ID card. She grunted when shesaw the large letters that indicated the owner had Dangerous CriminalTendencies. <doc-sep>When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request. I'm sorry, the girl said. I didn't know you were a DCT. And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger— On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor. Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job! The girl's lips formed a bright red circle. Say! You really got bigplans, don't you? He smiled at her admiration. It was something big to plan a crime.A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting,blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—CrimePrevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officialshad declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to preventcrime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands ofingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crimealmost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred menin the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts. No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to killsomeone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished; hewasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where allcriminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shocktreatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy anda dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were fewcriminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city couldafford the CPA hospitals. The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods becauseit did away with the damage caused by countless crimes; did away withprisons and their guards, large police forces, squad cars and weapons. And, ironically, a man who did commit a crime was a sort of hero. Hewas a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulsesto kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only ahero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of theCPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... aman who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money.And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatmentwas commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of theword an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs. Well, the girl said. I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten.Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes. Okay. Let's go. <doc-sep>The girl followed him across the room, around tables, through a door,down a hall, through a back door and into the alley. She followed him up the dark alley until he turned suddenly and rippedher blouse and skirt. He surprised her completely, but when she recovered, she backed away,her body poised like a wrestler's. What's the big idea? Scream, Joe said. Scream as loud as you can, and when the cops gethere, tell 'em I tried to rape you. The plan was perfect, he told himself. Attempted rape was one of thefew things that was a crime merely because a man attempted it. A crimebecause it theoretically inflicted psychological injury upon theintended victim—and because millions of women voters had voted it acrime. On the other hand, attempted murder, robbery, kidnapping, etc.,were not crimes. They weren't crimes because the DCT didn't completethe act, and if he didn't complete the act, that meant simply that theCPA had once again functioned properly. The girl shook her head vigorously. Sorry, buddy. Can't help you thatway. Why didn't you tell me what you wanted? What's the matter? Joe complained. I'm not asking you to do anythingwrong. You stupid jerk. What do you think this is—the Middle Ages? Don't youknow almost every woman knows how to defend herself? I'm a sergeant inthe WSDA! Joe groaned. The WSDA—Women's Self-Defense Association—a branch ofthe CPA. The WSDA gave free instruction in judo and jujitsu, evendeveloped new techniques of wrestling and instructed only women inthose new techniques. The girl was still shaking her head. Can't do it, buddy. I'd lose myrank if you were convicted of— Do I have to make you scream? Joe inquired tiredly and advancedtoward the girl. —and that rank carries a lot of weight. Hey! Stop it! Joe discovered to his dismay that the girl was telling the truth whenshe said she was a sergeant in the WSDA. He felt her hands on his body,and in the time it takes to blink twice, he was flying through the air. The alley's concrete floor was hard—it had always been hard, but hebecame acutely aware of its lack of resiliency when his head struck it.There was a wonderful moment while the world was filled with beautifulstars and streaks of lightning through which he heard distant policesirens. But the wonderful moment didn't last long and darkness closedin on him. <doc-sep>When he awoke, a rough voice was saying, Okay. Snap out of it. He opened his eyes and recognized the police commissioner's office. Itwould be hard not to recognize: the room was large, devoid of furnitureexcept for a desk and chairs, but the walls were lined with thecontrols of television screens, electronic calculators and a hundredother machines that formed New York's mechanical police force. Commissioner Hendricks was a remarkable character. There was somethingwrong with his glands, and he was a huge, greasy bulk of a man withbushy eyebrows and a double chin. His steel-gray eyes showed somethingof his intelligence and he would have gone far in politics if fatehadn't made him so ugly, for more than half the voters who elected mento high political positions were women. Anyone who knew Hendricks well liked him, for he was a friendly,likable person. But the millions of women voters who saw his face onposters and on their TV screens saw only the ugly face and heard onlythe harsh voice. The President of the United States was a capableman, but also a very handsome one, and the fact that a man who lookedsomething like a bulldog had been elected as New York's policecommissioner was a credit to Hendricks and millions of women voters. Where's the girl? Joe asked. I processed her while you were out cold. She left. Joe, you— Okay, Joe said. I'll save you the trouble. I admit it. Attemptedrape. I confess. Hendricks smiled. Sorry, Joe. You missed the boat again. He reachedout and turned a dial on his desk top. We had a microphone hidden inthat alley. We have a lot of microphones hidden in a lot of alleys.You'd be surprised at the number of conspiracies that take place inalleys! Joe listened numbly to his voice as it came from one of the hundreds ofmachines on the walls, Scream. Scream as loud as you can, and whenthe cops get here, tell 'em I tried to rape you. And then the girl'svoice, Sorry, buddy. Can't help— He waved his hand. Okay. Shut it off. I confess to conspiracy. <doc-sep>Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe wasslouched in a chair. Give me your CPA ID. Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the worldhad collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented fromcommitting a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properlyonce again. That meant the CPA had once again prevented crime, andthe CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attemptto prevent crimes by punishment. If it did, that would be a violationof the New Civil Rights. Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched abutton. The machine hummed and a new card appeared. When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the wordsDANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was aDCT First Class. You've graduated, Hendricks said coldly. You guys never learn, doyou? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You knowwhat that means? Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how itworks? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow nightand they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this JoeHarper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep recordsof First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequentlyat Walt's Tavern. So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying notto let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, justhoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,so they can be the first ones to yell ' Police! ' They'll watch youbecause it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever did prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward andthey'd be famous. Lay off, Joe said. I got a headache. That girl— Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. You listen, Joe. This isinteresting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There'sthousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks fromreading about guys like you, but these days things are dull becauseit's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk downthe street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and nomatter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting nextto you, standing next to you. During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras thatlook like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you throughyour keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you throughbinoculars and— Lay off! <doc-sep>Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before andit was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talkingmachine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped. And the kids are the worst, Hendricks continued. They have JuniorCPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboardboxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you throughrestaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you inpublic rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyeswhile they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you lookback, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half ablock behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until theday you die, because you're a freak! Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and pacedthe floor. And it doesn't end there , Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be theobject of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stopyou on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'llask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you werea child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT FirstClass?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stopyou on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and— Okay, goddam it! Stop it! Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchiefand lit a cigarette. I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're toodumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime andcriminals ... to hate them as nothing has ever been hated before.Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hellif you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town wherethere aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or— Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously. Favor , did you say? The day youdo me a favor— Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. Not entirely a favor. Iwant to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and readbooks. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time. I couldn't leave if I wanted to, Joe said. I'm flat broke. Thanks toyour CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job. <doc-sep>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time. Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime. Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself. Umm. Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't have tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and— Go to those head-shrinkers ? Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way. Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you make me go? Violation of Civil Rights. Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime. How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done. In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself! He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room. Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime! Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it: John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St. When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks. Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything. <doc-sep>When Joe reached the street, he hurried toward the nearest subway. As achild, he had been frightened of the dark. As a man, he wasn't afraidof the dark itself, but the darkened city always made him feel illat ease. The uneasiness was, more than anything else, caused by hisown imagination. He hated the CPA and at night he couldn't shrug thefeeling that the CPA lurked in every shadow, watching him, waiting forhim to make a mistake. Imagination or not, the CPA was almost everywhere a person went.Twenty-four hours a day, millions of microphones hidden in taverns,alleys, restaurants, subways and every other place imaginable waitedfor someone to say the wrong thing. Everything the microphones pickedup was routed to the CPA Brain, a monster electronic calculator. If the words Let's see a movie were received in the Brain, theywere discarded. But if the words Let's roll this guy were received,the message was traced and a police helicopter would be at the scenein two minutes. And scattered all over the city were not only hiddenmicrophones, but hidden television cameras that relayed visual messagesto the Brain, and hidden machines that could detect a knife or a gun insomeone's pocket at forty yards. Every place of business from the largest bank to the smallest grocerystore was absolutely impenetrable. No one had even tried to rob a placeof business for years. Arson was next to impossible because of the heat-detectors—devicesplaced in every building that could detect, radarlike, any intensity ofheat above that caused by a cigarette lighter. Chemical research hadmade poisoning someone an impossibility. There were no drugs containingpoison, and while an ant-poison might kill ants, no concentrated amountof it would kill a human. The FBI had always been a powerful organization, but under thesupervision of the CPA, it was a scientific colossus and to thinkof kidnapping someone or to contemplate the use of narcotics waspointless. A counterfeiter's career was always short-lived: every placeof business and millions of individuals had small counterfeit-detectorsthat could spot a fake and report it directly to the Brain. And the percentage of crimes had dwindled even more with the appearanceof the robot police officers. Many a criminal in the past had gambledthat he could outshoot a pursuing policeman. But the robots weredifferent: they weren't flesh and blood. Bullets bounced off them andtheir aim was infallible. <doc-sep>It was like a fantastic dream come true. Only the dream wasn'tfantastic any more. With the huge atomic power plants scattered acrossthe country and supplying endless electrical power at ridiculouslylow prices, no endeavor that required power was fantastic. The powerrequired to operate the CPA devices cost each taxpayer an average offour dollars a year, and the invention, development and manufacture ofthe devices had cost even less. And the CPA had attacked crime through society itself, striking atthe individual. In every city there were neon signs that blinkedsubliminally with the statement, CRIME IS FILTH. Listening to a radioor watching television, if a person heard station identification, heinvariably heard or saw just below perception the words CRIME IS FILTH.If he went for a walk or a ride, he saw the endless subliminal postersdeclaring CRIME IS FILTH, and if he read a magazine or newspaper healways found, in those little dead spaces where an editor couldn't fitanything else, the below-perception words CRIME IS FILTH. It was monotonous and, after a while, a person looked at the words andheard them without thinking about them. And they were imprinted on hissubconscious over and over, year after year, until he knew that crimewas the same as filth and that criminals were filthy things. Except men like Joe Harper. No system is perfect. Along with thousandsof other DCTs, Joe refused to believe it, and when he reached apartment204 at 2141 Orange Street, he felt as if he'd inherited a gold mine. The hall was dimly lit, but when he stood before the door numbered 204,he could see that the wall on either side of it was new . That is,instead of being covered with dust, dirt and stains as the other wallswere, it was clean. The building was an old one, the hall was wide, andthe owner had obviously constructed a wall across the hall, creatinganother room. If the owner had reported the new room as required bylaw, it would have been wired with CPA burglarproof devices, butevidently he didn't want to pay for installation. When Joe entered the cubbyhole, he had to stand to one side in order toclose the door behind him. The place was barely large enough for thebed, chair and bureau; it was a place where a man could fall down atnight and sleep, but where no normal man could live day after day. Fearing that someone might detect him before he actually committed thecrime, Joe hurried to the bureau and searched it. <doc-sep>He broke out in a sweat when he found nothing but underwear and oldmagazines. If he stole underwear and magazines, it would still be acrime, but the newspapers would splash satirical headlines. Instead ofbeing respected as a successful criminal, he would be ridiculed. He stopped sweating when he found a watch under a pile of underwear.The crystal was broken, one hand was missing and it wouldn't run,but—perfection itself—engraved on the back was the inscription, ToJohn with Love . His trial would be a clean-cut one: it would be easyfor the CPA to prove ownership and that a crime had been committed. Chuckling with joy, he opened the window and shouted, Thief! Police!Help! He waited a few seconds and then ran. When he reached the street, apolice helicopter landed next to him. Strong metal arms seized him;cameras clicked and recorded the damning evidence. When Joe was securely handcuffed to a seat inside the helicopter, themetal police officers rang doorbells. There was a reward for anyone whoreported a crime, but no one admitted shouting the warning. <doc-sep>He was having a nightmare when he heard the voice, Hey. Wake up. Hey! He opened his eyes, saw Hendricks' ugly face and thought for a minutehe was still having the nightmare. I just saw your doctor, Hendricks said. He says your treatment isover. You can go home now. I thought I'd give you a lift. As Joe dressed, he searched his mind and tried to find some difference. During the treatment, he had been unconscious or drugged, unable tothink. Now he could think clearly, but he could find no difference inhimself. He felt more relaxed than he'd ever felt before, but that could be anafter-effect of all the sedatives he'd been given. And, he noticed whenhe looked in the mirror, he was paler. The treatment had taken monthsand he had, between operations, been locked in his room. Hendricks was standing by the window. Joe stared at the massive back.Deliberately goading his mind, he discovered the biggest change:Before, the mere sight of the man had aroused an intense hatred. Now,even when he tried, he succeeded in arousing only a mild hatred.They had toned down his capacity to hate, but not done away with italtogether. Come here and take a look at your public, said Hendricks. Joe went to the window. Three stories below, a large crowd had gatheredon the hospital steps: a band, photographers, television trucks,cameramen and autograph hunters. He'd waited a long time for this day.But now—another change in him— He put the emotion into words: I don't feel like a hero. Funny, but Idon't. Hero! Hendricks laughed and, with his powerful lungs, it soundedlike a bull snorting. You think a successful criminal is a hero? Youstupid— He laughed again and waved a hand at the crowd below them. You thinkthose people are down there because they admire what you did? They'redown there waiting for you because they're curious, because they'reglad the CPA caught you, and because they're glad you're an Ex. You'rean ex -criminal now, and because of your treatment, you'll never beable to commit another crime as long as you live. And that's the kindof guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and getyour autograph. Joe didn't understand Hendricks completely, but the part he didunderstand he didn't believe. A crowd was waiting for him. He could seethe people with his own eyes. When he left the hospital, they'd cheerand shout and ask for his autograph. If he wasn't a hero, what washe ? <doc-sep>It took half an hour to get through the crowd. Cameras clicked allaround him, a hundred kids asked for his autograph, everyone talked atonce and cheered, smiled, laughed, patted him on the back and cheeredsome more. Only one thing confused him during all the excitement: a white-hairedold lady with tears in her eyes said, Thank heaven it was only awatch. Thank heaven you didn't kill someone! God bless you, son. Andthen the old lady had handed him a box of fudge and left him in totalconfusion. What she said didn't make sense. If he had killed someone ratherthan stealing a watch, he would be even more of a hero and the crowdwould have cheered even louder. He knew: he had stood outside the CPAhospitals many times and the crowds always cheered louder when anex-murderer came out. In Hendricks' robot-chauffeured car, he ate the fudge and consoledhimself with the thought, People are funny. Who can understand 'em? Feeling happy for one of the few times in his life, he turned towardHendricks and said, Thanks for what you did. It turned out great. I'llbe able to get a good job now. That's why I met you at the hospital, Hendricks said. I want toexplain some things. I've known you for a long time and I know you'respectacularly dumb. You can't figure out some things for yourself andI don't want you walking around the rest of your life thinking I didyou a favor. Joe frowned. Few men had ever done him a favor and he had rarelythanked anyone for anything. And now ... after thanking the man who'ddone him the biggest favor of all, the man was denying it! You robbed Gralewski's apartment, Hendricks said. Gralewski is a CPAemployee and he doesn't live in the apartment you robbed. The CPA paysthe rent for that one and he lives in another. We have a lot of placeslike that. You see, it gives us a way to get rid of saps like youbefore they do real damage. We use it as a last resort when a DCT FirstClass won't take the free psycho treatment or— Well, it's still a favor. Hendricks' face hardened. Favor? You wouldn't know a favor if youstumbled over one. I did it because it's standard procedure for yourtype of case. Anyone can—free of charge—have treatment by the bestpsychologists. Any DCT can stop being a DCT by simply asking for thetreatment and taking it. But you wouldn't do that. You wanted to commita crime, get caught and be a hero ... an Ex . <doc-sep>The car passed one of the CPA playgrounds. Boys and girls of all ageswere laughing, squealing with joy as they played games designed by CPApsychologists to relieve tension. And—despite the treatment, Joeshuddered when he saw the psychologists standing to one side, quietlywatching the children. The whole world was filled with CPA employeesand volunteer workers. Everywhere you went, it was there, quietlywatching you and analyzing you, and if you showed criminal tendencies,it watched you even more closely and analyzed you even more deeplyuntil it took you apart and put you back together again the way itwanted you to be. Being an Ex, you'll get the kind of job you always wanted, Hendrickscontinued. You'll get a good-paying job, but you'll work for it.You'll work eight hours a day, work harder than you've ever workedbefore in your life, because every time you start to loaf, a voice inyour head is going to say, Work! Work! Exes always get good jobsbecause employers know they're good workers. But during these next few days, you'll discover what being an Exis like. You see, Joe, the treatment can't possibly take all thecriminal tendencies out of a man. So the treatment does the next bestthing—you'll find a set of laws written in your mind. You might want to break one now and then, but you won't be able. I'll give you anillustration.... Joe's face reddened as Hendricks proceeded to call him a series ofnames. He wanted to smash the fat, grinning face, but the muscles inhis arm froze before it moved it an inch. And worse than that, a brief pain ripped through his skull. A pain sointense that, had it lasted a second longer, he would have screamed inagony. And above the pain, a voice whispered in his head, Unlawful tostrike someone except in self-defense . He opened his mouth to tell Hendricks exactly what he thought of him,the CPA, the whole world. But the words stayed in his throat, the painreturned, and the mental voice whispered, Unlawful to curse . He had never heard how the treatment prevented an Ex from committing acrime. And now that he knew, it didn't seem fair. He decided to tellthe whole story to the newspapers as soon as he could. And as soon asthat decision formed in his mind, his body froze, the pain returned andthe voice, Unlawful to divulge CPA procedure . See what I mean? Hendricks asked. A century ago, you would have beenlocked in a prison and taxpayers' money would have supported you untilthe day you died. With the CPA system, you're returned to society, auseful citizen, unable to commit the smallest crime. And you've got abig hand in your dirty little mind that's going to slap it every timeyou get the wrong kind of thought. It'll keep slapping you until youlearn. It might take weeks, months or years, but you'll learn sooneror later to not even think about doing anything wrong. <doc-sep>He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the car's plush ceiling.It's a great system, isn't it, Joe? A true democracy. Even a jerk likeyou is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal. I think it's a lousy, filthy system. Joe's head was still tinglingwith pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now itwas also inside his head, telling him he couldn't do this, couldn't dothat. All his life it had been telling him he couldn't do things hewanted to do and now .... Hendricks laughed. You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean,wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except forfreaks like yourself, criminals are— Let me out! Joe grabbed at the door and was on the sidewalk, slammingthe door behind him before the car stopped completely. He stared at the car as it pulled away from the curb and glided intothe stream of traffic again. He realized he was a prisoner ... aprisoner inside his own body ... made a prisoner by a world that hatedhim back. He wanted to spit his contempt, but the increasingly familiar pain andvoice prevented him. It was unlawful to spit on a sidewalk. <doc-sep></s>

This story takes place in New York City. It begins in a bar with Joe drinking and attempting to get drunk on watered-down alcohol. A girl comes up to him to talk about what he is hiring her to do. The two leave the bar and go down a hall into an alleyway where Joe tries to enact his plan of fake committing a crime. When Joe wakes up after losing consciousness, he is in the police commissioner’s office. When Joe leaves the commissioner’s office, he goes to the subway and heads to John Gralewski’s apartment on Orange St. The apartment has a new wall that is clean compared to other walls caked with dirt and stains. He notices that the building is old with wide hallways. After Joe is caught by the police, he is taken to the hospital for his treatment that lasts months. When Joe wakes up, he sees that there is a crowd of people outside of the hospital waiting to meet him. Joe leaves the hospital in a car with Hendricks but becomes so upset that he eventually exits the car and stands on the sidewalk where he comes to his realization of his imprisonment in his own body.

<s> THE FROZEN PLANET By Keith Laumer [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission. Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on. There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating. Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force. Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned. This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it. Magnan drew a large folder from his desk. A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil. Magnan tapped the folder before him. I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief. <doc-sep>All right, Mr. Councillor, Retief said. I'll play along; what's inthe folder? Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down. First, he said. The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunateenough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegadeTerrestrials who've been advising the Soetti. He folded anotherfinger. Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out bythe Theory group. He wrestled a third finger down. Lastly; an UtterTop Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-accelerationfield into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have beenholding in reserve for just such a situation. Is that all? Retief said. You've still got two fingers sticking up. Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away. This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, thisinformation could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leavethis building. I'll carry it, sealed, Retief said. That way nobody can sweat it outof me. Magnan started to shake his head. Well, he said. If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose— I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. I remember anagent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard withcards and dice. Never played for money, though. Umm, Magnan said. Don't make the error of personalizing thissituation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of thesebackwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow itsnatural course, as always. When does this attack happen? Less than four weeks. That doesn't leave me much time. I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far asAldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the restof the way. That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it? Magnan looked sour. Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to putall our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you isnot misplaced. This antiac conversion; how long does it take? A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. TheJorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic ofsome sort. Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the ticketsinside. Less than four hours to departure time, he said. I'd better notstart any long books. You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination, Magnansaid. Retief stood up. If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon. The allusion escapes me, Magnan said coldly. And one last word. TheSoetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don'tget yourself interned. I'll tell you what, Retief said soberly. In a pinch, I'll mentionyour name. You'll be traveling with Class X credentials, Magnan snapped. Theremust be nothing to connect you with the Corps. They'll never guess, Retief said. I'll pose as a gentleman. You'd better be getting started, Magnan said, shuffling papers. You're right, Retief said. If I work at it, I might manage asnootful by takeoff. He went to the door. No objection to my checkingout a needler, is there? Magnan looked up. I suppose not. What do you want with it? Just a feeling I've got. Please yourself. Some day, Retief said, I may take you up on that. II Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on thecounter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legendALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY. A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouseand a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watchingRetief from the corner of his eye. Retief glanced at him. The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth andspat it on the floor. Was there something? he said. Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group, Retief said.Is it on schedule? The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. Filledup. Try again in a couple of weeks. What time does it leave? I don't think— Let's stick to facts, Retief said. Don't try to think. What time isit due out? The clerk smiled pityingly. It's my lunch hour, he said. I'll beopen in an hour. He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it. If I have to come around this counter, Retief said, I'll feed thatthumb to you the hard way. The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,closed his mouth and swallowed. Like it says there, he said, jerking a thumb at the board. Lifts inan hour. But you won't be on it, he added. Retief looked at him. Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation, he said. He hookeda finger inside the sequined collar. All tourist reservations werecanceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line shipnext— Which gate? Retief said. For ... ah...? For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. Well, the clerk said. Gate 19, he added quickly. But— Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare signreading To Gates 16-30 . Another smart alec, the clerk said behind him. <doc-sep>Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found acovered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered manwith a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpledgray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him. Lessee your boarding pass, he muttered. Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over. The guard blinked at it. Whassat? A gram confirming my space, Retief said. Your boy on the countersays he's out to lunch. The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged backagainst the handrail. On your way, bub, he said. Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove aright into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled andwent to his knees. You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneakedpast while you were resting your eyes. He picked up his bag, steppedover the man and went up the gangway into the ship. A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor. Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son? Retief asked. Up there. The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his wayalong the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of thefloor. It was expensive looking baggage. Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood inthe open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid manclamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder. Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out. He rolled a cold eye at Retief ashe backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared. What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room? he barked. Never mind! Clearout of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting. Too bad, Retief said. Finders keepers. You nuts? The thick-necked man stared at Retief. I said it's Mr.Tony's room. I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters. We'll see about you, mister. The man turned and went out. Retiefsat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices inthe corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at anoversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned. All right, you. Out, he growled. Or have I got to have you thrownout? Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped ahandle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heavedthe trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to thedoor. Catch, he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against thefar wall of the corridor and burst. Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. Theface of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb. Mister, you must be— If you'll excuse me, Retief said, I want to catch a nap. He flippedthe door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed. <doc-sep>Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open. Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, ablue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eyestared at Retief. Is this the joker? he grated. The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,That's him, sure. I'm captain of this vessel, the first man said. You've got twominutes to haul your freight out of here, buster. When you can spare the time from your other duties, Retief said,take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged ininterplanetary commerce. A space lawyer. The captain turned. Throw him out, boys. Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief. Go on, pitch him out, the captain snapped. Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk. Don't try it, he said softly. One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, andstepped forward, then hesitated. Hey, he said. This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall? That's him, the thick-necked man called. Spilled Mr. Tony'spossessions right on the deck. Deal me out, the bouncer said. He can stay put as long as he wantsto. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe. You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain, Retief said.We're due to lift in twenty minutes. The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. TheCaptain's voice prevailed. —twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do? Close the door as you leave, Retief said. The thick-necked man paused at the door. We'll see you when you comeout. III Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leanedagainst the wall nearby, a menu under his arm. At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniformand with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of malepassengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasionalglances Retief's way. A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyespeered out from under a white chef's cap. Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister? Looks like it, old-timer, Retief said. Maybe I'd better go join theskipper. His party seems to be having all the fun. Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there. I see your point. You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate. Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backedup with mushrooms and garlic butter. I'm Chip, the chef said. I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him Isaid so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,look at a man like he was a worm. You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got theright idea on the Soetti, too, Retief said. He poured red wine into aglass. Here's to you. Dern right, Chip said. Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.You like brandy in yer coffee? Chip, you're a genius. Like to see a feller eat, Chip said. I gotta go now. If you needanything, holler. Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days toJorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was atemptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. Itwould be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against. Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska andcoffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tonyand his retainers still sat at the Captain's table. As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered acrossthe room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, tooka cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lightedend in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth. The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing. You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad, the thug said in agrating voice. What's your game, hick? Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up. I don't think I want my coffee, he said. He looked at the thug. Youdrink it. The thug squinted at Retief. A wise hick, he began. With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug'sface, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thugwent down. Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed. You can take your playmates away now, Tony, he said. And don'tbother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough. Mr. Tony found his voice. Take him, Marbles! he growled. The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out along-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in. Retief heard the panel open beside him. Here you go, Mister, Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honedfrench knife lay on the sill. Thanks, Chip, Retief said. I won't need it for these punks. Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking himunder the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistolfrom his shoulder holster. Aim that at me, and I'll kill you, Retief said. Go on, burn him! Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,white-faced. Put that away, you! he yelled. What kind of— Shut up, Mr. Tony said. Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bumlater. Not on this vessel, you won't, the captain said shakily. I got mycharter to consider. Ram your charter, Hoany said harshly. You won't be needing it long. Button your floppy mouth, damn you! Mr. Tony snapped. He looked atthe man on the floor. Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump theslob. He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters cameup. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room. The panel opened. I usta be about your size, when I was your age, Chip said. Youhandled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day. How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip? Retief said. Sure, Mister. Anything else? I'll think of something, Retief said. This is shaping up into one ofthose long days. <doc-sep>They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin, Chip said.But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. Theywon't mess with me. What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip? Retief asked. They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some moresmoked turkey? Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds? Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. Isure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I wasyer age. I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen'sWorlds like? One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' theJorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'his own cookin' like he does somebody else's. That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain gotaboard for Jorgensen's? Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever fewweeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.Don't know what we even run in there for. Where are the passengers we have aboard headed? To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. Youain't got another one of them cigars, have you? Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship. Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins. Chip puffedthe cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee andbrandy. Them Sweaties is what I don't like, he said. Retief looked at him questioningly. You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like alobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled. I've never had the pleasure, Retief said. You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever tripout. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'. There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor. I ain't superstitious ner nothin', Chip said. But I'll betriple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now. Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavyknock shook the door. They got to look you over, Chip whispered. Nosy damn Sweaties. Unlock it, Chip. The chef opened the door. Come in, damn you, he said. A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-likefeet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-setcompound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously. Yo' papiss, the alien rasped. Who's your friend, Captain? Retief said. Never mind; just do like he tells you. Yo' papiss, the alien said again. Okay, Retief said. I've seen it. You can take it away now. Don't horse around, the captain said. This fellow can get mean. The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose. Quick, soft one. Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, andI'm tempted to test it. Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with thosesnappers. Last chance, Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inchfrom Retief's eyes. Show him your papers, you damned fool, the captain said hoarsely. Igot no control over Skaw. <doc-sep>The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the sameinstant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alienand drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbousknee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spatteringfrom the burst joint. I told you he was brittle, Retief said. Next time you invite piratesaboard, don't bother to call. Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us! the captain gasped, staringat the figure flopping on the floor. Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat, Retief said. Tell him to passthe word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels inTerrestrial space. Hey, Chip said. He's quit kicking. The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned closeand sniffed. He's dead. The captain stared at Retief. We're all dead men, hesaid. These Soetti got no mercy. They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over. They got no more emotions than a blue crab— You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.We know their secret now. What secret? I— Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n, Chip said. Sweaties dieeasy; that's the secret. Maybe you got a point, the captain said, looking at Retief. All theygot's a three-man scout. It could work. He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead aliengingerly into the hall. Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti, the captain said, looking backfrom the door. But I'll be back to see you later. You don't scare us, Cap'n, Chip said. Him and Mr. Tony and all hisgoons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' theseSweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket. You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in yourgetting involved in my problems. They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That'swhere we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts. They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers. They don't scare me none. Chip picked up the tray. I'll scout arounda little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anythingabout that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't trynothin' close to port. Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't doanything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now. Chip looked at Retief. You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.You didn't come out here for fun, did you? That, Retief said, would be a hard one to answer. IV Retief awoke at a tap on his door. It's me, Mister. Chip. Come on in. The chef entered the room, locking the door. You shoulda had that door locked. He stood by the door, listening,then turned to Retief. You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister? That's right, Chip. Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. TheSweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took theremains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they callMarbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin andtalked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and givesome orders to the Mate. Retief sat up and reached for a cigar. Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh? He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got agun? A 2mm needler. Why? The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We'reby-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute. Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out ashort-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip. Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain'scabin? <doc-sep>This is it, Chip said softly. You want me to keep an eye on whocomes down the passage? Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captainlooked up from his desk, then jumped up. What do you think you're doing, busting in here? I hear you're planning a course change, Captain. You've got damn big ears. I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's. You do, huh? the captain sat down. I'm in command of this vessel,he said. I'm changing course for Alabaster. I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster, Retief said. Sojust hold your course for Jorgensen's. Not bloody likely. Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try tochange course. The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key. Power Section, this is the captain, he said. Retief reached acrossthe desk, gripped the captain's wrist. Tell the mate to hold his present course, he said softly. Let go my hand, buster, the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, heeased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed thedrawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike. You busted it, you— And one to go, Retief said. Tell him. I'm an officer of the Merchant Service! You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alleyhoods. You can't put it over, hick. Tell him. The captain groaned and picked up the mike. Captain to Power Section,he said. Hold your present course until you hear from me. He droppedthe mike and looked up at Retief. It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You goingto sit here and bend my arm the whole time? Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door. Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what'sgoing on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up witha sick friend. Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery. What are you going to do? the captain demanded. Retief settled himself in a chair. Instead of strangling you, as you deserve, he said, I'm going tostay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds. The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark. Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feellike dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me. Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him. If anything happens that I don't like, he said, I'll wake you up.With this. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Councillor Magnan dispatches Retief on a mission to deliver information to Jorgensen’s Worlds, notifying them that the aliens, the Soettis, are planning to attack them and to deliver a battle plan and the instructions for converting their anti-acceleration field into a powerful weapon to defend themselves. As a precaution, Retief checks out a needler to take with him. At the airport, he is told that the flight to Jorgensen’s World is fully booked and that he should try again in a couple of weeks; by then, the alien invasion will be over. Under pressure, the clerk tells Retief that the ship is booked for a VIP, and all tourist reservations are canceled. Retief goes to the gate for the flight and punches the ticket taker, forcing his way onto the airship. Retief makes his way to a room full of expensive luggage and is discovered by Mr. Tony, the man who has claimed the room. When Mr. Tony’s henchmen try to force Retief out of the room, he hefts a large trunk at them and then tosses all the luggage into the hallway. Next, the Captain appears and tries to throw Retief off the ship, but Retief claims the right of the passage under Section Three, Paragraph One of the Uniform Code. The henchmen and the Captain give up for now. At dinner, the wait staff ignore Retief, but the chef, Chip, provides him with an excellent meal. Chip dislikes the Captain and Mr. Tony, but he knows they won’t replace him because of his excellent culinary skills. Chip befriends Retief and explains the situation to him. He doesn’t know exactly what the Captain and Mr. Tony are up to, but they make frequent trips to Jorgensen’s Worlds and cut off all tourist travel to the planet. They travel to Jorgensen’s Worlds every few weeks but never pick up any cargo. They allow the Soettis, the aliens who are planning an attack on the Worlds, to board the ships and inspect them because the Soettis are in control of the travel lanes to the planet. When Skaw, a Soetti, demands Retief’s travel papers, Retief attacks him and kills him. The Captain is terrified that the Soettis will kill all of them, and Retief urges him to show some backbone. Retief knows the Soettis won’t make a big deal of the death because they don’t want to draw attention to themselves on the eve of their launch against the Worlds. Later, Chip informs Retief that the Captain has ordered a change of course to skip Jorgensen’s Worlds and travel on to Alabaster. Retief must reach the Jorgensen’s population ASAP with news of the impending alien attack, so he goes to the Captain’s cabin, catching him off guard, and makes him change the orders for the crew, keeping the ship on track to the Worlds. To prevent the Captain from changing the order, Retief stays with him in his cabin and uses the threat of his needler as a deterrent.

<s> THE FROZEN PLANET By Keith Laumer [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission. Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on. There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating. Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force. Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned. This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it. Magnan drew a large folder from his desk. A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil. Magnan tapped the folder before him. I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief. <doc-sep>All right, Mr. Councillor, Retief said. I'll play along; what's inthe folder? Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down. First, he said. The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunateenough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegadeTerrestrials who've been advising the Soetti. He folded anotherfinger. Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out bythe Theory group. He wrestled a third finger down. Lastly; an UtterTop Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-accelerationfield into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have beenholding in reserve for just such a situation. Is that all? Retief said. You've still got two fingers sticking up. Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away. This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, thisinformation could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leavethis building. I'll carry it, sealed, Retief said. That way nobody can sweat it outof me. Magnan started to shake his head. Well, he said. If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose— I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. I remember anagent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard withcards and dice. Never played for money, though. Umm, Magnan said. Don't make the error of personalizing thissituation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of thesebackwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow itsnatural course, as always. When does this attack happen? Less than four weeks. That doesn't leave me much time. I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far asAldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the restof the way. That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it? Magnan looked sour. Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to putall our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you isnot misplaced. This antiac conversion; how long does it take? A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. TheJorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic ofsome sort. Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the ticketsinside. Less than four hours to departure time, he said. I'd better notstart any long books. You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination, Magnansaid. Retief stood up. If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon. The allusion escapes me, Magnan said coldly. And one last word. TheSoetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don'tget yourself interned. I'll tell you what, Retief said soberly. In a pinch, I'll mentionyour name. You'll be traveling with Class X credentials, Magnan snapped. Theremust be nothing to connect you with the Corps. They'll never guess, Retief said. I'll pose as a gentleman. You'd better be getting started, Magnan said, shuffling papers. You're right, Retief said. If I work at it, I might manage asnootful by takeoff. He went to the door. No objection to my checkingout a needler, is there? Magnan looked up. I suppose not. What do you want with it? Just a feeling I've got. Please yourself. Some day, Retief said, I may take you up on that. II Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on thecounter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legendALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY. A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouseand a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watchingRetief from the corner of his eye. Retief glanced at him. The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth andspat it on the floor. Was there something? he said. Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group, Retief said.Is it on schedule? The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. Filledup. Try again in a couple of weeks. What time does it leave? I don't think— Let's stick to facts, Retief said. Don't try to think. What time isit due out? The clerk smiled pityingly. It's my lunch hour, he said. I'll beopen in an hour. He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it. If I have to come around this counter, Retief said, I'll feed thatthumb to you the hard way. The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,closed his mouth and swallowed. Like it says there, he said, jerking a thumb at the board. Lifts inan hour. But you won't be on it, he added. Retief looked at him. Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation, he said. He hookeda finger inside the sequined collar. All tourist reservations werecanceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line shipnext— Which gate? Retief said. For ... ah...? For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. Well, the clerk said. Gate 19, he added quickly. But— Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare signreading To Gates 16-30 . Another smart alec, the clerk said behind him. <doc-sep>Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found acovered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered manwith a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpledgray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him. Lessee your boarding pass, he muttered. Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over. The guard blinked at it. Whassat? A gram confirming my space, Retief said. Your boy on the countersays he's out to lunch. The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged backagainst the handrail. On your way, bub, he said. Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove aright into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled andwent to his knees. You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneakedpast while you were resting your eyes. He picked up his bag, steppedover the man and went up the gangway into the ship. A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor. Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son? Retief asked. Up there. The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his wayalong the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of thefloor. It was expensive looking baggage. Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood inthe open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid manclamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder. Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out. He rolled a cold eye at Retief ashe backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared. What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room? he barked. Never mind! Clearout of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting. Too bad, Retief said. Finders keepers. You nuts? The thick-necked man stared at Retief. I said it's Mr.Tony's room. I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters. We'll see about you, mister. The man turned and went out. Retiefsat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices inthe corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at anoversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned. All right, you. Out, he growled. Or have I got to have you thrownout? Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped ahandle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heavedthe trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to thedoor. Catch, he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against thefar wall of the corridor and burst. Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. Theface of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb. Mister, you must be— If you'll excuse me, Retief said, I want to catch a nap. He flippedthe door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed. <doc-sep>Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open. Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, ablue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eyestared at Retief. Is this the joker? he grated. The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,That's him, sure. I'm captain of this vessel, the first man said. You've got twominutes to haul your freight out of here, buster. When you can spare the time from your other duties, Retief said,take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged ininterplanetary commerce. A space lawyer. The captain turned. Throw him out, boys. Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief. Go on, pitch him out, the captain snapped. Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk. Don't try it, he said softly. One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, andstepped forward, then hesitated. Hey, he said. This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall? That's him, the thick-necked man called. Spilled Mr. Tony'spossessions right on the deck. Deal me out, the bouncer said. He can stay put as long as he wantsto. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe. You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain, Retief said.We're due to lift in twenty minutes. The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. TheCaptain's voice prevailed. —twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do? Close the door as you leave, Retief said. The thick-necked man paused at the door. We'll see you when you comeout. III Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leanedagainst the wall nearby, a menu under his arm. At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniformand with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of malepassengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasionalglances Retief's way. A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyespeered out from under a white chef's cap. Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister? Looks like it, old-timer, Retief said. Maybe I'd better go join theskipper. His party seems to be having all the fun. Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there. I see your point. You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate. Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backedup with mushrooms and garlic butter. I'm Chip, the chef said. I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him Isaid so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,look at a man like he was a worm. You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got theright idea on the Soetti, too, Retief said. He poured red wine into aglass. Here's to you. Dern right, Chip said. Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.You like brandy in yer coffee? Chip, you're a genius. Like to see a feller eat, Chip said. I gotta go now. If you needanything, holler. Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days toJorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was atemptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. Itwould be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against. Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska andcoffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tonyand his retainers still sat at the Captain's table. As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered acrossthe room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, tooka cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lightedend in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth. The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing. You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad, the thug said in agrating voice. What's your game, hick? Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up. I don't think I want my coffee, he said. He looked at the thug. Youdrink it. The thug squinted at Retief. A wise hick, he began. With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug'sface, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thugwent down. Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed. You can take your playmates away now, Tony, he said. And don'tbother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough. Mr. Tony found his voice. Take him, Marbles! he growled. The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out along-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in. Retief heard the panel open beside him. Here you go, Mister, Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honedfrench knife lay on the sill. Thanks, Chip, Retief said. I won't need it for these punks. Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking himunder the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistolfrom his shoulder holster. Aim that at me, and I'll kill you, Retief said. Go on, burn him! Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,white-faced. Put that away, you! he yelled. What kind of— Shut up, Mr. Tony said. Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bumlater. Not on this vessel, you won't, the captain said shakily. I got mycharter to consider. Ram your charter, Hoany said harshly. You won't be needing it long. Button your floppy mouth, damn you! Mr. Tony snapped. He looked atthe man on the floor. Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump theslob. He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters cameup. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room. The panel opened. I usta be about your size, when I was your age, Chip said. Youhandled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day. How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip? Retief said. Sure, Mister. Anything else? I'll think of something, Retief said. This is shaping up into one ofthose long days. <doc-sep>They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin, Chip said.But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. Theywon't mess with me. What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip? Retief asked. They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some moresmoked turkey? Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds? Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. Isure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I wasyer age. I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen'sWorlds like? One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' theJorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'his own cookin' like he does somebody else's. That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain gotaboard for Jorgensen's? Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever fewweeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.Don't know what we even run in there for. Where are the passengers we have aboard headed? To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. Youain't got another one of them cigars, have you? Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship. Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins. Chip puffedthe cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee andbrandy. Them Sweaties is what I don't like, he said. Retief looked at him questioningly. You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like alobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled. I've never had the pleasure, Retief said. You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever tripout. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'. There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor. I ain't superstitious ner nothin', Chip said. But I'll betriple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now. Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavyknock shook the door. They got to look you over, Chip whispered. Nosy damn Sweaties. Unlock it, Chip. The chef opened the door. Come in, damn you, he said. A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-likefeet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-setcompound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously. Yo' papiss, the alien rasped. Who's your friend, Captain? Retief said. Never mind; just do like he tells you. Yo' papiss, the alien said again. Okay, Retief said. I've seen it. You can take it away now. Don't horse around, the captain said. This fellow can get mean. The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose. Quick, soft one. Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, andI'm tempted to test it. Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with thosesnappers. Last chance, Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inchfrom Retief's eyes. Show him your papers, you damned fool, the captain said hoarsely. Igot no control over Skaw. <doc-sep>The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the sameinstant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alienand drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbousknee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spatteringfrom the burst joint. I told you he was brittle, Retief said. Next time you invite piratesaboard, don't bother to call. Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us! the captain gasped, staringat the figure flopping on the floor. Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat, Retief said. Tell him to passthe word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels inTerrestrial space. Hey, Chip said. He's quit kicking. The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned closeand sniffed. He's dead. The captain stared at Retief. We're all dead men, hesaid. These Soetti got no mercy. They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over. They got no more emotions than a blue crab— You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.We know their secret now. What secret? I— Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n, Chip said. Sweaties dieeasy; that's the secret. Maybe you got a point, the captain said, looking at Retief. All theygot's a three-man scout. It could work. He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead aliengingerly into the hall. Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti, the captain said, looking backfrom the door. But I'll be back to see you later. You don't scare us, Cap'n, Chip said. Him and Mr. Tony and all hisgoons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' theseSweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket. You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in yourgetting involved in my problems. They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That'swhere we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts. They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers. They don't scare me none. Chip picked up the tray. I'll scout arounda little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anythingabout that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't trynothin' close to port. Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't doanything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now. Chip looked at Retief. You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.You didn't come out here for fun, did you? That, Retief said, would be a hard one to answer. IV Retief awoke at a tap on his door. It's me, Mister. Chip. Come on in. The chef entered the room, locking the door. You shoulda had that door locked. He stood by the door, listening,then turned to Retief. You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister? That's right, Chip. Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. TheSweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took theremains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they callMarbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin andtalked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and givesome orders to the Mate. Retief sat up and reached for a cigar. Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh? He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got agun? A 2mm needler. Why? The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We'reby-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute. Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out ashort-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip. Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain'scabin? <doc-sep>This is it, Chip said softly. You want me to keep an eye on whocomes down the passage? Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captainlooked up from his desk, then jumped up. What do you think you're doing, busting in here? I hear you're planning a course change, Captain. You've got damn big ears. I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's. You do, huh? the captain sat down. I'm in command of this vessel,he said. I'm changing course for Alabaster. I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster, Retief said. Sojust hold your course for Jorgensen's. Not bloody likely. Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try tochange course. The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key. Power Section, this is the captain, he said. Retief reached acrossthe desk, gripped the captain's wrist. Tell the mate to hold his present course, he said softly. Let go my hand, buster, the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, heeased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed thedrawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike. You busted it, you— And one to go, Retief said. Tell him. I'm an officer of the Merchant Service! You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alleyhoods. You can't put it over, hick. Tell him. The captain groaned and picked up the mike. Captain to Power Section,he said. Hold your present course until you hear from me. He droppedthe mike and looked up at Retief. It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You goingto sit here and bend my arm the whole time? Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door. Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what'sgoing on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up witha sick friend. Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery. What are you going to do? the captain demanded. Retief settled himself in a chair. Instead of strangling you, as you deserve, he said, I'm going tostay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds. The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark. Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feellike dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me. Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him. If anything happens that I don't like, he said, I'll wake you up.With this. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The Soettis are involved in some kind of illegal activity with the Captain and Mr. Tony. The Soettis, nicknamed Sweaties, by humans who dislike them, are an alien species who have been moving deep into the sector where the Jorgensen’s Worlds are located. The Soettis are unattractive creatures with skinny legs like a lobster’s and a big chest shaped somewhat like a turnip. They have rubbery heads, and you can see their pulse beating when they get upset. They have tiny arms with toothed pincers at the ends and threaten humans with them. These pincers are incredibly strong and can cut through steel. It has been learned that they are planning to seize Jorgensen’s Worlds by force, a move of open aggression against Terrestrial territory that cannot be overlooked. The headquarters where Retief works has obtained the Soetti War Plan from a defector of Terrestrials who have actually been providing advice to the Soettis, so the plan is for Retief to travel personally to Jorgensen’s Worlds to provide them with this information and also with the schematics that will enable them to convert their anti-acceleration field into a powerful weapon to protect the planets. Reaching the Jorgensen’s Worlds will be challenging because the Soettis are on patrol in the trade lanes where the airships travel to the Worlds. The Soettis look down on Terrestrials and try to assert themselves over them. The Soettis can speak English, so they can communicate with the Terrestrials.The Captain is afraid of the Soettis and worries that when Retief harms Skaw, the Soetties will kill all of the humans. Retief intends for Skaw to go back and tell the other Soettis that they can no longer enter the Terrestrials’ airships and search them. When Skaw dies, the Captain is certain they are done for, but Retief tells him to bluff and show guns when they return the body, and the Soettis will back down. Surprisingly, the Soettis don’t say anything about Skaw’s death, but Mr. Tony is furious. Retief thinks it is good to know that the Soettis are easy to kill.

<s> THE FROZEN PLANET By Keith Laumer [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission. Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on. There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating. Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force. Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned. This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it. Magnan drew a large folder from his desk. A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil. Magnan tapped the folder before him. I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief. <doc-sep>All right, Mr. Councillor, Retief said. I'll play along; what's inthe folder? Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down. First, he said. The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunateenough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegadeTerrestrials who've been advising the Soetti. He folded anotherfinger. Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out bythe Theory group. He wrestled a third finger down. Lastly; an UtterTop Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-accelerationfield into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have beenholding in reserve for just such a situation. Is that all? Retief said. You've still got two fingers sticking up. Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away. This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, thisinformation could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leavethis building. I'll carry it, sealed, Retief said. That way nobody can sweat it outof me. Magnan started to shake his head. Well, he said. If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose— I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. I remember anagent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard withcards and dice. Never played for money, though. Umm, Magnan said. Don't make the error of personalizing thissituation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of thesebackwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow itsnatural course, as always. When does this attack happen? Less than four weeks. That doesn't leave me much time. I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far asAldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the restof the way. That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it? Magnan looked sour. Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to putall our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you isnot misplaced. This antiac conversion; how long does it take? A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. TheJorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic ofsome sort. Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the ticketsinside. Less than four hours to departure time, he said. I'd better notstart any long books. You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination, Magnansaid. Retief stood up. If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon. The allusion escapes me, Magnan said coldly. And one last word. TheSoetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don'tget yourself interned. I'll tell you what, Retief said soberly. In a pinch, I'll mentionyour name. You'll be traveling with Class X credentials, Magnan snapped. Theremust be nothing to connect you with the Corps. They'll never guess, Retief said. I'll pose as a gentleman. You'd better be getting started, Magnan said, shuffling papers. You're right, Retief said. If I work at it, I might manage asnootful by takeoff. He went to the door. No objection to my checkingout a needler, is there? Magnan looked up. I suppose not. What do you want with it? Just a feeling I've got. Please yourself. Some day, Retief said, I may take you up on that. II Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on thecounter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legendALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY. A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouseand a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watchingRetief from the corner of his eye. Retief glanced at him. The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth andspat it on the floor. Was there something? he said. Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group, Retief said.Is it on schedule? The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. Filledup. Try again in a couple of weeks. What time does it leave? I don't think— Let's stick to facts, Retief said. Don't try to think. What time isit due out? The clerk smiled pityingly. It's my lunch hour, he said. I'll beopen in an hour. He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it. If I have to come around this counter, Retief said, I'll feed thatthumb to you the hard way. The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,closed his mouth and swallowed. Like it says there, he said, jerking a thumb at the board. Lifts inan hour. But you won't be on it, he added. Retief looked at him. Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation, he said. He hookeda finger inside the sequined collar. All tourist reservations werecanceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line shipnext— Which gate? Retief said. For ... ah...? For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. Well, the clerk said. Gate 19, he added quickly. But— Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare signreading To Gates 16-30 . Another smart alec, the clerk said behind him. <doc-sep>Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found acovered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered manwith a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpledgray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him. Lessee your boarding pass, he muttered. Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over. The guard blinked at it. Whassat? A gram confirming my space, Retief said. Your boy on the countersays he's out to lunch. The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged backagainst the handrail. On your way, bub, he said. Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove aright into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled andwent to his knees. You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneakedpast while you were resting your eyes. He picked up his bag, steppedover the man and went up the gangway into the ship. A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor. Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son? Retief asked. Up there. The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his wayalong the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of thefloor. It was expensive looking baggage. Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood inthe open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid manclamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder. Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out. He rolled a cold eye at Retief ashe backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared. What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room? he barked. Never mind! Clearout of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting. Too bad, Retief said. Finders keepers. You nuts? The thick-necked man stared at Retief. I said it's Mr.Tony's room. I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters. We'll see about you, mister. The man turned and went out. Retiefsat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices inthe corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at anoversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned. All right, you. Out, he growled. Or have I got to have you thrownout? Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped ahandle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heavedthe trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to thedoor. Catch, he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against thefar wall of the corridor and burst. Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. Theface of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb. Mister, you must be— If you'll excuse me, Retief said, I want to catch a nap. He flippedthe door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed. <doc-sep>Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open. Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, ablue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eyestared at Retief. Is this the joker? he grated. The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,That's him, sure. I'm captain of this vessel, the first man said. You've got twominutes to haul your freight out of here, buster. When you can spare the time from your other duties, Retief said,take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged ininterplanetary commerce. A space lawyer. The captain turned. Throw him out, boys. Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief. Go on, pitch him out, the captain snapped. Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk. Don't try it, he said softly. One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, andstepped forward, then hesitated. Hey, he said. This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall? That's him, the thick-necked man called. Spilled Mr. Tony'spossessions right on the deck. Deal me out, the bouncer said. He can stay put as long as he wantsto. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe. You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain, Retief said.We're due to lift in twenty minutes. The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. TheCaptain's voice prevailed. —twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do? Close the door as you leave, Retief said. The thick-necked man paused at the door. We'll see you when you comeout. III Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leanedagainst the wall nearby, a menu under his arm. At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniformand with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of malepassengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasionalglances Retief's way. A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyespeered out from under a white chef's cap. Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister? Looks like it, old-timer, Retief said. Maybe I'd better go join theskipper. His party seems to be having all the fun. Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there. I see your point. You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate. Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backedup with mushrooms and garlic butter. I'm Chip, the chef said. I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him Isaid so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,look at a man like he was a worm. You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got theright idea on the Soetti, too, Retief said. He poured red wine into aglass. Here's to you. Dern right, Chip said. Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.You like brandy in yer coffee? Chip, you're a genius. Like to see a feller eat, Chip said. I gotta go now. If you needanything, holler. Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days toJorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was atemptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. Itwould be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against. Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska andcoffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tonyand his retainers still sat at the Captain's table. As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered acrossthe room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, tooka cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lightedend in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth. The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing. You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad, the thug said in agrating voice. What's your game, hick? Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up. I don't think I want my coffee, he said. He looked at the thug. Youdrink it. The thug squinted at Retief. A wise hick, he began. With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug'sface, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thugwent down. Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed. You can take your playmates away now, Tony, he said. And don'tbother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough. Mr. Tony found his voice. Take him, Marbles! he growled. The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out along-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in. Retief heard the panel open beside him. Here you go, Mister, Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honedfrench knife lay on the sill. Thanks, Chip, Retief said. I won't need it for these punks. Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking himunder the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistolfrom his shoulder holster. Aim that at me, and I'll kill you, Retief said. Go on, burn him! Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,white-faced. Put that away, you! he yelled. What kind of— Shut up, Mr. Tony said. Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bumlater. Not on this vessel, you won't, the captain said shakily. I got mycharter to consider. Ram your charter, Hoany said harshly. You won't be needing it long. Button your floppy mouth, damn you! Mr. Tony snapped. He looked atthe man on the floor. Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump theslob. He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters cameup. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room. The panel opened. I usta be about your size, when I was your age, Chip said. Youhandled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day. How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip? Retief said. Sure, Mister. Anything else? I'll think of something, Retief said. This is shaping up into one ofthose long days. <doc-sep>They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin, Chip said.But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. Theywon't mess with me. What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip? Retief asked. They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some moresmoked turkey? Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds? Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. Isure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I wasyer age. I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen'sWorlds like? One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' theJorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'his own cookin' like he does somebody else's. That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain gotaboard for Jorgensen's? Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever fewweeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.Don't know what we even run in there for. Where are the passengers we have aboard headed? To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. Youain't got another one of them cigars, have you? Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship. Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins. Chip puffedthe cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee andbrandy. Them Sweaties is what I don't like, he said. Retief looked at him questioningly. You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like alobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled. I've never had the pleasure, Retief said. You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever tripout. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'. There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor. I ain't superstitious ner nothin', Chip said. But I'll betriple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now. Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavyknock shook the door. They got to look you over, Chip whispered. Nosy damn Sweaties. Unlock it, Chip. The chef opened the door. Come in, damn you, he said. A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-likefeet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-setcompound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously. Yo' papiss, the alien rasped. Who's your friend, Captain? Retief said. Never mind; just do like he tells you. Yo' papiss, the alien said again. Okay, Retief said. I've seen it. You can take it away now. Don't horse around, the captain said. This fellow can get mean. The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose. Quick, soft one. Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, andI'm tempted to test it. Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with thosesnappers. Last chance, Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inchfrom Retief's eyes. Show him your papers, you damned fool, the captain said hoarsely. Igot no control over Skaw. <doc-sep>The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the sameinstant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alienand drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbousknee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spatteringfrom the burst joint. I told you he was brittle, Retief said. Next time you invite piratesaboard, don't bother to call. Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us! the captain gasped, staringat the figure flopping on the floor. Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat, Retief said. Tell him to passthe word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels inTerrestrial space. Hey, Chip said. He's quit kicking. The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned closeand sniffed. He's dead. The captain stared at Retief. We're all dead men, hesaid. These Soetti got no mercy. They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over. They got no more emotions than a blue crab— You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.We know their secret now. What secret? I— Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n, Chip said. Sweaties dieeasy; that's the secret. Maybe you got a point, the captain said, looking at Retief. All theygot's a three-man scout. It could work. He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead aliengingerly into the hall. Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti, the captain said, looking backfrom the door. But I'll be back to see you later. You don't scare us, Cap'n, Chip said. Him and Mr. Tony and all hisgoons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' theseSweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket. You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in yourgetting involved in my problems. They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That'swhere we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts. They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers. They don't scare me none. Chip picked up the tray. I'll scout arounda little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anythingabout that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't trynothin' close to port. Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't doanything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now. Chip looked at Retief. You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.You didn't come out here for fun, did you? That, Retief said, would be a hard one to answer. IV Retief awoke at a tap on his door. It's me, Mister. Chip. Come on in. The chef entered the room, locking the door. You shoulda had that door locked. He stood by the door, listening,then turned to Retief. You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister? That's right, Chip. Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. TheSweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took theremains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they callMarbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin andtalked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and givesome orders to the Mate. Retief sat up and reached for a cigar. Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh? He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got agun? A 2mm needler. Why? The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We'reby-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute. Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out ashort-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip. Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain'scabin? <doc-sep>This is it, Chip said softly. You want me to keep an eye on whocomes down the passage? Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captainlooked up from his desk, then jumped up. What do you think you're doing, busting in here? I hear you're planning a course change, Captain. You've got damn big ears. I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's. You do, huh? the captain sat down. I'm in command of this vessel,he said. I'm changing course for Alabaster. I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster, Retief said. Sojust hold your course for Jorgensen's. Not bloody likely. Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try tochange course. The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key. Power Section, this is the captain, he said. Retief reached acrossthe desk, gripped the captain's wrist. Tell the mate to hold his present course, he said softly. Let go my hand, buster, the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, heeased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed thedrawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike. You busted it, you— And one to go, Retief said. Tell him. I'm an officer of the Merchant Service! You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alleyhoods. You can't put it over, hick. Tell him. The captain groaned and picked up the mike. Captain to Power Section,he said. Hold your present course until you hear from me. He droppedthe mike and looked up at Retief. It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You goingto sit here and bend my arm the whole time? Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door. Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what'sgoing on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up witha sick friend. Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery. What are you going to do? the captain demanded. Retief settled himself in a chair. Instead of strangling you, as you deserve, he said, I'm going tostay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds. The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark. Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feellike dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me. Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him. If anything happens that I don't like, he said, I'll wake you up.With this. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Jorgensen’s Worlds are a group of four planets, or actually two double planets, and are located close to an unimportant star known as DRI-G 33987. These planets are freezing cold and are undeveloped and mostly populated with farmers and traders. They have a small amount of industry, just enough to support their merchant fleet. However, the governing body in this sector of space has received word that an alien race, the Soetti, has plans to seize Jorgensen’s Worlds. The governing body isn’t going to sit by and let the aliens take over Terrestrial-occupied territory. Retief is on a mission to deliver information to Jorgensen’s Worlds that will enable them to defend themselves from the alien attack, providing them with the Soettis War Plan, a battle plan for the planets, and the schematics that will enable them, in a matter of minutes, to convert their anti-acceleration fields into a powerful weapon. Reaching Jorgensen’s Worlds will be challenging because the Soetti are patroling the trade lanes to the planet. Their successful defense against the Soetti hinges on Retief’s reaching the planets in time for them to make the conversions before the aliens' attack.

<s> THE FROZEN PLANET By Keith Laumer [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission. Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on. There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating. Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force. Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned. This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it. Magnan drew a large folder from his desk. A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil. Magnan tapped the folder before him. I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief. <doc-sep>All right, Mr. Councillor, Retief said. I'll play along; what's inthe folder? Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down. First, he said. The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunateenough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegadeTerrestrials who've been advising the Soetti. He folded anotherfinger. Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out bythe Theory group. He wrestled a third finger down. Lastly; an UtterTop Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-accelerationfield into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have beenholding in reserve for just such a situation. Is that all? Retief said. You've still got two fingers sticking up. Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away. This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, thisinformation could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leavethis building. I'll carry it, sealed, Retief said. That way nobody can sweat it outof me. Magnan started to shake his head. Well, he said. If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose— I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. I remember anagent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard withcards and dice. Never played for money, though. Umm, Magnan said. Don't make the error of personalizing thissituation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of thesebackwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow itsnatural course, as always. When does this attack happen? Less than four weeks. That doesn't leave me much time. I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far asAldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the restof the way. That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it? Magnan looked sour. Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to putall our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you isnot misplaced. This antiac conversion; how long does it take? A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. TheJorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic ofsome sort. Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the ticketsinside. Less than four hours to departure time, he said. I'd better notstart any long books. You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination, Magnansaid. Retief stood up. If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon. The allusion escapes me, Magnan said coldly. And one last word. TheSoetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don'tget yourself interned. I'll tell you what, Retief said soberly. In a pinch, I'll mentionyour name. You'll be traveling with Class X credentials, Magnan snapped. Theremust be nothing to connect you with the Corps. They'll never guess, Retief said. I'll pose as a gentleman. You'd better be getting started, Magnan said, shuffling papers. You're right, Retief said. If I work at it, I might manage asnootful by takeoff. He went to the door. No objection to my checkingout a needler, is there? Magnan looked up. I suppose not. What do you want with it? Just a feeling I've got. Please yourself. Some day, Retief said, I may take you up on that. II Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on thecounter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legendALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY. A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouseand a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watchingRetief from the corner of his eye. Retief glanced at him. The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth andspat it on the floor. Was there something? he said. Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group, Retief said.Is it on schedule? The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. Filledup. Try again in a couple of weeks. What time does it leave? I don't think— Let's stick to facts, Retief said. Don't try to think. What time isit due out? The clerk smiled pityingly. It's my lunch hour, he said. I'll beopen in an hour. He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it. If I have to come around this counter, Retief said, I'll feed thatthumb to you the hard way. The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,closed his mouth and swallowed. Like it says there, he said, jerking a thumb at the board. Lifts inan hour. But you won't be on it, he added. Retief looked at him. Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation, he said. He hookeda finger inside the sequined collar. All tourist reservations werecanceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line shipnext— Which gate? Retief said. For ... ah...? For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. Well, the clerk said. Gate 19, he added quickly. But— Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare signreading To Gates 16-30 . Another smart alec, the clerk said behind him. <doc-sep>Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found acovered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered manwith a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpledgray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him. Lessee your boarding pass, he muttered. Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over. The guard blinked at it. Whassat? A gram confirming my space, Retief said. Your boy on the countersays he's out to lunch. The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged backagainst the handrail. On your way, bub, he said. Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove aright into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled andwent to his knees. You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneakedpast while you were resting your eyes. He picked up his bag, steppedover the man and went up the gangway into the ship. A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor. Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son? Retief asked. Up there. The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his wayalong the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of thefloor. It was expensive looking baggage. Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood inthe open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid manclamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder. Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out. He rolled a cold eye at Retief ashe backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared. What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room? he barked. Never mind! Clearout of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting. Too bad, Retief said. Finders keepers. You nuts? The thick-necked man stared at Retief. I said it's Mr.Tony's room. I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters. We'll see about you, mister. The man turned and went out. Retiefsat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices inthe corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at anoversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned. All right, you. Out, he growled. Or have I got to have you thrownout? Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped ahandle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heavedthe trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to thedoor. Catch, he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against thefar wall of the corridor and burst. Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. Theface of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb. Mister, you must be— If you'll excuse me, Retief said, I want to catch a nap. He flippedthe door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed. <doc-sep>Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open. Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, ablue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eyestared at Retief. Is this the joker? he grated. The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,That's him, sure. I'm captain of this vessel, the first man said. You've got twominutes to haul your freight out of here, buster. When you can spare the time from your other duties, Retief said,take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged ininterplanetary commerce. A space lawyer. The captain turned. Throw him out, boys. Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief. Go on, pitch him out, the captain snapped. Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk. Don't try it, he said softly. One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, andstepped forward, then hesitated. Hey, he said. This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall? That's him, the thick-necked man called. Spilled Mr. Tony'spossessions right on the deck. Deal me out, the bouncer said. He can stay put as long as he wantsto. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe. You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain, Retief said.We're due to lift in twenty minutes. The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. TheCaptain's voice prevailed. —twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do? Close the door as you leave, Retief said. The thick-necked man paused at the door. We'll see you when you comeout. III Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leanedagainst the wall nearby, a menu under his arm. At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniformand with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of malepassengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasionalglances Retief's way. A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyespeered out from under a white chef's cap. Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister? Looks like it, old-timer, Retief said. Maybe I'd better go join theskipper. His party seems to be having all the fun. Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there. I see your point. You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate. Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backedup with mushrooms and garlic butter. I'm Chip, the chef said. I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him Isaid so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,look at a man like he was a worm. You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got theright idea on the Soetti, too, Retief said. He poured red wine into aglass. Here's to you. Dern right, Chip said. Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.You like brandy in yer coffee? Chip, you're a genius. Like to see a feller eat, Chip said. I gotta go now. If you needanything, holler. Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days toJorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was atemptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. Itwould be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against. Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska andcoffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tonyand his retainers still sat at the Captain's table. As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered acrossthe room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, tooka cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lightedend in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth. The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing. You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad, the thug said in agrating voice. What's your game, hick? Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up. I don't think I want my coffee, he said. He looked at the thug. Youdrink it. The thug squinted at Retief. A wise hick, he began. With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug'sface, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thugwent down. Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed. You can take your playmates away now, Tony, he said. And don'tbother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough. Mr. Tony found his voice. Take him, Marbles! he growled. The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out along-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in. Retief heard the panel open beside him. Here you go, Mister, Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honedfrench knife lay on the sill. Thanks, Chip, Retief said. I won't need it for these punks. Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking himunder the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistolfrom his shoulder holster. Aim that at me, and I'll kill you, Retief said. Go on, burn him! Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,white-faced. Put that away, you! he yelled. What kind of— Shut up, Mr. Tony said. Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bumlater. Not on this vessel, you won't, the captain said shakily. I got mycharter to consider. Ram your charter, Hoany said harshly. You won't be needing it long. Button your floppy mouth, damn you! Mr. Tony snapped. He looked atthe man on the floor. Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump theslob. He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters cameup. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room. The panel opened. I usta be about your size, when I was your age, Chip said. Youhandled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day. How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip? Retief said. Sure, Mister. Anything else? I'll think of something, Retief said. This is shaping up into one ofthose long days. <doc-sep>They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin, Chip said.But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. Theywon't mess with me. What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip? Retief asked. They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some moresmoked turkey? Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds? Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. Isure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I wasyer age. I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen'sWorlds like? One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' theJorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'his own cookin' like he does somebody else's. That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain gotaboard for Jorgensen's? Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever fewweeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.Don't know what we even run in there for. Where are the passengers we have aboard headed? To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. Youain't got another one of them cigars, have you? Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship. Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins. Chip puffedthe cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee andbrandy. Them Sweaties is what I don't like, he said. Retief looked at him questioningly. You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like alobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled. I've never had the pleasure, Retief said. You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever tripout. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'. There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor. I ain't superstitious ner nothin', Chip said. But I'll betriple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now. Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavyknock shook the door. They got to look you over, Chip whispered. Nosy damn Sweaties. Unlock it, Chip. The chef opened the door. Come in, damn you, he said. A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-likefeet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-setcompound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously. Yo' papiss, the alien rasped. Who's your friend, Captain? Retief said. Never mind; just do like he tells you. Yo' papiss, the alien said again. Okay, Retief said. I've seen it. You can take it away now. Don't horse around, the captain said. This fellow can get mean. The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose. Quick, soft one. Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, andI'm tempted to test it. Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with thosesnappers. Last chance, Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inchfrom Retief's eyes. Show him your papers, you damned fool, the captain said hoarsely. Igot no control over Skaw. <doc-sep>The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the sameinstant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alienand drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbousknee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spatteringfrom the burst joint. I told you he was brittle, Retief said. Next time you invite piratesaboard, don't bother to call. Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us! the captain gasped, staringat the figure flopping on the floor. Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat, Retief said. Tell him to passthe word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels inTerrestrial space. Hey, Chip said. He's quit kicking. The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned closeand sniffed. He's dead. The captain stared at Retief. We're all dead men, hesaid. These Soetti got no mercy. They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over. They got no more emotions than a blue crab— You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.We know their secret now. What secret? I— Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n, Chip said. Sweaties dieeasy; that's the secret. Maybe you got a point, the captain said, looking at Retief. All theygot's a three-man scout. It could work. He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead aliengingerly into the hall. Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti, the captain said, looking backfrom the door. But I'll be back to see you later. You don't scare us, Cap'n, Chip said. Him and Mr. Tony and all hisgoons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' theseSweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket. You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in yourgetting involved in my problems. They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That'swhere we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts. They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers. They don't scare me none. Chip picked up the tray. I'll scout arounda little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anythingabout that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't trynothin' close to port. Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't doanything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now. Chip looked at Retief. You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.You didn't come out here for fun, did you? That, Retief said, would be a hard one to answer. IV Retief awoke at a tap on his door. It's me, Mister. Chip. Come on in. The chef entered the room, locking the door. You shoulda had that door locked. He stood by the door, listening,then turned to Retief. You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister? That's right, Chip. Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. TheSweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took theremains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they callMarbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin andtalked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and givesome orders to the Mate. Retief sat up and reached for a cigar. Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh? He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got agun? A 2mm needler. Why? The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We'reby-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute. Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out ashort-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip. Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain'scabin? <doc-sep>This is it, Chip said softly. You want me to keep an eye on whocomes down the passage? Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captainlooked up from his desk, then jumped up. What do you think you're doing, busting in here? I hear you're planning a course change, Captain. You've got damn big ears. I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's. You do, huh? the captain sat down. I'm in command of this vessel,he said. I'm changing course for Alabaster. I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster, Retief said. Sojust hold your course for Jorgensen's. Not bloody likely. Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try tochange course. The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key. Power Section, this is the captain, he said. Retief reached acrossthe desk, gripped the captain's wrist. Tell the mate to hold his present course, he said softly. Let go my hand, buster, the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, heeased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed thedrawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike. You busted it, you— And one to go, Retief said. Tell him. I'm an officer of the Merchant Service! You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alleyhoods. You can't put it over, hick. Tell him. The captain groaned and picked up the mike. Captain to Power Section,he said. Hold your present course until you hear from me. He droppedthe mike and looked up at Retief. It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You goingto sit here and bend my arm the whole time? Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door. Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what'sgoing on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up witha sick friend. Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery. What are you going to do? the captain demanded. Retief settled himself in a chair. Instead of strangling you, as you deserve, he said, I'm going tostay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds. The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark. Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feellike dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me. Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him. If anything happens that I don't like, he said, I'll wake you up.With this. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Chip is the chef on the airship that is traveling to Jorgensen’s Worlds. His role as chef enables him to have contact with the Captain, crew, and passengers, which makes him extremely valuable to Retief. In addition, he likes Retief since he stands up to Mr. Tony and the Captain, neither of whom Chip can stand. When the serving staff ignore Retief, Chip serves Retief and later continues serving him meals in his room. When Retief is threatened by one of Mr. Tony’s goons wielding a knife, Chip passes a knife from the kitchen to Retief to defend himself. Most importantly, Chip shares his wealth of knowledge with Retief and assists him. Chip informs Retief that Mr. Tony and the Captain are involved in some kind of crooked business deal with each other, adding that there haven’t been any tourist to Jorgensen’s Worlds for the last six to eight months. He also tells Retief about the Soettis boarding the ship and searching it. At the end of the story when Retief is holding the Captain in his cabin to prevent him from changing the orders and bypassing Jorgensen’s Worlds, Chip keeps an eye on what is going on with the rest of the passengers to report back to Retief. Without Chip’s help, Retief might not have been as successful in thwarting the Captain and Mr. Tony’s plan to bypass Jorgensen’s Worlds.

<s> THE FROZEN PLANET By Keith Laumer [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission. Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on. There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating. Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force. Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned. This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it. Magnan drew a large folder from his desk. A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil. Magnan tapped the folder before him. I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief. <doc-sep>All right, Mr. Councillor, Retief said. I'll play along; what's inthe folder? Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down. First, he said. The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunateenough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegadeTerrestrials who've been advising the Soetti. He folded anotherfinger. Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out bythe Theory group. He wrestled a third finger down. Lastly; an UtterTop Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-accelerationfield into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have beenholding in reserve for just such a situation. Is that all? Retief said. You've still got two fingers sticking up. Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away. This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, thisinformation could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leavethis building. I'll carry it, sealed, Retief said. That way nobody can sweat it outof me. Magnan started to shake his head. Well, he said. If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose— I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. I remember anagent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard withcards and dice. Never played for money, though. Umm, Magnan said. Don't make the error of personalizing thissituation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of thesebackwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow itsnatural course, as always. When does this attack happen? Less than four weeks. That doesn't leave me much time. I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far asAldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the restof the way. That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it? Magnan looked sour. Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to putall our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you isnot misplaced. This antiac conversion; how long does it take? A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. TheJorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic ofsome sort. Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the ticketsinside. Less than four hours to departure time, he said. I'd better notstart any long books. You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination, Magnansaid. Retief stood up. If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon. The allusion escapes me, Magnan said coldly. And one last word. TheSoetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don'tget yourself interned. I'll tell you what, Retief said soberly. In a pinch, I'll mentionyour name. You'll be traveling with Class X credentials, Magnan snapped. Theremust be nothing to connect you with the Corps. They'll never guess, Retief said. I'll pose as a gentleman. You'd better be getting started, Magnan said, shuffling papers. You're right, Retief said. If I work at it, I might manage asnootful by takeoff. He went to the door. No objection to my checkingout a needler, is there? Magnan looked up. I suppose not. What do you want with it? Just a feeling I've got. Please yourself. Some day, Retief said, I may take you up on that. II Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on thecounter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legendALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY. A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouseand a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watchingRetief from the corner of his eye. Retief glanced at him. The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth andspat it on the floor. Was there something? he said. Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group, Retief said.Is it on schedule? The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. Filledup. Try again in a couple of weeks. What time does it leave? I don't think— Let's stick to facts, Retief said. Don't try to think. What time isit due out? The clerk smiled pityingly. It's my lunch hour, he said. I'll beopen in an hour. He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it. If I have to come around this counter, Retief said, I'll feed thatthumb to you the hard way. The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,closed his mouth and swallowed. Like it says there, he said, jerking a thumb at the board. Lifts inan hour. But you won't be on it, he added. Retief looked at him. Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation, he said. He hookeda finger inside the sequined collar. All tourist reservations werecanceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line shipnext— Which gate? Retief said. For ... ah...? For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. Well, the clerk said. Gate 19, he added quickly. But— Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare signreading To Gates 16-30 . Another smart alec, the clerk said behind him. <doc-sep>Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found acovered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered manwith a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpledgray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him. Lessee your boarding pass, he muttered. Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over. The guard blinked at it. Whassat? A gram confirming my space, Retief said. Your boy on the countersays he's out to lunch. The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged backagainst the handrail. On your way, bub, he said. Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove aright into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled andwent to his knees. You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneakedpast while you were resting your eyes. He picked up his bag, steppedover the man and went up the gangway into the ship. A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor. Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son? Retief asked. Up there. The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his wayalong the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of thefloor. It was expensive looking baggage. Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood inthe open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid manclamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder. Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out. He rolled a cold eye at Retief ashe backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared. What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room? he barked. Never mind! Clearout of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting. Too bad, Retief said. Finders keepers. You nuts? The thick-necked man stared at Retief. I said it's Mr.Tony's room. I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters. We'll see about you, mister. The man turned and went out. Retiefsat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices inthe corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at anoversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned. All right, you. Out, he growled. Or have I got to have you thrownout? Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped ahandle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heavedthe trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to thedoor. Catch, he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against thefar wall of the corridor and burst. Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. Theface of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb. Mister, you must be— If you'll excuse me, Retief said, I want to catch a nap. He flippedthe door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed. <doc-sep>Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open. Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, ablue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eyestared at Retief. Is this the joker? he grated. The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,That's him, sure. I'm captain of this vessel, the first man said. You've got twominutes to haul your freight out of here, buster. When you can spare the time from your other duties, Retief said,take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged ininterplanetary commerce. A space lawyer. The captain turned. Throw him out, boys. Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief. Go on, pitch him out, the captain snapped. Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk. Don't try it, he said softly. One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, andstepped forward, then hesitated. Hey, he said. This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall? That's him, the thick-necked man called. Spilled Mr. Tony'spossessions right on the deck. Deal me out, the bouncer said. He can stay put as long as he wantsto. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe. You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain, Retief said.We're due to lift in twenty minutes. The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. TheCaptain's voice prevailed. —twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do? Close the door as you leave, Retief said. The thick-necked man paused at the door. We'll see you when you comeout. III Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leanedagainst the wall nearby, a menu under his arm. At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniformand with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of malepassengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasionalglances Retief's way. A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyespeered out from under a white chef's cap. Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister? Looks like it, old-timer, Retief said. Maybe I'd better go join theskipper. His party seems to be having all the fun. Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there. I see your point. You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate. Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backedup with mushrooms and garlic butter. I'm Chip, the chef said. I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him Isaid so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,look at a man like he was a worm. You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got theright idea on the Soetti, too, Retief said. He poured red wine into aglass. Here's to you. Dern right, Chip said. Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.You like brandy in yer coffee? Chip, you're a genius. Like to see a feller eat, Chip said. I gotta go now. If you needanything, holler. Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days toJorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was atemptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. Itwould be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against. Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska andcoffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tonyand his retainers still sat at the Captain's table. As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered acrossthe room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, tooka cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lightedend in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth. The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing. You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad, the thug said in agrating voice. What's your game, hick? Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up. I don't think I want my coffee, he said. He looked at the thug. Youdrink it. The thug squinted at Retief. A wise hick, he began. With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug'sface, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thugwent down. Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed. You can take your playmates away now, Tony, he said. And don'tbother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough. Mr. Tony found his voice. Take him, Marbles! he growled. The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out along-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in. Retief heard the panel open beside him. Here you go, Mister, Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honedfrench knife lay on the sill. Thanks, Chip, Retief said. I won't need it for these punks. Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking himunder the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistolfrom his shoulder holster. Aim that at me, and I'll kill you, Retief said. Go on, burn him! Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,white-faced. Put that away, you! he yelled. What kind of— Shut up, Mr. Tony said. Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bumlater. Not on this vessel, you won't, the captain said shakily. I got mycharter to consider. Ram your charter, Hoany said harshly. You won't be needing it long. Button your floppy mouth, damn you! Mr. Tony snapped. He looked atthe man on the floor. Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump theslob. He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters cameup. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room. The panel opened. I usta be about your size, when I was your age, Chip said. Youhandled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day. How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip? Retief said. Sure, Mister. Anything else? I'll think of something, Retief said. This is shaping up into one ofthose long days. <doc-sep>They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin, Chip said.But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. Theywon't mess with me. What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip? Retief asked. They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some moresmoked turkey? Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds? Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. Isure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I wasyer age. I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen'sWorlds like? One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' theJorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'his own cookin' like he does somebody else's. That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain gotaboard for Jorgensen's? Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever fewweeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.Don't know what we even run in there for. Where are the passengers we have aboard headed? To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. Youain't got another one of them cigars, have you? Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship. Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins. Chip puffedthe cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee andbrandy. Them Sweaties is what I don't like, he said. Retief looked at him questioningly. You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like alobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled. I've never had the pleasure, Retief said. You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever tripout. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'. There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor. I ain't superstitious ner nothin', Chip said. But I'll betriple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now. Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavyknock shook the door. They got to look you over, Chip whispered. Nosy damn Sweaties. Unlock it, Chip. The chef opened the door. Come in, damn you, he said. A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-likefeet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-setcompound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously. Yo' papiss, the alien rasped. Who's your friend, Captain? Retief said. Never mind; just do like he tells you. Yo' papiss, the alien said again. Okay, Retief said. I've seen it. You can take it away now. Don't horse around, the captain said. This fellow can get mean. The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose. Quick, soft one. Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, andI'm tempted to test it. Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with thosesnappers. Last chance, Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inchfrom Retief's eyes. Show him your papers, you damned fool, the captain said hoarsely. Igot no control over Skaw. <doc-sep>The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the sameinstant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alienand drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbousknee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spatteringfrom the burst joint. I told you he was brittle, Retief said. Next time you invite piratesaboard, don't bother to call. Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us! the captain gasped, staringat the figure flopping on the floor. Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat, Retief said. Tell him to passthe word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels inTerrestrial space. Hey, Chip said. He's quit kicking. The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned closeand sniffed. He's dead. The captain stared at Retief. We're all dead men, hesaid. These Soetti got no mercy. They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over. They got no more emotions than a blue crab— You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.We know their secret now. What secret? I— Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n, Chip said. Sweaties dieeasy; that's the secret. Maybe you got a point, the captain said, looking at Retief. All theygot's a three-man scout. It could work. He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead aliengingerly into the hall. Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti, the captain said, looking backfrom the door. But I'll be back to see you later. You don't scare us, Cap'n, Chip said. Him and Mr. Tony and all hisgoons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' theseSweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket. You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in yourgetting involved in my problems. They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That'swhere we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts. They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers. They don't scare me none. Chip picked up the tray. I'll scout arounda little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anythingabout that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't trynothin' close to port. Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't doanything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now. Chip looked at Retief. You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.You didn't come out here for fun, did you? That, Retief said, would be a hard one to answer. IV Retief awoke at a tap on his door. It's me, Mister. Chip. Come on in. The chef entered the room, locking the door. You shoulda had that door locked. He stood by the door, listening,then turned to Retief. You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister? That's right, Chip. Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. TheSweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took theremains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they callMarbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin andtalked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and givesome orders to the Mate. Retief sat up and reached for a cigar. Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh? He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got agun? A 2mm needler. Why? The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We'reby-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute. Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out ashort-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip. Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain'scabin? <doc-sep>This is it, Chip said softly. You want me to keep an eye on whocomes down the passage? Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captainlooked up from his desk, then jumped up. What do you think you're doing, busting in here? I hear you're planning a course change, Captain. You've got damn big ears. I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's. You do, huh? the captain sat down. I'm in command of this vessel,he said. I'm changing course for Alabaster. I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster, Retief said. Sojust hold your course for Jorgensen's. Not bloody likely. Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try tochange course. The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key. Power Section, this is the captain, he said. Retief reached acrossthe desk, gripped the captain's wrist. Tell the mate to hold his present course, he said softly. Let go my hand, buster, the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, heeased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed thedrawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike. You busted it, you— And one to go, Retief said. Tell him. I'm an officer of the Merchant Service! You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alleyhoods. You can't put it over, hick. Tell him. The captain groaned and picked up the mike. Captain to Power Section,he said. Hold your present course until you hear from me. He droppedthe mike and looked up at Retief. It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You goingto sit here and bend my arm the whole time? Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door. Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what'sgoing on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up witha sick friend. Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery. What are you going to do? the captain demanded. Retief settled himself in a chair. Instead of strangling you, as you deserve, he said, I'm going tostay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds. The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark. Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feellike dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me. Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him. If anything happens that I don't like, he said, I'll wake you up.With this. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Mr. Tony is a tall, florid man with expensive clothes and a massive paunch. He is also used to getting his way. The Captain and Mr. Tony are involved in an illegal deal with the Soettis, so the two men are business associates, although they don’t much like each other. Together, they have cut off all tourism to Jorgensen’s Worlds for the past six to eight months; the airlines won’t provide any bookings for passengers; however, the Captain’s airship has at least a dozen empty rooms. Mr. Tony has several henchmen working for him who do his “dirty business” of roughhandling anyone who interferes with Mr. Tony’s business. Whatever their business is, it involves frequent trips to Jorgensen’s Worlds without taking any cargo there. Mr. Tony seems to hold power over the Captain. The Captain is a thin, leathery-skinned man who wears white ducks, a blue turtleneck, and a peaked cap that he tilts rakishly over one eye. He isn’t a very strong person or leader. He tries to get Mr. Tony’s men to throw Retief off the ship, but they refuse to do so when Retief warns them not to try and when they realize he is the person who picked up Mr. Tony’s trunk and threw it. The Captain has ordered Retief to get off the ship but backs down when the men refuse to touch Retief. He apparently tells the wait staff in the restaurant to refuse service to Retief because they all ignore him. And when the Captain warns Mr. Tony’s henchmen not to shoot Retief on his airship because it could threaten his charter, one of them talks back and tells him he won’t need it for long. Retief has the distinct impression that Mr. Tony has something on the Captain that forces the Captain to cooperate with him and places him at a lower level than Mr. Tony.

<s> THE MADMAN FROM EARTH BY KEITH LAUMER You don't have to be crazy to be an earth diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The Consul for the Terrestrial States, Retief said, presents hiscompliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the GroacianAutonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend arecital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret thathe will be unable— You can't turn this invitation down, Administrative Assistant Meuhlsaid flatly. I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'. Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke. Miss Meuhl, he said, in the past couple of weeks I've sat throughsix light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows howmany assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-dutyhour since I got here— You can't offend the Groaci, Miss Meuhl said sharply. Consul Whafflewould never have been so rude. Whaffle left here three months ago, Retief said, leaving me incharge. Well, Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. I'm sure I don'tknow what excuse I can give the Minister. Never mind the excuses, Retief said. Just tell him I won't bethere. He stood up. Are you leaving the office? Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. I havesome important letters here for your signature. I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl, Retief said,pulling on a light cape. <doc-sep>I wrote them for you. They're just as Consul Whaffle would have wantedthem. Did you write all Whaffle's letters for him, Miss Meuhl? Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man, Miss Meuhl said stiffly.He had complete confidence in me. Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on, Retief said, I won'tbe so busy. Well! Miss Meuhl said. May I ask where you'll be if something comesup? I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives. Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. Whatever for? Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. You've been here on Groacfor four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d'etat that putthe present government in power? I'm sure I haven't pried into— What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out thisway about ten years back? Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we avoid with theGroaci. I certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding— Why? The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworldersraking up things. They've been gracious enough to let us live downthe fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on oneoccasion. You mean when they came looking for the cruiser? I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed,grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We trynever to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief. They never found the cruiser, did they? Certainly not on Groac. Retief nodded. Thanks, Miss Meuhl, he said. I'll be back beforeyou close the office. Miss Meuhl's face was set in lines of grimdisapproval as he closed the door. <doc-sep>The pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressedbleat. Not to enter the Archives, he said in his faint voice. The denial ofpermission. The deep regret of the Archivist. The importance of my task here, Retief said, enunciating the glottaldialect with difficulty. My interest in local history. The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly. The necessity that I enter. The specific instructions of the Archivist. The Groacian's voice roseto a whisper. To insist no longer. To give up this idea! OK, Skinny, I know when I'm licked, Retief said in Terran. To keepyour nose clean. Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carvedwindowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in thedirection of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians onthe street eyed him furtively, veered to avoid him as he passed. Flimsyhigh-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement.The air was clean and cool. At the office, Miss Meuhl would be waiting with another list ofcomplaints. Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street.An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate theGroacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in. A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink fromthe bar-pit at the center of the room. He looked at Retief and froze inmid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot. To enjoy a cooling drink, Retief said in Groacian, squatting down atthe edge of the pit. To sample a true Groacian beverage. To not enjoy my poor offerings, the Groacian mumbled. A pain in thedigestive sacs; to express regret. To not worry, Retief said, irritated. To pour it out and let medecide whether I like it. To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of—foreigners. Thebarkeep looked around for support, found none. The Groaci customers,eyes elsewhere, were drifting away. To get the lead out, Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in thedish provided. To shake a tentacle. The procuring of a cage, a thin voice called from the sidelines. Thedisplaying of a freak. <doc-sep>Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gestureof contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent thecreature was drunk. To choke in your upper sac, the bartender hissed, extending his eyestoward the drunk. To keep silent, litter-mate of drones. To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness, the drunkwhispered. To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece. He waveredtoward Retief. To show this one in the streets, like all freaks. Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you? Retief asked, interestedly. To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder, the drunk said. Thebarkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk,took his arms and helped him to the door. To get a cage! the drunk shrilled. To keep the animals in their ownstinking place. I've changed my mind, Retief said to the bartender. To be gratefulas hell, but to have to hurry off now. He followed the drunk out thedoor. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief lookedat the weaving alien. To begone, freak, the Groacian whispered. To be pals, Retief said. To be kind to dumb animals. To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock. To not be angry, fragrant native, Retief said. To permit me to chumwith you. To flee before I take a cane to you! To have a drink together— To not endure such insolence! The Groacian advanced toward Retief.Retief backed away. To hold hands, Retief said. To be palsy-walsy— The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him,head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrowcrossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local,who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrowalley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the followingGroacian. Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacianfell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose;Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed. To not be going anywhere for a few minutes, Retief said. To stayright here and have a nice long talk. II There you are! Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. Thereare two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen. Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast. Retief pulled off hiscape. This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the ForeignMinistry. What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind tellingyou. I'm sure you don't. Come along. And bring an official recorder. Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornamentsindicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered acourteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right. I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr.Consul, the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. May I presentShluh, of the Internal Police? Sit down, gentlemen, Retief said. They resumed their seats. MissMeuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair. Oh, it's such a pleasure— she began. Never mind that, Retief said. These gentlemen didn't come here tosip tea today. So true, Fith said. Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report,Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it. He nodded to the policechief. One hour ago, The Groacian said, a Groacian national was broughtto hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of thisindividual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by aforeigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my departmentindicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that ofthe Terrestrial Consul. Miss Meuhl gasped audibly. Have you ever heard, Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, of aTerrestrial cruiser, the ISV Terrific , which dropped from sight inthis sector nine years ago? Really! Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising. I wash my hands— Just keep that recorder going, Retief snapped. I'll not be a party— You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl, Retief said quietly. I'mtelling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation. Miss Meuhl sat down. Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. You reopen an old wound,Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrialhands— Hogwash, Retief said. That tune went over with my predecessors, butit hits a sour note with me. All our efforts, Miss Meuhl said, to live down that terribleepisode! And you— Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groacand sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funnyanswers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left.Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they wereinnocent. IF! Miss Meuhl burst out. If, indeed! Fith said, his weak voice trembling. I must protestyour— <doc-sep>Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don'tthink your story will be good enough. It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten— Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory. Then you admit— It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind toit. Fith rose; Shluh followed suit. I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not foryour diplomatic immunity, I should do more— Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task forcepaid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrialdiplomatic mission. This is an internal matter! Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. Ithas outdone itself— —to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark, Retiefsaid. And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you'vevisaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside thediplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, oryour satellite— Enough! Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. I can talk no more ofthis matter— You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to dothe talking, Retief said. You can't! Miss Meuhl gasped. Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. TheGroaci sat down. Answer me this one, Retief said, looking at Shluh. A few yearsback—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Somecurious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through thestreets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show. Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed tocommunicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit. Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after theparade was over? <doc-sep>Fith made a choked noise and spoke rapidly to Shluh in Groacian. Shluhretracted his eyes, shrank down in his chair. Miss Meuhl opened hermouth, closed it and blinked rapidly. How did they die? Retief snapped. Did you murder them, cut theirthroats, shoot them or bury them alive? What amusing end did you figureout for them? Research, maybe? Cut them open to see what made themyell.... No! Fith gasped. I must correct this terrible false impression atonce. False impression, hell, Retief said. They were Terrans! A simplenarco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw theparade. Yes, Fith said weakly. It is true, they were Terrestrials. But therewas no killing. They're alive? Alas, no. They ... died. Miss Meuhl yelped faintly. I see, Retief said. They died. We tried to keep them alive, of course. But we did not know whatfoods— Didn't take the trouble to find out, either, did you? They fell ill, Fith said. One by one.... We'll deal with that question later, Retief said. Right now, I wantmore information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship?What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before thebig parade? There were no more! Absolutely, I assure you! Killed in the crash landing? No crash landing. The ship descended intact, east of the city. The ...Terrestrials ... were unharmed. Naturally, we feared them. They werestrange to us. We had never before seen such beings. Stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they? Guns? No, no guns— They raised their hands, didn't they? Asked for help. You helped them;helped them to death. How could we know? Fith moaned. How could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months lookingfor them, you mean? That was a shock, wasn't it? I'll bet you had abrisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A closecall, eh? We were afraid, Shluh said. We are a simple people. We feared thestrange creatures from the alien craft. We did not kill them, but wefelt it was as well they ... did not survive. Then, when the warshipscame, we realized our error. But we feared to speak. We purged ourguilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and ... offered ourfriendship. We invited the opening of diplomatic relations. We madea blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to makeamends.... Where is the ship? The ship? What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget.Where is it? The two Groacians exchanged looks. We wish to show our contrition, Fith said. We will show you theship. Miss Meuhl, Retief said. If I don't come back in a reasonable lengthof time, transmit that recording to Regional Headquarters, sealed. Hestood, looked at the Groaci. Let's go, he said. <doc-sep>Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern.He peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull. Any lights in here? he asked. A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up. Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Emptyemplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. Littered decking wasvisible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVSTerrific B7 New Terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy. How did you get it in here? Retief asked. It was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant,Fith said, his voice thinner than ever. This is a natural crevasse.The vessel was lowered into it and roofed over. How did you shield it so the detectors didn't pick it up? All here is high-grade iron ore, Fith said, waving a member. Greatveins of almost pure metal. Retief grunted. Let's go inside. Shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. The party entered the ship. Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interiorof the control compartment. Dust was thick on the deck, the stanchionswhere acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrumentpanels, the litter of sheared bolts, scraps of wire and paper. A thinfrosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches hadsliced away heavy shielding. There was a faint odor of stale bedding. The cargo compartment— Shluh began. I've seen enough, Retief said. Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel andinto the late afternoon sunshine. As they climbed the slope to thesteam car, Fith came to Retief's side. Indeed, I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair,he said. Now that all has been fully and honestly shown— You can skip all that, Retief said. You're nine years late. Thecrew was still alive when the task force called, I imagine. You killedthem—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting whatyou'd done. We were at fault, Fith said abjectly. Now we wish only friendship. The Terrific was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons.Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. Where isshe, Fith? I won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat. <doc-sep>Fith erected his eye stalks so violently that one eye-shield fell off. I know nothing of ... of.... He stopped. His throat vibrated rapidlyas he struggled for calm. My government can entertain no further accusations, Mr. Consul,he said at last. I have been completely candid with you, I haveoverlooked your probing into matters not properly within your sphere ofresponsibility. My patience is at an end. Where is that ship? Retief rapped out. You never learn, do you?You're still convinced you can hide the whole thing and forget it. I'mtelling you you can't. We return to the city now, Fith said. I can do no more. You can and you will, Fith, Retief said. I intend to get to thetruth of this matter. Fith spoke to Shluh in rapid Groacian. The police chief gestured to hisfour armed constables. They moved to ring Retief in. Retief eyed Fith. Don't try it, he said. You'll just get yourself indeeper. Fith clacked his mandibles angrily, eye stalks canted aggressivelytoward the Terrestrial. Out of deference to your diplomatic status, Terrestrial, I shallignore your insulting remarks, Fith said in his reedy voice. Let usnow return to the city. Retief looked at the four policemen. I see your point, he said. Fith followed him into the car, sat rigidly at the far end of the seat. I advise you to remain very close to your consulate, Fith said. Iadvise you to dismiss these fancies from your mind, and to enjoy thecultural aspects of life at Groac. Especially, I should not venture outof the city, or appear overly curious about matters of concern only tothe Groacian government. In the front seat, Shluh looked straight ahead. The loosely-sprungvehicle bobbed and swayed along the narrow highway. Retief listened tothe rhythmic puffing of the motor and said nothing. III Miss Meuhl, Retief said, I want you to listen carefully to what I'mgoing to tell you. I have to move rapidly now, to catch the Groaci offguard. I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Meuhl snapped,her eyes sharp behind the heavy lenses. If you'll listen, you may find out, Retief said. I have no timeto waste, Miss Meuhl. They won't be expecting an immediate move—Ihope—and that may give me the latitude I need. You're still determined to make an issue of that incident! MissMeuhl snorted. I really can hardly blame the Groaci. They are not asophisticated race; they had never before met aliens. You're ready to forgive a great deal, Miss Meuhl. But it's not whathappened nine years ago I'm concerned with. It's what's happening now.I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out.Don't you understand the implication? That vessel couldn't have comefar. The cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. I want to knowwhere! The Groaci don't know. They're a very cultured, gentle people. You cando irreparable harm to the reputation of Terrestrials if you insist— That's my decision, Retief said. I have a job to do and we'rewasting time. He crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer andtook out a slim-barreled needler. This office is being watched. Not very efficiently, if I know theGroaci. I think I can get past them all right. Where are you going with ... that? Miss Meuhl stared at the needler.What in the world— The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper intheir files relating to this thing. I have to get what I need beforeit's too late. If I wait for an official Inquiry Commission, they'llfind nothing but blank smiles. You're out of your mind! Miss Meuhl stood up, quivering withindignation. You're like a ... a.... You and I are in a tight spot, Miss Meuhl. The logical next move forthe Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who knowwhat happened. Fith almost did the job this afternoon, but I bluffedhim out—for the moment. Miss Meuhl emitted a shrill laugh. Your fantasies are getting thebetter of you, she gasped. In danger, indeed! Disposing of me! I'venever heard anything so ridiculous. Stay in this office. Close and safe-lock the door. You've got food andwater in the dispenser. I suggest you stock up, before they shut thesupply down. Don't let anyone in, on any pretext whatever. I'll keep intouch with you via hand-phone. What are you planning to do? If I don't make it back here, transmit the sealed record of thisafternoon's conversation, along with the information I've given you.Beam it through on a mayday priority. Then tell the Groaci what you'vedone and sit tight. I think you'll be all right. It won't be easy toblast in here and anyway, they won't make things worse by killing you.A force can be here in a week. I'll do nothing of the sort! The Groaci are very fond of me! You ...Johnny-come-lately! Roughneck! Setting out to destroy— Blame it on me if it will make you feel any better, Retief said, butdon't be fool enough to trust them. He pulled on a cape, opened thedoor. I'll be back in a couple of hours, he said. Miss Meuhl stared afterhim silently as he closed the door. <doc-sep>It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to thesafe-lock and stepped into the darkened consular office. He lookedtired. Miss Meuhl, dozing in a chair, awoke with a start. She looked atRetief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare. What in the world—Where have you been? What's happened to yourclothing? I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it. Retief went to his desk,opened a drawer and replaced the needler. Where have you been? Miss Meuhl demanded. I stayed here— I'm glad you did, Retief said. I hope you piled up a supply of foodand water from the dispenser, too. We'll be holed up here for a week,at least. He jotted figures on a pad. Warm up the official sender. Ihave a long transmission for Regional Headquarters. Are you going to tell me where you've been? I have a message to get off first, Miss Meuhl, Retief said sharply.I've been to the Foreign Ministry, he added. I'll tell you all aboutit later. At this hour? There's no one there.... Exactly. Miss Meuhl gasped. You mean you broke in? You burgled the ForeignOffice? That's right, Retief said calmly. Now— This is absolutely the end! Miss Meuhl said. Thank heaven I'vealready— Get that sender going, woman! Retief snapped. This is important. I've already done so, Mr. Retief! Miss Meuhl said harshly. I've beenwaiting for you to come back here.... She turned to the communicator,flipped levers. The screen snapped aglow, and a wavering long-distanceimage appeared. He's here now, Miss Meuhl said to the screen. She looked at Retieftriumphantly. That's good, Retief said. I don't think the Groaci can knock us offthe air, but— I have done my duty, Mr. Retief, Miss Meuhl said. I made a fullreport to Regional Headquarters last night, as soon as you left thisoffice. Any doubts I may have had as to the rightness of that decisionhave been completely dispelled by what you've just told me. Retief looked at her levelly. You've been a busy girl, Miss Meuhl. Didyou mention the six Terrestrials who were killed here? That had no bearing on the matter of your wild behavior! I must say,in all my years in the Corps, I've never encountered a personality lesssuited to diplomatic work. <doc-sep>The screen crackled, the ten-second transmission lag having elapsed.Mr. Retief, the face on the screen said, I am Counsellor Pardy,DSO-1, Deputy Under-secretary for the region. I have received areport on your conduct which makes it mandatory for me to relieve youadministratively, vice Miss Yolanda Meuhl, DAO-9. Pending the findingsof a Board of Inquiry, you will— Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphantlook faded from Miss Meuhl's face. Why, what is the meaning— If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn'tignore. I can't afford that, at this moment. Listen, Miss Meuhl,Retief went on earnestly, I've found the missing cruiser. You heard him relieve you! I heard him say he was going to, Miss Meuhl. But until I've heardand acknowledged a verbal order, it has no force. If I'm wrong, he'llget my resignation. If I'm right, that suspension would be embarrassingall around. You're defying lawful authority! I'm in charge here now. Miss Meuhlstepped to the local communicator. I'm going to report this terrible thing to the Groaci at once, andoffer my profound— Don't touch that screen, Retief said. You go sit in that cornerwhere I can keep an eye on you. I'm going to make a sealed tape fortransmission to Headquarters, along with a call for an armed taskforce. Then we'll settle down to wait. Retief ignored Miss Meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder. The local communicator chimed. Miss Meuhl jumped up, staring at it. Go ahead, Retief said. Answer it. A Groacian official appeared on the screen. Yolanda Meuhl, he said without preamble, for the Foreign Minister ofthe Groacian Autonomy, I herewith accredit you as Terrestrial Consulto Groac, in accordance with the advices transmitted to my governmentdirect from the Terrestrial Headquarters. As consul, you are requestedto make available for questioning Mr. J. Retief, former consul, inconnection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry intothe offices of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. Why, why, Miss Meuhl stammered. Yes, of course. And I do want toexpress my deepest regrets— <doc-sep>Retief rose, went to the communicator, assisted Miss Meuhl aside. Listen carefully, Fith, he said. Your bluff has been called. Youdon't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nineyears, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resistthe temptation to make matters worse than they are. Miss Meuhl, Fith said, a peace squad waits outside your consulate.It is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. As always, theGroaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but— Don't bother, Retief said. You know what was in those files I lookedover this morning. Retief turned at a sound behind him. Miss Meuhl was at the door,reaching for the safe-lock release.... Don't! Retief jumped—too late. The door burst inward. A crowd of crested Groaci pressed into the room,pushed Miss Meuhl back, aimed scatter guns at Retief. Police ChiefShluh pushed forward. Attempt no violence, Terrestrial, he said. I cannot promise torestrain my men. You're violating Terrestrial territory, Shluh, Retief said steadily.I suggest you move back out the same way you came in. I invited them here, Miss Meuhl spoke up. They are here at myexpress wish. Are they? Are you sure you meant to go this far, Miss Meuhl? A squadof armed Groaci in the consulate? You are the consul, Miss Yolanda Meuhl, Shluh said. Would it not bebest if we removed this deranged person to a place of safety? You're making a serious mistake, Shluh, Retief said. Yes, Miss Meuhl said. You're quite right, Mr. Shluh. Please escortMr. Retief to his quarters in this building— I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith, Retiefsaid. As chief of mission, Miss Meuhl said quickly, I hereby waiveimmunity in the case of Mr. Retief. Shluh produced a hand recorder. Kindly repeat your statement, Madam,officially, he said. I wish no question to arise later. Don't be a fool, woman, Retief said. Don't you see what you'reletting yourself in for? This would be a hell of a good time for you tofigure out whose side you're on. I'm on the side of common decency! You've been taken in. These people are concealing— You think all women are fools, don't you, Mr. Retief? She turned tothe police chief and spoke into the microphone he held up. That's an illegal waiver, Retief said. I'm consul here, whateverrumors you've heard. This thing's coming out into the open, whateveryou do. Don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacianatrocities. Take the man, Shluh said. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Following the departure of Consul Whaffle, Retief has taken over as Consul for the Terrestrial States with the Terrestrial Consulate General on the planet Groac. His administrative assistant, Miss Yolanda Meuhl, wants him to attend Groacian cultural events, but Retief is more interested in addressing the nine-year-old mystery of the disappearance of a Terrestrial cruiser, the ISV Terrific--an event which was followed by a coup d'etat enacted by the current Groacian government. Much to Miss Meuhl's dismay, Retief shirks his cultural duties and makes his way to the Foreign Office Archives, whereupon he is promptly barred from entering by a pale-featured Archivist speaking in the throat-bladder vibrations of the native Groacians. Because of the Archivist's insistence that "outworlders" cannot access the archives, Retief begins walking back to the Consulate and stops at a bar for a drink. At the, a drunken Groacian approaches Retief and threatens to cage him and put him on display as a freak. The bartender orders the drunken Groacian out of the bar, and Retief follows him, ultimately beating him up for information. When Retief returns to the Consulate, Miss Meuhl informs him that two angry Groaci await him in his office. One is Fith, an employee of the Terrestrial Desk at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; the other is Shluh, a representative of the Internal Police. They are there to investigate reports that Retief has assaulted a Groacian national--an accusation Retief ignores in order to launch into his own accusations that the Groaci were engaged in a cover-up of the whereabouts of the ISV Terrific. Miss Meuhl continually interjects, expresses horror at Retief's claims, and apologizes to the Groacians on behalf of the Terrestrial Consulate. Despite the persistent denials of the Groacians, Retief continues his accusations, suggesting the coup d'etat was an effort to silence government officials with knowledge of the truth of what happened to the cruiser and its crew. Then he reveals what he discovered from the drunken Groacian: The crew of the ISV Terrific had been caged and paraded through the streets of Groac and then neglected until they died. Fith and Shluh finally admit the truth and offer to show Retief the hidden cruiser in order to show their contrition. When Retief sees the ship, he once again accuses the Groacians of attempting to mislead him, saying that this is a lifeboat, and he demands to see the actual ship. Fith has had enough and threatens to arrest Retief, who yields and goes back to the Consulate. There, Miss Meuhl is at her wits end. Retief orders her to barricade herself inside the office while he goes to the Foreign Ministry to gather more evidence. When he returns, Miss Meuhl informs him she has reported him to Regional Headquarters, and Retief learns he has been relieved of his post. Soon after, the Groacians appoint Miss Meuhl to his position, and Fith and Shluh enter to arrest him.

<s> THE MADMAN FROM EARTH BY KEITH LAUMER You don't have to be crazy to be an earth diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The Consul for the Terrestrial States, Retief said, presents hiscompliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the GroacianAutonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend arecital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret thathe will be unable— You can't turn this invitation down, Administrative Assistant Meuhlsaid flatly. I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'. Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke. Miss Meuhl, he said, in the past couple of weeks I've sat throughsix light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows howmany assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-dutyhour since I got here— You can't offend the Groaci, Miss Meuhl said sharply. Consul Whafflewould never have been so rude. Whaffle left here three months ago, Retief said, leaving me incharge. Well, Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. I'm sure I don'tknow what excuse I can give the Minister. Never mind the excuses, Retief said. Just tell him I won't bethere. He stood up. Are you leaving the office? Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. I havesome important letters here for your signature. I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl, Retief said,pulling on a light cape. <doc-sep>I wrote them for you. They're just as Consul Whaffle would have wantedthem. Did you write all Whaffle's letters for him, Miss Meuhl? Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man, Miss Meuhl said stiffly.He had complete confidence in me. Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on, Retief said, I won'tbe so busy. Well! Miss Meuhl said. May I ask where you'll be if something comesup? I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives. Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. Whatever for? Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. You've been here on Groacfor four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d'etat that putthe present government in power? I'm sure I haven't pried into— What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out thisway about ten years back? Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we avoid with theGroaci. I certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding— Why? The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworldersraking up things. They've been gracious enough to let us live downthe fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on oneoccasion. You mean when they came looking for the cruiser? I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed,grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We trynever to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief. They never found the cruiser, did they? Certainly not on Groac. Retief nodded. Thanks, Miss Meuhl, he said. I'll be back beforeyou close the office. Miss Meuhl's face was set in lines of grimdisapproval as he closed the door. <doc-sep>The pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressedbleat. Not to enter the Archives, he said in his faint voice. The denial ofpermission. The deep regret of the Archivist. The importance of my task here, Retief said, enunciating the glottaldialect with difficulty. My interest in local history. The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly. The necessity that I enter. The specific instructions of the Archivist. The Groacian's voice roseto a whisper. To insist no longer. To give up this idea! OK, Skinny, I know when I'm licked, Retief said in Terran. To keepyour nose clean. Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carvedwindowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in thedirection of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians onthe street eyed him furtively, veered to avoid him as he passed. Flimsyhigh-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement.The air was clean and cool. At the office, Miss Meuhl would be waiting with another list ofcomplaints. Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street.An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate theGroacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in. A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink fromthe bar-pit at the center of the room. He looked at Retief and froze inmid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot. To enjoy a cooling drink, Retief said in Groacian, squatting down atthe edge of the pit. To sample a true Groacian beverage. To not enjoy my poor offerings, the Groacian mumbled. A pain in thedigestive sacs; to express regret. To not worry, Retief said, irritated. To pour it out and let medecide whether I like it. To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of—foreigners. Thebarkeep looked around for support, found none. The Groaci customers,eyes elsewhere, were drifting away. To get the lead out, Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in thedish provided. To shake a tentacle. The procuring of a cage, a thin voice called from the sidelines. Thedisplaying of a freak. <doc-sep>Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gestureof contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent thecreature was drunk. To choke in your upper sac, the bartender hissed, extending his eyestoward the drunk. To keep silent, litter-mate of drones. To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness, the drunkwhispered. To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece. He waveredtoward Retief. To show this one in the streets, like all freaks. Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you? Retief asked, interestedly. To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder, the drunk said. Thebarkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk,took his arms and helped him to the door. To get a cage! the drunk shrilled. To keep the animals in their ownstinking place. I've changed my mind, Retief said to the bartender. To be gratefulas hell, but to have to hurry off now. He followed the drunk out thedoor. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief lookedat the weaving alien. To begone, freak, the Groacian whispered. To be pals, Retief said. To be kind to dumb animals. To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock. To not be angry, fragrant native, Retief said. To permit me to chumwith you. To flee before I take a cane to you! To have a drink together— To not endure such insolence! The Groacian advanced toward Retief.Retief backed away. To hold hands, Retief said. To be palsy-walsy— The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him,head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrowcrossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local,who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrowalley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the followingGroacian. Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacianfell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose;Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed. To not be going anywhere for a few minutes, Retief said. To stayright here and have a nice long talk. II There you are! Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. Thereare two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen. Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast. Retief pulled off hiscape. This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the ForeignMinistry. What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind tellingyou. I'm sure you don't. Come along. And bring an official recorder. Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornamentsindicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered acourteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right. I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr.Consul, the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. May I presentShluh, of the Internal Police? Sit down, gentlemen, Retief said. They resumed their seats. MissMeuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair. Oh, it's such a pleasure— she began. Never mind that, Retief said. These gentlemen didn't come here tosip tea today. So true, Fith said. Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report,Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it. He nodded to the policechief. One hour ago, The Groacian said, a Groacian national was broughtto hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of thisindividual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by aforeigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my departmentindicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that ofthe Terrestrial Consul. Miss Meuhl gasped audibly. Have you ever heard, Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, of aTerrestrial cruiser, the ISV Terrific , which dropped from sight inthis sector nine years ago? Really! Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising. I wash my hands— Just keep that recorder going, Retief snapped. I'll not be a party— You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl, Retief said quietly. I'mtelling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation. Miss Meuhl sat down. Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. You reopen an old wound,Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrialhands— Hogwash, Retief said. That tune went over with my predecessors, butit hits a sour note with me. All our efforts, Miss Meuhl said, to live down that terribleepisode! And you— Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groacand sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funnyanswers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left.Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they wereinnocent. IF! Miss Meuhl burst out. If, indeed! Fith said, his weak voice trembling. I must protestyour— <doc-sep>Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don'tthink your story will be good enough. It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten— Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory. Then you admit— It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind toit. Fith rose; Shluh followed suit. I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not foryour diplomatic immunity, I should do more— Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task forcepaid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrialdiplomatic mission. This is an internal matter! Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. Ithas outdone itself— —to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark, Retiefsaid. And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you'vevisaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside thediplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, oryour satellite— Enough! Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. I can talk no more ofthis matter— You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to dothe talking, Retief said. You can't! Miss Meuhl gasped. Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. TheGroaci sat down. Answer me this one, Retief said, looking at Shluh. A few yearsback—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Somecurious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through thestreets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show. Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed tocommunicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit. Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after theparade was over? <doc-sep>Fith made a choked noise and spoke rapidly to Shluh in Groacian. Shluhretracted his eyes, shrank down in his chair. Miss Meuhl opened hermouth, closed it and blinked rapidly. How did they die? Retief snapped. Did you murder them, cut theirthroats, shoot them or bury them alive? What amusing end did you figureout for them? Research, maybe? Cut them open to see what made themyell.... No! Fith gasped. I must correct this terrible false impression atonce. False impression, hell, Retief said. They were Terrans! A simplenarco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw theparade. Yes, Fith said weakly. It is true, they were Terrestrials. But therewas no killing. They're alive? Alas, no. They ... died. Miss Meuhl yelped faintly. I see, Retief said. They died. We tried to keep them alive, of course. But we did not know whatfoods— Didn't take the trouble to find out, either, did you? They fell ill, Fith said. One by one.... We'll deal with that question later, Retief said. Right now, I wantmore information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship?What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before thebig parade? There were no more! Absolutely, I assure you! Killed in the crash landing? No crash landing. The ship descended intact, east of the city. The ...Terrestrials ... were unharmed. Naturally, we feared them. They werestrange to us. We had never before seen such beings. Stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they? Guns? No, no guns— They raised their hands, didn't they? Asked for help. You helped them;helped them to death. How could we know? Fith moaned. How could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months lookingfor them, you mean? That was a shock, wasn't it? I'll bet you had abrisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A closecall, eh? We were afraid, Shluh said. We are a simple people. We feared thestrange creatures from the alien craft. We did not kill them, but wefelt it was as well they ... did not survive. Then, when the warshipscame, we realized our error. But we feared to speak. We purged ourguilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and ... offered ourfriendship. We invited the opening of diplomatic relations. We madea blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to makeamends.... Where is the ship? The ship? What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget.Where is it? The two Groacians exchanged looks. We wish to show our contrition, Fith said. We will show you theship. Miss Meuhl, Retief said. If I don't come back in a reasonable lengthof time, transmit that recording to Regional Headquarters, sealed. Hestood, looked at the Groaci. Let's go, he said. <doc-sep>Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern.He peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull. Any lights in here? he asked. A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up. Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Emptyemplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. Littered decking wasvisible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVSTerrific B7 New Terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy. How did you get it in here? Retief asked. It was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant,Fith said, his voice thinner than ever. This is a natural crevasse.The vessel was lowered into it and roofed over. How did you shield it so the detectors didn't pick it up? All here is high-grade iron ore, Fith said, waving a member. Greatveins of almost pure metal. Retief grunted. Let's go inside. Shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. The party entered the ship. Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interiorof the control compartment. Dust was thick on the deck, the stanchionswhere acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrumentpanels, the litter of sheared bolts, scraps of wire and paper. A thinfrosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches hadsliced away heavy shielding. There was a faint odor of stale bedding. The cargo compartment— Shluh began. I've seen enough, Retief said. Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel andinto the late afternoon sunshine. As they climbed the slope to thesteam car, Fith came to Retief's side. Indeed, I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair,he said. Now that all has been fully and honestly shown— You can skip all that, Retief said. You're nine years late. Thecrew was still alive when the task force called, I imagine. You killedthem—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting whatyou'd done. We were at fault, Fith said abjectly. Now we wish only friendship. The Terrific was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons.Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. Where isshe, Fith? I won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat. <doc-sep>Fith erected his eye stalks so violently that one eye-shield fell off. I know nothing of ... of.... He stopped. His throat vibrated rapidlyas he struggled for calm. My government can entertain no further accusations, Mr. Consul,he said at last. I have been completely candid with you, I haveoverlooked your probing into matters not properly within your sphere ofresponsibility. My patience is at an end. Where is that ship? Retief rapped out. You never learn, do you?You're still convinced you can hide the whole thing and forget it. I'mtelling you you can't. We return to the city now, Fith said. I can do no more. You can and you will, Fith, Retief said. I intend to get to thetruth of this matter. Fith spoke to Shluh in rapid Groacian. The police chief gestured to hisfour armed constables. They moved to ring Retief in. Retief eyed Fith. Don't try it, he said. You'll just get yourself indeeper. Fith clacked his mandibles angrily, eye stalks canted aggressivelytoward the Terrestrial. Out of deference to your diplomatic status, Terrestrial, I shallignore your insulting remarks, Fith said in his reedy voice. Let usnow return to the city. Retief looked at the four policemen. I see your point, he said. Fith followed him into the car, sat rigidly at the far end of the seat. I advise you to remain very close to your consulate, Fith said. Iadvise you to dismiss these fancies from your mind, and to enjoy thecultural aspects of life at Groac. Especially, I should not venture outof the city, or appear overly curious about matters of concern only tothe Groacian government. In the front seat, Shluh looked straight ahead. The loosely-sprungvehicle bobbed and swayed along the narrow highway. Retief listened tothe rhythmic puffing of the motor and said nothing. III Miss Meuhl, Retief said, I want you to listen carefully to what I'mgoing to tell you. I have to move rapidly now, to catch the Groaci offguard. I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Meuhl snapped,her eyes sharp behind the heavy lenses. If you'll listen, you may find out, Retief said. I have no timeto waste, Miss Meuhl. They won't be expecting an immediate move—Ihope—and that may give me the latitude I need. You're still determined to make an issue of that incident! MissMeuhl snorted. I really can hardly blame the Groaci. They are not asophisticated race; they had never before met aliens. You're ready to forgive a great deal, Miss Meuhl. But it's not whathappened nine years ago I'm concerned with. It's what's happening now.I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out.Don't you understand the implication? That vessel couldn't have comefar. The cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. I want to knowwhere! The Groaci don't know. They're a very cultured, gentle people. You cando irreparable harm to the reputation of Terrestrials if you insist— That's my decision, Retief said. I have a job to do and we'rewasting time. He crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer andtook out a slim-barreled needler. This office is being watched. Not very efficiently, if I know theGroaci. I think I can get past them all right. Where are you going with ... that? Miss Meuhl stared at the needler.What in the world— The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper intheir files relating to this thing. I have to get what I need beforeit's too late. If I wait for an official Inquiry Commission, they'llfind nothing but blank smiles. You're out of your mind! Miss Meuhl stood up, quivering withindignation. You're like a ... a.... You and I are in a tight spot, Miss Meuhl. The logical next move forthe Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who knowwhat happened. Fith almost did the job this afternoon, but I bluffedhim out—for the moment. Miss Meuhl emitted a shrill laugh. Your fantasies are getting thebetter of you, she gasped. In danger, indeed! Disposing of me! I'venever heard anything so ridiculous. Stay in this office. Close and safe-lock the door. You've got food andwater in the dispenser. I suggest you stock up, before they shut thesupply down. Don't let anyone in, on any pretext whatever. I'll keep intouch with you via hand-phone. What are you planning to do? If I don't make it back here, transmit the sealed record of thisafternoon's conversation, along with the information I've given you.Beam it through on a mayday priority. Then tell the Groaci what you'vedone and sit tight. I think you'll be all right. It won't be easy toblast in here and anyway, they won't make things worse by killing you.A force can be here in a week. I'll do nothing of the sort! The Groaci are very fond of me! You ...Johnny-come-lately! Roughneck! Setting out to destroy— Blame it on me if it will make you feel any better, Retief said, butdon't be fool enough to trust them. He pulled on a cape, opened thedoor. I'll be back in a couple of hours, he said. Miss Meuhl stared afterhim silently as he closed the door. <doc-sep>It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to thesafe-lock and stepped into the darkened consular office. He lookedtired. Miss Meuhl, dozing in a chair, awoke with a start. She looked atRetief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare. What in the world—Where have you been? What's happened to yourclothing? I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it. Retief went to his desk,opened a drawer and replaced the needler. Where have you been? Miss Meuhl demanded. I stayed here— I'm glad you did, Retief said. I hope you piled up a supply of foodand water from the dispenser, too. We'll be holed up here for a week,at least. He jotted figures on a pad. Warm up the official sender. Ihave a long transmission for Regional Headquarters. Are you going to tell me where you've been? I have a message to get off first, Miss Meuhl, Retief said sharply.I've been to the Foreign Ministry, he added. I'll tell you all aboutit later. At this hour? There's no one there.... Exactly. Miss Meuhl gasped. You mean you broke in? You burgled the ForeignOffice? That's right, Retief said calmly. Now— This is absolutely the end! Miss Meuhl said. Thank heaven I'vealready— Get that sender going, woman! Retief snapped. This is important. I've already done so, Mr. Retief! Miss Meuhl said harshly. I've beenwaiting for you to come back here.... She turned to the communicator,flipped levers. The screen snapped aglow, and a wavering long-distanceimage appeared. He's here now, Miss Meuhl said to the screen. She looked at Retieftriumphantly. That's good, Retief said. I don't think the Groaci can knock us offthe air, but— I have done my duty, Mr. Retief, Miss Meuhl said. I made a fullreport to Regional Headquarters last night, as soon as you left thisoffice. Any doubts I may have had as to the rightness of that decisionhave been completely dispelled by what you've just told me. Retief looked at her levelly. You've been a busy girl, Miss Meuhl. Didyou mention the six Terrestrials who were killed here? That had no bearing on the matter of your wild behavior! I must say,in all my years in the Corps, I've never encountered a personality lesssuited to diplomatic work. <doc-sep>The screen crackled, the ten-second transmission lag having elapsed.Mr. Retief, the face on the screen said, I am Counsellor Pardy,DSO-1, Deputy Under-secretary for the region. I have received areport on your conduct which makes it mandatory for me to relieve youadministratively, vice Miss Yolanda Meuhl, DAO-9. Pending the findingsof a Board of Inquiry, you will— Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphantlook faded from Miss Meuhl's face. Why, what is the meaning— If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn'tignore. I can't afford that, at this moment. Listen, Miss Meuhl,Retief went on earnestly, I've found the missing cruiser. You heard him relieve you! I heard him say he was going to, Miss Meuhl. But until I've heardand acknowledged a verbal order, it has no force. If I'm wrong, he'llget my resignation. If I'm right, that suspension would be embarrassingall around. You're defying lawful authority! I'm in charge here now. Miss Meuhlstepped to the local communicator. I'm going to report this terrible thing to the Groaci at once, andoffer my profound— Don't touch that screen, Retief said. You go sit in that cornerwhere I can keep an eye on you. I'm going to make a sealed tape fortransmission to Headquarters, along with a call for an armed taskforce. Then we'll settle down to wait. Retief ignored Miss Meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder. The local communicator chimed. Miss Meuhl jumped up, staring at it. Go ahead, Retief said. Answer it. A Groacian official appeared on the screen. Yolanda Meuhl, he said without preamble, for the Foreign Minister ofthe Groacian Autonomy, I herewith accredit you as Terrestrial Consulto Groac, in accordance with the advices transmitted to my governmentdirect from the Terrestrial Headquarters. As consul, you are requestedto make available for questioning Mr. J. Retief, former consul, inconnection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry intothe offices of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. Why, why, Miss Meuhl stammered. Yes, of course. And I do want toexpress my deepest regrets— <doc-sep>Retief rose, went to the communicator, assisted Miss Meuhl aside. Listen carefully, Fith, he said. Your bluff has been called. Youdon't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nineyears, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resistthe temptation to make matters worse than they are. Miss Meuhl, Fith said, a peace squad waits outside your consulate.It is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. As always, theGroaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but— Don't bother, Retief said. You know what was in those files I lookedover this morning. Retief turned at a sound behind him. Miss Meuhl was at the door,reaching for the safe-lock release.... Don't! Retief jumped—too late. The door burst inward. A crowd of crested Groaci pressed into the room,pushed Miss Meuhl back, aimed scatter guns at Retief. Police ChiefShluh pushed forward. Attempt no violence, Terrestrial, he said. I cannot promise torestrain my men. You're violating Terrestrial territory, Shluh, Retief said steadily.I suggest you move back out the same way you came in. I invited them here, Miss Meuhl spoke up. They are here at myexpress wish. Are they? Are you sure you meant to go this far, Miss Meuhl? A squadof armed Groaci in the consulate? You are the consul, Miss Yolanda Meuhl, Shluh said. Would it not bebest if we removed this deranged person to a place of safety? You're making a serious mistake, Shluh, Retief said. Yes, Miss Meuhl said. You're quite right, Mr. Shluh. Please escortMr. Retief to his quarters in this building— I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith, Retiefsaid. As chief of mission, Miss Meuhl said quickly, I hereby waiveimmunity in the case of Mr. Retief. Shluh produced a hand recorder. Kindly repeat your statement, Madam,officially, he said. I wish no question to arise later. Don't be a fool, woman, Retief said. Don't you see what you'reletting yourself in for? This would be a hell of a good time for you tofigure out whose side you're on. I'm on the side of common decency! You've been taken in. These people are concealing— You think all women are fools, don't you, Mr. Retief? She turned tothe police chief and spoke into the microphone he held up. That's an illegal waiver, Retief said. I'm consul here, whateverrumors you've heard. This thing's coming out into the open, whateveryou do. Don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacianatrocities. Take the man, Shluh said. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story takes place on the planet Groac, which is populated by the native Groaci. The Groaci is a skinny, pale species with a throat-bladder that vibrates when speaking with a glottal dialect in an unusual syntax. They are a sensitive race, according to Miss Meuhl, and they hide their heads and hurry along at any sign of trouble. Consul Retief has an office in the Terrestrial Consulate General and attends cultural events such as light-concerts, chamber music, and folk-art festivals. Retief suggests that these events are mere distractions from more underhanded business happening on the planet, which explains why visas are handed out for only a few terrestrial businessmen, traveling to outlying districts is forbidden, and social contacts must be limited to the diplomatic circle. Groac also has a moon that foreigners cannot visit. In addition to the Consulate General, other important government agencies exist including the Foreign Office Archives, the Ministry of Culture of the Groacian Autonomy, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and the Internal Police (called "peace-keepers"). Close to the Consulate General is the bar where Retief goes, seeking a cold drink and information. The bartender stands in the bar-pit and dispenses a Groacian beverage he insists is poisonous to foreigners due to its lead content. Retief brandishes a thick gold piece to act as a filter. Later, Fith and Shluh lead Retief to a crevasse nine miles from the supposed landing point of the ISV Terrific. Due to the large veins of high-grade iron ore, Terrestrial investigators had been unable to detect the cruiser's presence, which had been disguised by a roof of heavy timbers. Retief enters the cruiser via a narrow companionway and sees dust all over the deck, stanchions, instrument panels, sheared bolts, and scraps of wire and paper strewn about the control compartment.

<s> THE MADMAN FROM EARTH BY KEITH LAUMER You don't have to be crazy to be an earth diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The Consul for the Terrestrial States, Retief said, presents hiscompliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the GroacianAutonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend arecital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret thathe will be unable— You can't turn this invitation down, Administrative Assistant Meuhlsaid flatly. I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'. Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke. Miss Meuhl, he said, in the past couple of weeks I've sat throughsix light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows howmany assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-dutyhour since I got here— You can't offend the Groaci, Miss Meuhl said sharply. Consul Whafflewould never have been so rude. Whaffle left here three months ago, Retief said, leaving me incharge. Well, Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. I'm sure I don'tknow what excuse I can give the Minister. Never mind the excuses, Retief said. Just tell him I won't bethere. He stood up. Are you leaving the office? Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. I havesome important letters here for your signature. I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl, Retief said,pulling on a light cape. <doc-sep>I wrote them for you. They're just as Consul Whaffle would have wantedthem. Did you write all Whaffle's letters for him, Miss Meuhl? Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man, Miss Meuhl said stiffly.He had complete confidence in me. Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on, Retief said, I won'tbe so busy. Well! Miss Meuhl said. May I ask where you'll be if something comesup? I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives. Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. Whatever for? Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. You've been here on Groacfor four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d'etat that putthe present government in power? I'm sure I haven't pried into— What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out thisway about ten years back? Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we avoid with theGroaci. I certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding— Why? The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworldersraking up things. They've been gracious enough to let us live downthe fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on oneoccasion. You mean when they came looking for the cruiser? I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed,grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We trynever to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief. They never found the cruiser, did they? Certainly not on Groac. Retief nodded. Thanks, Miss Meuhl, he said. I'll be back beforeyou close the office. Miss Meuhl's face was set in lines of grimdisapproval as he closed the door. <doc-sep>The pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressedbleat. Not to enter the Archives, he said in his faint voice. The denial ofpermission. The deep regret of the Archivist. The importance of my task here, Retief said, enunciating the glottaldialect with difficulty. My interest in local history. The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly. The necessity that I enter. The specific instructions of the Archivist. The Groacian's voice roseto a whisper. To insist no longer. To give up this idea! OK, Skinny, I know when I'm licked, Retief said in Terran. To keepyour nose clean. Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carvedwindowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in thedirection of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians onthe street eyed him furtively, veered to avoid him as he passed. Flimsyhigh-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement.The air was clean and cool. At the office, Miss Meuhl would be waiting with another list ofcomplaints. Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street.An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate theGroacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in. A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink fromthe bar-pit at the center of the room. He looked at Retief and froze inmid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot. To enjoy a cooling drink, Retief said in Groacian, squatting down atthe edge of the pit. To sample a true Groacian beverage. To not enjoy my poor offerings, the Groacian mumbled. A pain in thedigestive sacs; to express regret. To not worry, Retief said, irritated. To pour it out and let medecide whether I like it. To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of—foreigners. Thebarkeep looked around for support, found none. The Groaci customers,eyes elsewhere, were drifting away. To get the lead out, Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in thedish provided. To shake a tentacle. The procuring of a cage, a thin voice called from the sidelines. Thedisplaying of a freak. <doc-sep>Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gestureof contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent thecreature was drunk. To choke in your upper sac, the bartender hissed, extending his eyestoward the drunk. To keep silent, litter-mate of drones. To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness, the drunkwhispered. To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece. He waveredtoward Retief. To show this one in the streets, like all freaks. Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you? Retief asked, interestedly. To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder, the drunk said. Thebarkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk,took his arms and helped him to the door. To get a cage! the drunk shrilled. To keep the animals in their ownstinking place. I've changed my mind, Retief said to the bartender. To be gratefulas hell, but to have to hurry off now. He followed the drunk out thedoor. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief lookedat the weaving alien. To begone, freak, the Groacian whispered. To be pals, Retief said. To be kind to dumb animals. To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock. To not be angry, fragrant native, Retief said. To permit me to chumwith you. To flee before I take a cane to you! To have a drink together— To not endure such insolence! The Groacian advanced toward Retief.Retief backed away. To hold hands, Retief said. To be palsy-walsy— The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him,head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrowcrossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local,who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrowalley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the followingGroacian. Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacianfell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose;Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed. To not be going anywhere for a few minutes, Retief said. To stayright here and have a nice long talk. II There you are! Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. Thereare two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen. Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast. Retief pulled off hiscape. This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the ForeignMinistry. What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind tellingyou. I'm sure you don't. Come along. And bring an official recorder. Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornamentsindicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered acourteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right. I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr.Consul, the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. May I presentShluh, of the Internal Police? Sit down, gentlemen, Retief said. They resumed their seats. MissMeuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair. Oh, it's such a pleasure— she began. Never mind that, Retief said. These gentlemen didn't come here tosip tea today. So true, Fith said. Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report,Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it. He nodded to the policechief. One hour ago, The Groacian said, a Groacian national was broughtto hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of thisindividual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by aforeigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my departmentindicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that ofthe Terrestrial Consul. Miss Meuhl gasped audibly. Have you ever heard, Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, of aTerrestrial cruiser, the ISV Terrific , which dropped from sight inthis sector nine years ago? Really! Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising. I wash my hands— Just keep that recorder going, Retief snapped. I'll not be a party— You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl, Retief said quietly. I'mtelling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation. Miss Meuhl sat down. Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. You reopen an old wound,Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrialhands— Hogwash, Retief said. That tune went over with my predecessors, butit hits a sour note with me. All our efforts, Miss Meuhl said, to live down that terribleepisode! And you— Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groacand sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funnyanswers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left.Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they wereinnocent. IF! Miss Meuhl burst out. If, indeed! Fith said, his weak voice trembling. I must protestyour— <doc-sep>Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don'tthink your story will be good enough. It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten— Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory. Then you admit— It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind toit. Fith rose; Shluh followed suit. I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not foryour diplomatic immunity, I should do more— Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task forcepaid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrialdiplomatic mission. This is an internal matter! Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. Ithas outdone itself— —to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark, Retiefsaid. And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you'vevisaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside thediplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, oryour satellite— Enough! Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. I can talk no more ofthis matter— You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to dothe talking, Retief said. You can't! Miss Meuhl gasped. Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. TheGroaci sat down. Answer me this one, Retief said, looking at Shluh. A few yearsback—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Somecurious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through thestreets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show. Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed tocommunicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit. Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after theparade was over? <doc-sep>Fith made a choked noise and spoke rapidly to Shluh in Groacian. Shluhretracted his eyes, shrank down in his chair. Miss Meuhl opened hermouth, closed it and blinked rapidly. How did they die? Retief snapped. Did you murder them, cut theirthroats, shoot them or bury them alive? What amusing end did you figureout for them? Research, maybe? Cut them open to see what made themyell.... No! Fith gasped. I must correct this terrible false impression atonce. False impression, hell, Retief said. They were Terrans! A simplenarco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw theparade. Yes, Fith said weakly. It is true, they were Terrestrials. But therewas no killing. They're alive? Alas, no. They ... died. Miss Meuhl yelped faintly. I see, Retief said. They died. We tried to keep them alive, of course. But we did not know whatfoods— Didn't take the trouble to find out, either, did you? They fell ill, Fith said. One by one.... We'll deal with that question later, Retief said. Right now, I wantmore information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship?What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before thebig parade? There were no more! Absolutely, I assure you! Killed in the crash landing? No crash landing. The ship descended intact, east of the city. The ...Terrestrials ... were unharmed. Naturally, we feared them. They werestrange to us. We had never before seen such beings. Stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they? Guns? No, no guns— They raised their hands, didn't they? Asked for help. You helped them;helped them to death. How could we know? Fith moaned. How could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months lookingfor them, you mean? That was a shock, wasn't it? I'll bet you had abrisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A closecall, eh? We were afraid, Shluh said. We are a simple people. We feared thestrange creatures from the alien craft. We did not kill them, but wefelt it was as well they ... did not survive. Then, when the warshipscame, we realized our error. But we feared to speak. We purged ourguilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and ... offered ourfriendship. We invited the opening of diplomatic relations. We madea blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to makeamends.... Where is the ship? The ship? What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget.Where is it? The two Groacians exchanged looks. We wish to show our contrition, Fith said. We will show you theship. Miss Meuhl, Retief said. If I don't come back in a reasonable lengthof time, transmit that recording to Regional Headquarters, sealed. Hestood, looked at the Groaci. Let's go, he said. <doc-sep>Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern.He peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull. Any lights in here? he asked. A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up. Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Emptyemplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. Littered decking wasvisible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVSTerrific B7 New Terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy. How did you get it in here? Retief asked. It was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant,Fith said, his voice thinner than ever. This is a natural crevasse.The vessel was lowered into it and roofed over. How did you shield it so the detectors didn't pick it up? All here is high-grade iron ore, Fith said, waving a member. Greatveins of almost pure metal. Retief grunted. Let's go inside. Shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. The party entered the ship. Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interiorof the control compartment. Dust was thick on the deck, the stanchionswhere acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrumentpanels, the litter of sheared bolts, scraps of wire and paper. A thinfrosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches hadsliced away heavy shielding. There was a faint odor of stale bedding. The cargo compartment— Shluh began. I've seen enough, Retief said. Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel andinto the late afternoon sunshine. As they climbed the slope to thesteam car, Fith came to Retief's side. Indeed, I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair,he said. Now that all has been fully and honestly shown— You can skip all that, Retief said. You're nine years late. Thecrew was still alive when the task force called, I imagine. You killedthem—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting whatyou'd done. We were at fault, Fith said abjectly. Now we wish only friendship. The Terrific was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons.Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. Where isshe, Fith? I won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat. <doc-sep>Fith erected his eye stalks so violently that one eye-shield fell off. I know nothing of ... of.... He stopped. His throat vibrated rapidlyas he struggled for calm. My government can entertain no further accusations, Mr. Consul,he said at last. I have been completely candid with you, I haveoverlooked your probing into matters not properly within your sphere ofresponsibility. My patience is at an end. Where is that ship? Retief rapped out. You never learn, do you?You're still convinced you can hide the whole thing and forget it. I'mtelling you you can't. We return to the city now, Fith said. I can do no more. You can and you will, Fith, Retief said. I intend to get to thetruth of this matter. Fith spoke to Shluh in rapid Groacian. The police chief gestured to hisfour armed constables. They moved to ring Retief in. Retief eyed Fith. Don't try it, he said. You'll just get yourself indeeper. Fith clacked his mandibles angrily, eye stalks canted aggressivelytoward the Terrestrial. Out of deference to your diplomatic status, Terrestrial, I shallignore your insulting remarks, Fith said in his reedy voice. Let usnow return to the city. Retief looked at the four policemen. I see your point, he said. Fith followed him into the car, sat rigidly at the far end of the seat. I advise you to remain very close to your consulate, Fith said. Iadvise you to dismiss these fancies from your mind, and to enjoy thecultural aspects of life at Groac. Especially, I should not venture outof the city, or appear overly curious about matters of concern only tothe Groacian government. In the front seat, Shluh looked straight ahead. The loosely-sprungvehicle bobbed and swayed along the narrow highway. Retief listened tothe rhythmic puffing of the motor and said nothing. III Miss Meuhl, Retief said, I want you to listen carefully to what I'mgoing to tell you. I have to move rapidly now, to catch the Groaci offguard. I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Meuhl snapped,her eyes sharp behind the heavy lenses. If you'll listen, you may find out, Retief said. I have no timeto waste, Miss Meuhl. They won't be expecting an immediate move—Ihope—and that may give me the latitude I need. You're still determined to make an issue of that incident! MissMeuhl snorted. I really can hardly blame the Groaci. They are not asophisticated race; they had never before met aliens. You're ready to forgive a great deal, Miss Meuhl. But it's not whathappened nine years ago I'm concerned with. It's what's happening now.I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out.Don't you understand the implication? That vessel couldn't have comefar. The cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. I want to knowwhere! The Groaci don't know. They're a very cultured, gentle people. You cando irreparable harm to the reputation of Terrestrials if you insist— That's my decision, Retief said. I have a job to do and we'rewasting time. He crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer andtook out a slim-barreled needler. This office is being watched. Not very efficiently, if I know theGroaci. I think I can get past them all right. Where are you going with ... that? Miss Meuhl stared at the needler.What in the world— The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper intheir files relating to this thing. I have to get what I need beforeit's too late. If I wait for an official Inquiry Commission, they'llfind nothing but blank smiles. You're out of your mind! Miss Meuhl stood up, quivering withindignation. You're like a ... a.... You and I are in a tight spot, Miss Meuhl. The logical next move forthe Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who knowwhat happened. Fith almost did the job this afternoon, but I bluffedhim out—for the moment. Miss Meuhl emitted a shrill laugh. Your fantasies are getting thebetter of you, she gasped. In danger, indeed! Disposing of me! I'venever heard anything so ridiculous. Stay in this office. Close and safe-lock the door. You've got food andwater in the dispenser. I suggest you stock up, before they shut thesupply down. Don't let anyone in, on any pretext whatever. I'll keep intouch with you via hand-phone. What are you planning to do? If I don't make it back here, transmit the sealed record of thisafternoon's conversation, along with the information I've given you.Beam it through on a mayday priority. Then tell the Groaci what you'vedone and sit tight. I think you'll be all right. It won't be easy toblast in here and anyway, they won't make things worse by killing you.A force can be here in a week. I'll do nothing of the sort! The Groaci are very fond of me! You ...Johnny-come-lately! Roughneck! Setting out to destroy— Blame it on me if it will make you feel any better, Retief said, butdon't be fool enough to trust them. He pulled on a cape, opened thedoor. I'll be back in a couple of hours, he said. Miss Meuhl stared afterhim silently as he closed the door. <doc-sep>It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to thesafe-lock and stepped into the darkened consular office. He lookedtired. Miss Meuhl, dozing in a chair, awoke with a start. She looked atRetief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare. What in the world—Where have you been? What's happened to yourclothing? I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it. Retief went to his desk,opened a drawer and replaced the needler. Where have you been? Miss Meuhl demanded. I stayed here— I'm glad you did, Retief said. I hope you piled up a supply of foodand water from the dispenser, too. We'll be holed up here for a week,at least. He jotted figures on a pad. Warm up the official sender. Ihave a long transmission for Regional Headquarters. Are you going to tell me where you've been? I have a message to get off first, Miss Meuhl, Retief said sharply.I've been to the Foreign Ministry, he added. I'll tell you all aboutit later. At this hour? There's no one there.... Exactly. Miss Meuhl gasped. You mean you broke in? You burgled the ForeignOffice? That's right, Retief said calmly. Now— This is absolutely the end! Miss Meuhl said. Thank heaven I'vealready— Get that sender going, woman! Retief snapped. This is important. I've already done so, Mr. Retief! Miss Meuhl said harshly. I've beenwaiting for you to come back here.... She turned to the communicator,flipped levers. The screen snapped aglow, and a wavering long-distanceimage appeared. He's here now, Miss Meuhl said to the screen. She looked at Retieftriumphantly. That's good, Retief said. I don't think the Groaci can knock us offthe air, but— I have done my duty, Mr. Retief, Miss Meuhl said. I made a fullreport to Regional Headquarters last night, as soon as you left thisoffice. Any doubts I may have had as to the rightness of that decisionhave been completely dispelled by what you've just told me. Retief looked at her levelly. You've been a busy girl, Miss Meuhl. Didyou mention the six Terrestrials who were killed here? That had no bearing on the matter of your wild behavior! I must say,in all my years in the Corps, I've never encountered a personality lesssuited to diplomatic work. <doc-sep>The screen crackled, the ten-second transmission lag having elapsed.Mr. Retief, the face on the screen said, I am Counsellor Pardy,DSO-1, Deputy Under-secretary for the region. I have received areport on your conduct which makes it mandatory for me to relieve youadministratively, vice Miss Yolanda Meuhl, DAO-9. Pending the findingsof a Board of Inquiry, you will— Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphantlook faded from Miss Meuhl's face. Why, what is the meaning— If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn'tignore. I can't afford that, at this moment. Listen, Miss Meuhl,Retief went on earnestly, I've found the missing cruiser. You heard him relieve you! I heard him say he was going to, Miss Meuhl. But until I've heardand acknowledged a verbal order, it has no force. If I'm wrong, he'llget my resignation. If I'm right, that suspension would be embarrassingall around. You're defying lawful authority! I'm in charge here now. Miss Meuhlstepped to the local communicator. I'm going to report this terrible thing to the Groaci at once, andoffer my profound— Don't touch that screen, Retief said. You go sit in that cornerwhere I can keep an eye on you. I'm going to make a sealed tape fortransmission to Headquarters, along with a call for an armed taskforce. Then we'll settle down to wait. Retief ignored Miss Meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder. The local communicator chimed. Miss Meuhl jumped up, staring at it. Go ahead, Retief said. Answer it. A Groacian official appeared on the screen. Yolanda Meuhl, he said without preamble, for the Foreign Minister ofthe Groacian Autonomy, I herewith accredit you as Terrestrial Consulto Groac, in accordance with the advices transmitted to my governmentdirect from the Terrestrial Headquarters. As consul, you are requestedto make available for questioning Mr. J. Retief, former consul, inconnection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry intothe offices of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. Why, why, Miss Meuhl stammered. Yes, of course. And I do want toexpress my deepest regrets— <doc-sep>Retief rose, went to the communicator, assisted Miss Meuhl aside. Listen carefully, Fith, he said. Your bluff has been called. Youdon't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nineyears, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resistthe temptation to make matters worse than they are. Miss Meuhl, Fith said, a peace squad waits outside your consulate.It is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. As always, theGroaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but— Don't bother, Retief said. You know what was in those files I lookedover this morning. Retief turned at a sound behind him. Miss Meuhl was at the door,reaching for the safe-lock release.... Don't! Retief jumped—too late. The door burst inward. A crowd of crested Groaci pressed into the room,pushed Miss Meuhl back, aimed scatter guns at Retief. Police ChiefShluh pushed forward. Attempt no violence, Terrestrial, he said. I cannot promise torestrain my men. You're violating Terrestrial territory, Shluh, Retief said steadily.I suggest you move back out the same way you came in. I invited them here, Miss Meuhl spoke up. They are here at myexpress wish. Are they? Are you sure you meant to go this far, Miss Meuhl? A squadof armed Groaci in the consulate? You are the consul, Miss Yolanda Meuhl, Shluh said. Would it not bebest if we removed this deranged person to a place of safety? You're making a serious mistake, Shluh, Retief said. Yes, Miss Meuhl said. You're quite right, Mr. Shluh. Please escortMr. Retief to his quarters in this building— I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith, Retiefsaid. As chief of mission, Miss Meuhl said quickly, I hereby waiveimmunity in the case of Mr. Retief. Shluh produced a hand recorder. Kindly repeat your statement, Madam,officially, he said. I wish no question to arise later. Don't be a fool, woman, Retief said. Don't you see what you'reletting yourself in for? This would be a hell of a good time for you tofigure out whose side you're on. I'm on the side of common decency! You've been taken in. These people are concealing— You think all women are fools, don't you, Mr. Retief? She turned tothe police chief and spoke into the microphone he held up. That's an illegal waiver, Retief said. I'm consul here, whateverrumors you've heard. This thing's coming out into the open, whateveryou do. Don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacianatrocities. Take the man, Shluh said. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Fith is a Groacian who works with the Terrestrial Desk at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. His associate, Shluh, is the police chief of the Internal Police. While both are Groacians, they speak to Retief in a lisping Terran and wear heavy eye-shields and elaborately-decorated crest ornaments indicating their rank. Fith does most of the talking as he attempts to convince Retief to cease his inquiries into the ISV Terrific, and Shluh is there primarily as a tool with which to threaten Retief. When the two Groacians first meet Retief, they accuse him of attacking a Groacian national, which Retief admits to, but he quickly reveals what the national confessed to him about the fate of ISV Terrific's crew. Although Miss Meuhl is sympathetic to the supposed sensitive nature of the Groaci, Retief distrusts them wholly, and when Fith and Shluh eventually confess to hiding the ISV Terrific, he further distrusts their sincerity of contrition and accuses them of showing him a lifeboat instead of the missing cruiser. This accusation infuriates Fith, who threatens to have Shluh's attending officers arrest Retief on the spot. Later, following Retief's break-in at the Foreign Ministry, Fith appoints Miss Meuh as Consul for the Terrestrial States and orders Shluh to arrest Retief.

<s> THE MADMAN FROM EARTH BY KEITH LAUMER You don't have to be crazy to be an earth diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The Consul for the Terrestrial States, Retief said, presents hiscompliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the GroacianAutonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend arecital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret thathe will be unable— You can't turn this invitation down, Administrative Assistant Meuhlsaid flatly. I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'. Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke. Miss Meuhl, he said, in the past couple of weeks I've sat throughsix light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows howmany assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-dutyhour since I got here— You can't offend the Groaci, Miss Meuhl said sharply. Consul Whafflewould never have been so rude. Whaffle left here three months ago, Retief said, leaving me incharge. Well, Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. I'm sure I don'tknow what excuse I can give the Minister. Never mind the excuses, Retief said. Just tell him I won't bethere. He stood up. Are you leaving the office? Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. I havesome important letters here for your signature. I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl, Retief said,pulling on a light cape. <doc-sep>I wrote them for you. They're just as Consul Whaffle would have wantedthem. Did you write all Whaffle's letters for him, Miss Meuhl? Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man, Miss Meuhl said stiffly.He had complete confidence in me. Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on, Retief said, I won'tbe so busy. Well! Miss Meuhl said. May I ask where you'll be if something comesup? I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives. Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. Whatever for? Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. You've been here on Groacfor four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d'etat that putthe present government in power? I'm sure I haven't pried into— What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out thisway about ten years back? Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we avoid with theGroaci. I certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding— Why? The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworldersraking up things. They've been gracious enough to let us live downthe fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on oneoccasion. You mean when they came looking for the cruiser? I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed,grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We trynever to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief. They never found the cruiser, did they? Certainly not on Groac. Retief nodded. Thanks, Miss Meuhl, he said. I'll be back beforeyou close the office. Miss Meuhl's face was set in lines of grimdisapproval as he closed the door. <doc-sep>The pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressedbleat. Not to enter the Archives, he said in his faint voice. The denial ofpermission. The deep regret of the Archivist. The importance of my task here, Retief said, enunciating the glottaldialect with difficulty. My interest in local history. The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly. The necessity that I enter. The specific instructions of the Archivist. The Groacian's voice roseto a whisper. To insist no longer. To give up this idea! OK, Skinny, I know when I'm licked, Retief said in Terran. To keepyour nose clean. Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carvedwindowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in thedirection of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians onthe street eyed him furtively, veered to avoid him as he passed. Flimsyhigh-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement.The air was clean and cool. At the office, Miss Meuhl would be waiting with another list ofcomplaints. Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street.An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate theGroacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in. A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink fromthe bar-pit at the center of the room. He looked at Retief and froze inmid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot. To enjoy a cooling drink, Retief said in Groacian, squatting down atthe edge of the pit. To sample a true Groacian beverage. To not enjoy my poor offerings, the Groacian mumbled. A pain in thedigestive sacs; to express regret. To not worry, Retief said, irritated. To pour it out and let medecide whether I like it. To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of—foreigners. Thebarkeep looked around for support, found none. The Groaci customers,eyes elsewhere, were drifting away. To get the lead out, Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in thedish provided. To shake a tentacle. The procuring of a cage, a thin voice called from the sidelines. Thedisplaying of a freak. <doc-sep>Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gestureof contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent thecreature was drunk. To choke in your upper sac, the bartender hissed, extending his eyestoward the drunk. To keep silent, litter-mate of drones. To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness, the drunkwhispered. To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece. He waveredtoward Retief. To show this one in the streets, like all freaks. Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you? Retief asked, interestedly. To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder, the drunk said. Thebarkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk,took his arms and helped him to the door. To get a cage! the drunk shrilled. To keep the animals in their ownstinking place. I've changed my mind, Retief said to the bartender. To be gratefulas hell, but to have to hurry off now. He followed the drunk out thedoor. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief lookedat the weaving alien. To begone, freak, the Groacian whispered. To be pals, Retief said. To be kind to dumb animals. To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock. To not be angry, fragrant native, Retief said. To permit me to chumwith you. To flee before I take a cane to you! To have a drink together— To not endure such insolence! The Groacian advanced toward Retief.Retief backed away. To hold hands, Retief said. To be palsy-walsy— The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him,head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrowcrossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local,who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrowalley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the followingGroacian. Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacianfell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose;Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed. To not be going anywhere for a few minutes, Retief said. To stayright here and have a nice long talk. II There you are! Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. Thereare two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen. Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast. Retief pulled off hiscape. This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the ForeignMinistry. What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind tellingyou. I'm sure you don't. Come along. And bring an official recorder. Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornamentsindicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered acourteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right. I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr.Consul, the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. May I presentShluh, of the Internal Police? Sit down, gentlemen, Retief said. They resumed their seats. MissMeuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair. Oh, it's such a pleasure— she began. Never mind that, Retief said. These gentlemen didn't come here tosip tea today. So true, Fith said. Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report,Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it. He nodded to the policechief. One hour ago, The Groacian said, a Groacian national was broughtto hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of thisindividual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by aforeigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my departmentindicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that ofthe Terrestrial Consul. Miss Meuhl gasped audibly. Have you ever heard, Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, of aTerrestrial cruiser, the ISV Terrific , which dropped from sight inthis sector nine years ago? Really! Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising. I wash my hands— Just keep that recorder going, Retief snapped. I'll not be a party— You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl, Retief said quietly. I'mtelling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation. Miss Meuhl sat down. Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. You reopen an old wound,Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrialhands— Hogwash, Retief said. That tune went over with my predecessors, butit hits a sour note with me. All our efforts, Miss Meuhl said, to live down that terribleepisode! And you— Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groacand sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funnyanswers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left.Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they wereinnocent. IF! Miss Meuhl burst out. If, indeed! Fith said, his weak voice trembling. I must protestyour— <doc-sep>Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don'tthink your story will be good enough. It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten— Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory. Then you admit— It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind toit. Fith rose; Shluh followed suit. I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not foryour diplomatic immunity, I should do more— Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task forcepaid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrialdiplomatic mission. This is an internal matter! Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. Ithas outdone itself— —to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark, Retiefsaid. And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you'vevisaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside thediplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, oryour satellite— Enough! Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. I can talk no more ofthis matter— You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to dothe talking, Retief said. You can't! Miss Meuhl gasped. Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. TheGroaci sat down. Answer me this one, Retief said, looking at Shluh. A few yearsback—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Somecurious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through thestreets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show. Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed tocommunicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit. Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after theparade was over? <doc-sep>Fith made a choked noise and spoke rapidly to Shluh in Groacian. Shluhretracted his eyes, shrank down in his chair. Miss Meuhl opened hermouth, closed it and blinked rapidly. How did they die? Retief snapped. Did you murder them, cut theirthroats, shoot them or bury them alive? What amusing end did you figureout for them? Research, maybe? Cut them open to see what made themyell.... No! Fith gasped. I must correct this terrible false impression atonce. False impression, hell, Retief said. They were Terrans! A simplenarco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw theparade. Yes, Fith said weakly. It is true, they were Terrestrials. But therewas no killing. They're alive? Alas, no. They ... died. Miss Meuhl yelped faintly. I see, Retief said. They died. We tried to keep them alive, of course. But we did not know whatfoods— Didn't take the trouble to find out, either, did you? They fell ill, Fith said. One by one.... We'll deal with that question later, Retief said. Right now, I wantmore information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship?What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before thebig parade? There were no more! Absolutely, I assure you! Killed in the crash landing? No crash landing. The ship descended intact, east of the city. The ...Terrestrials ... were unharmed. Naturally, we feared them. They werestrange to us. We had never before seen such beings. Stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they? Guns? No, no guns— They raised their hands, didn't they? Asked for help. You helped them;helped them to death. How could we know? Fith moaned. How could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months lookingfor them, you mean? That was a shock, wasn't it? I'll bet you had abrisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A closecall, eh? We were afraid, Shluh said. We are a simple people. We feared thestrange creatures from the alien craft. We did not kill them, but wefelt it was as well they ... did not survive. Then, when the warshipscame, we realized our error. But we feared to speak. We purged ourguilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and ... offered ourfriendship. We invited the opening of diplomatic relations. We madea blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to makeamends.... Where is the ship? The ship? What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget.Where is it? The two Groacians exchanged looks. We wish to show our contrition, Fith said. We will show you theship. Miss Meuhl, Retief said. If I don't come back in a reasonable lengthof time, transmit that recording to Regional Headquarters, sealed. Hestood, looked at the Groaci. Let's go, he said. <doc-sep>Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern.He peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull. Any lights in here? he asked. A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up. Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Emptyemplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. Littered decking wasvisible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVSTerrific B7 New Terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy. How did you get it in here? Retief asked. It was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant,Fith said, his voice thinner than ever. This is a natural crevasse.The vessel was lowered into it and roofed over. How did you shield it so the detectors didn't pick it up? All here is high-grade iron ore, Fith said, waving a member. Greatveins of almost pure metal. Retief grunted. Let's go inside. Shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. The party entered the ship. Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interiorof the control compartment. Dust was thick on the deck, the stanchionswhere acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrumentpanels, the litter of sheared bolts, scraps of wire and paper. A thinfrosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches hadsliced away heavy shielding. There was a faint odor of stale bedding. The cargo compartment— Shluh began. I've seen enough, Retief said. Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel andinto the late afternoon sunshine. As they climbed the slope to thesteam car, Fith came to Retief's side. Indeed, I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair,he said. Now that all has been fully and honestly shown— You can skip all that, Retief said. You're nine years late. Thecrew was still alive when the task force called, I imagine. You killedthem—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting whatyou'd done. We were at fault, Fith said abjectly. Now we wish only friendship. The Terrific was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons.Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. Where isshe, Fith? I won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat. <doc-sep>Fith erected his eye stalks so violently that one eye-shield fell off. I know nothing of ... of.... He stopped. His throat vibrated rapidlyas he struggled for calm. My government can entertain no further accusations, Mr. Consul,he said at last. I have been completely candid with you, I haveoverlooked your probing into matters not properly within your sphere ofresponsibility. My patience is at an end. Where is that ship? Retief rapped out. You never learn, do you?You're still convinced you can hide the whole thing and forget it. I'mtelling you you can't. We return to the city now, Fith said. I can do no more. You can and you will, Fith, Retief said. I intend to get to thetruth of this matter. Fith spoke to Shluh in rapid Groacian. The police chief gestured to hisfour armed constables. They moved to ring Retief in. Retief eyed Fith. Don't try it, he said. You'll just get yourself indeeper. Fith clacked his mandibles angrily, eye stalks canted aggressivelytoward the Terrestrial. Out of deference to your diplomatic status, Terrestrial, I shallignore your insulting remarks, Fith said in his reedy voice. Let usnow return to the city. Retief looked at the four policemen. I see your point, he said. Fith followed him into the car, sat rigidly at the far end of the seat. I advise you to remain very close to your consulate, Fith said. Iadvise you to dismiss these fancies from your mind, and to enjoy thecultural aspects of life at Groac. Especially, I should not venture outof the city, or appear overly curious about matters of concern only tothe Groacian government. In the front seat, Shluh looked straight ahead. The loosely-sprungvehicle bobbed and swayed along the narrow highway. Retief listened tothe rhythmic puffing of the motor and said nothing. III Miss Meuhl, Retief said, I want you to listen carefully to what I'mgoing to tell you. I have to move rapidly now, to catch the Groaci offguard. I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Meuhl snapped,her eyes sharp behind the heavy lenses. If you'll listen, you may find out, Retief said. I have no timeto waste, Miss Meuhl. They won't be expecting an immediate move—Ihope—and that may give me the latitude I need. You're still determined to make an issue of that incident! MissMeuhl snorted. I really can hardly blame the Groaci. They are not asophisticated race; they had never before met aliens. You're ready to forgive a great deal, Miss Meuhl. But it's not whathappened nine years ago I'm concerned with. It's what's happening now.I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out.Don't you understand the implication? That vessel couldn't have comefar. The cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. I want to knowwhere! The Groaci don't know. They're a very cultured, gentle people. You cando irreparable harm to the reputation of Terrestrials if you insist— That's my decision, Retief said. I have a job to do and we'rewasting time. He crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer andtook out a slim-barreled needler. This office is being watched. Not very efficiently, if I know theGroaci. I think I can get past them all right. Where are you going with ... that? Miss Meuhl stared at the needler.What in the world— The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper intheir files relating to this thing. I have to get what I need beforeit's too late. If I wait for an official Inquiry Commission, they'llfind nothing but blank smiles. You're out of your mind! Miss Meuhl stood up, quivering withindignation. You're like a ... a.... You and I are in a tight spot, Miss Meuhl. The logical next move forthe Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who knowwhat happened. Fith almost did the job this afternoon, but I bluffedhim out—for the moment. Miss Meuhl emitted a shrill laugh. Your fantasies are getting thebetter of you, she gasped. In danger, indeed! Disposing of me! I'venever heard anything so ridiculous. Stay in this office. Close and safe-lock the door. You've got food andwater in the dispenser. I suggest you stock up, before they shut thesupply down. Don't let anyone in, on any pretext whatever. I'll keep intouch with you via hand-phone. What are you planning to do? If I don't make it back here, transmit the sealed record of thisafternoon's conversation, along with the information I've given you.Beam it through on a mayday priority. Then tell the Groaci what you'vedone and sit tight. I think you'll be all right. It won't be easy toblast in here and anyway, they won't make things worse by killing you.A force can be here in a week. I'll do nothing of the sort! The Groaci are very fond of me! You ...Johnny-come-lately! Roughneck! Setting out to destroy— Blame it on me if it will make you feel any better, Retief said, butdon't be fool enough to trust them. He pulled on a cape, opened thedoor. I'll be back in a couple of hours, he said. Miss Meuhl stared afterhim silently as he closed the door. <doc-sep>It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to thesafe-lock and stepped into the darkened consular office. He lookedtired. Miss Meuhl, dozing in a chair, awoke with a start. She looked atRetief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare. What in the world—Where have you been? What's happened to yourclothing? I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it. Retief went to his desk,opened a drawer and replaced the needler. Where have you been? Miss Meuhl demanded. I stayed here— I'm glad you did, Retief said. I hope you piled up a supply of foodand water from the dispenser, too. We'll be holed up here for a week,at least. He jotted figures on a pad. Warm up the official sender. Ihave a long transmission for Regional Headquarters. Are you going to tell me where you've been? I have a message to get off first, Miss Meuhl, Retief said sharply.I've been to the Foreign Ministry, he added. I'll tell you all aboutit later. At this hour? There's no one there.... Exactly. Miss Meuhl gasped. You mean you broke in? You burgled the ForeignOffice? That's right, Retief said calmly. Now— This is absolutely the end! Miss Meuhl said. Thank heaven I'vealready— Get that sender going, woman! Retief snapped. This is important. I've already done so, Mr. Retief! Miss Meuhl said harshly. I've beenwaiting for you to come back here.... She turned to the communicator,flipped levers. The screen snapped aglow, and a wavering long-distanceimage appeared. He's here now, Miss Meuhl said to the screen. She looked at Retieftriumphantly. That's good, Retief said. I don't think the Groaci can knock us offthe air, but— I have done my duty, Mr. Retief, Miss Meuhl said. I made a fullreport to Regional Headquarters last night, as soon as you left thisoffice. Any doubts I may have had as to the rightness of that decisionhave been completely dispelled by what you've just told me. Retief looked at her levelly. You've been a busy girl, Miss Meuhl. Didyou mention the six Terrestrials who were killed here? That had no bearing on the matter of your wild behavior! I must say,in all my years in the Corps, I've never encountered a personality lesssuited to diplomatic work. <doc-sep>The screen crackled, the ten-second transmission lag having elapsed.Mr. Retief, the face on the screen said, I am Counsellor Pardy,DSO-1, Deputy Under-secretary for the region. I have received areport on your conduct which makes it mandatory for me to relieve youadministratively, vice Miss Yolanda Meuhl, DAO-9. Pending the findingsof a Board of Inquiry, you will— Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphantlook faded from Miss Meuhl's face. Why, what is the meaning— If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn'tignore. I can't afford that, at this moment. Listen, Miss Meuhl,Retief went on earnestly, I've found the missing cruiser. You heard him relieve you! I heard him say he was going to, Miss Meuhl. But until I've heardand acknowledged a verbal order, it has no force. If I'm wrong, he'llget my resignation. If I'm right, that suspension would be embarrassingall around. You're defying lawful authority! I'm in charge here now. Miss Meuhlstepped to the local communicator. I'm going to report this terrible thing to the Groaci at once, andoffer my profound— Don't touch that screen, Retief said. You go sit in that cornerwhere I can keep an eye on you. I'm going to make a sealed tape fortransmission to Headquarters, along with a call for an armed taskforce. Then we'll settle down to wait. Retief ignored Miss Meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder. The local communicator chimed. Miss Meuhl jumped up, staring at it. Go ahead, Retief said. Answer it. A Groacian official appeared on the screen. Yolanda Meuhl, he said without preamble, for the Foreign Minister ofthe Groacian Autonomy, I herewith accredit you as Terrestrial Consulto Groac, in accordance with the advices transmitted to my governmentdirect from the Terrestrial Headquarters. As consul, you are requestedto make available for questioning Mr. J. Retief, former consul, inconnection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry intothe offices of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. Why, why, Miss Meuhl stammered. Yes, of course. And I do want toexpress my deepest regrets— <doc-sep>Retief rose, went to the communicator, assisted Miss Meuhl aside. Listen carefully, Fith, he said. Your bluff has been called. Youdon't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nineyears, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resistthe temptation to make matters worse than they are. Miss Meuhl, Fith said, a peace squad waits outside your consulate.It is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. As always, theGroaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but— Don't bother, Retief said. You know what was in those files I lookedover this morning. Retief turned at a sound behind him. Miss Meuhl was at the door,reaching for the safe-lock release.... Don't! Retief jumped—too late. The door burst inward. A crowd of crested Groaci pressed into the room,pushed Miss Meuhl back, aimed scatter guns at Retief. Police ChiefShluh pushed forward. Attempt no violence, Terrestrial, he said. I cannot promise torestrain my men. You're violating Terrestrial territory, Shluh, Retief said steadily.I suggest you move back out the same way you came in. I invited them here, Miss Meuhl spoke up. They are here at myexpress wish. Are they? Are you sure you meant to go this far, Miss Meuhl? A squadof armed Groaci in the consulate? You are the consul, Miss Yolanda Meuhl, Shluh said. Would it not bebest if we removed this deranged person to a place of safety? You're making a serious mistake, Shluh, Retief said. Yes, Miss Meuhl said. You're quite right, Mr. Shluh. Please escortMr. Retief to his quarters in this building— I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith, Retiefsaid. As chief of mission, Miss Meuhl said quickly, I hereby waiveimmunity in the case of Mr. Retief. Shluh produced a hand recorder. Kindly repeat your statement, Madam,officially, he said. I wish no question to arise later. Don't be a fool, woman, Retief said. Don't you see what you'reletting yourself in for? This would be a hell of a good time for you tofigure out whose side you're on. I'm on the side of common decency! You've been taken in. These people are concealing— You think all women are fools, don't you, Mr. Retief? She turned tothe police chief and spoke into the microphone he held up. That's an illegal waiver, Retief said. I'm consul here, whateverrumors you've heard. This thing's coming out into the open, whateveryou do. Don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacianatrocities. Take the man, Shluh said. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The ISV Terrific, full name ISV Terrific B7 New Terra, was a Terrestrial cruiser gone missing nine years prior to the events of the story. The vessel landed on Groac and its crew was captured and paraded through the streets by the Groaci. The crew died of mysterious causes and the vessel was hidden in a cavern and undetectable by investigators thanks to large veins of high-grade iron ore under the planet's surface. After a Terrestrial investigation failed to uncover the cruiser, a Groacian coup d'etat replaced the government in the time before the establishment of the Terrestrial Consulate General. Fith and Shluh deny any wrongdoing related to the deaths of the crewmembers when Retief confronts them about the situation, insisting that the crew died because the Groaci were ignorant about the Terran diet. They do, however, admit that they hid the cruiser. When they lead Retief to the ship, he observes its state of disrepair: A thick layer of dust covers the deck, stanchions, acceleration couches, instrument panels, sheared bolts, and scraps of wire and paper strewn about the control compartment. Then, Retief accuses them of attempting to continue their deception by showing him a lifeboat instead of the actual cruiser. This enrages Fith. The disappearance of the ISV Terrific, the coup d'etat that followed, and the subsequent incompetent Terrestrial investigation had led Retief to conduct the investigation in the first place and ultimately reveal that the Groacians are trying to hide something more sinister.

<s> THE MADMAN FROM EARTH BY KEITH LAUMER You don't have to be crazy to be an earth diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The Consul for the Terrestrial States, Retief said, presents hiscompliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the GroacianAutonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend arecital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret thathe will be unable— You can't turn this invitation down, Administrative Assistant Meuhlsaid flatly. I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'. Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke. Miss Meuhl, he said, in the past couple of weeks I've sat throughsix light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows howmany assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-dutyhour since I got here— You can't offend the Groaci, Miss Meuhl said sharply. Consul Whafflewould never have been so rude. Whaffle left here three months ago, Retief said, leaving me incharge. Well, Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. I'm sure I don'tknow what excuse I can give the Minister. Never mind the excuses, Retief said. Just tell him I won't bethere. He stood up. Are you leaving the office? Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. I havesome important letters here for your signature. I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl, Retief said,pulling on a light cape. <doc-sep>I wrote them for you. They're just as Consul Whaffle would have wantedthem. Did you write all Whaffle's letters for him, Miss Meuhl? Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man, Miss Meuhl said stiffly.He had complete confidence in me. Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on, Retief said, I won'tbe so busy. Well! Miss Meuhl said. May I ask where you'll be if something comesup? I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives. Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. Whatever for? Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. You've been here on Groacfor four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d'etat that putthe present government in power? I'm sure I haven't pried into— What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out thisway about ten years back? Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we avoid with theGroaci. I certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding— Why? The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworldersraking up things. They've been gracious enough to let us live downthe fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on oneoccasion. You mean when they came looking for the cruiser? I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed,grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We trynever to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief. They never found the cruiser, did they? Certainly not on Groac. Retief nodded. Thanks, Miss Meuhl, he said. I'll be back beforeyou close the office. Miss Meuhl's face was set in lines of grimdisapproval as he closed the door. <doc-sep>The pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressedbleat. Not to enter the Archives, he said in his faint voice. The denial ofpermission. The deep regret of the Archivist. The importance of my task here, Retief said, enunciating the glottaldialect with difficulty. My interest in local history. The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly. The necessity that I enter. The specific instructions of the Archivist. The Groacian's voice roseto a whisper. To insist no longer. To give up this idea! OK, Skinny, I know when I'm licked, Retief said in Terran. To keepyour nose clean. Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carvedwindowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in thedirection of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians onthe street eyed him furtively, veered to avoid him as he passed. Flimsyhigh-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement.The air was clean and cool. At the office, Miss Meuhl would be waiting with another list ofcomplaints. Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street.An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate theGroacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in. A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink fromthe bar-pit at the center of the room. He looked at Retief and froze inmid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot. To enjoy a cooling drink, Retief said in Groacian, squatting down atthe edge of the pit. To sample a true Groacian beverage. To not enjoy my poor offerings, the Groacian mumbled. A pain in thedigestive sacs; to express regret. To not worry, Retief said, irritated. To pour it out and let medecide whether I like it. To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of—foreigners. Thebarkeep looked around for support, found none. The Groaci customers,eyes elsewhere, were drifting away. To get the lead out, Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in thedish provided. To shake a tentacle. The procuring of a cage, a thin voice called from the sidelines. Thedisplaying of a freak. <doc-sep>Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gestureof contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent thecreature was drunk. To choke in your upper sac, the bartender hissed, extending his eyestoward the drunk. To keep silent, litter-mate of drones. To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness, the drunkwhispered. To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece. He waveredtoward Retief. To show this one in the streets, like all freaks. Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you? Retief asked, interestedly. To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder, the drunk said. Thebarkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk,took his arms and helped him to the door. To get a cage! the drunk shrilled. To keep the animals in their ownstinking place. I've changed my mind, Retief said to the bartender. To be gratefulas hell, but to have to hurry off now. He followed the drunk out thedoor. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief lookedat the weaving alien. To begone, freak, the Groacian whispered. To be pals, Retief said. To be kind to dumb animals. To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock. To not be angry, fragrant native, Retief said. To permit me to chumwith you. To flee before I take a cane to you! To have a drink together— To not endure such insolence! The Groacian advanced toward Retief.Retief backed away. To hold hands, Retief said. To be palsy-walsy— The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him,head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrowcrossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local,who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrowalley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the followingGroacian. Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacianfell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose;Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed. To not be going anywhere for a few minutes, Retief said. To stayright here and have a nice long talk. II There you are! Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. Thereare two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen. Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast. Retief pulled off hiscape. This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the ForeignMinistry. What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind tellingyou. I'm sure you don't. Come along. And bring an official recorder. Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornamentsindicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered acourteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right. I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr.Consul, the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. May I presentShluh, of the Internal Police? Sit down, gentlemen, Retief said. They resumed their seats. MissMeuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair. Oh, it's such a pleasure— she began. Never mind that, Retief said. These gentlemen didn't come here tosip tea today. So true, Fith said. Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report,Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it. He nodded to the policechief. One hour ago, The Groacian said, a Groacian national was broughtto hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of thisindividual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by aforeigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my departmentindicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that ofthe Terrestrial Consul. Miss Meuhl gasped audibly. Have you ever heard, Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, of aTerrestrial cruiser, the ISV Terrific , which dropped from sight inthis sector nine years ago? Really! Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising. I wash my hands— Just keep that recorder going, Retief snapped. I'll not be a party— You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl, Retief said quietly. I'mtelling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation. Miss Meuhl sat down. Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. You reopen an old wound,Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrialhands— Hogwash, Retief said. That tune went over with my predecessors, butit hits a sour note with me. All our efforts, Miss Meuhl said, to live down that terribleepisode! And you— Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groacand sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funnyanswers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left.Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they wereinnocent. IF! Miss Meuhl burst out. If, indeed! Fith said, his weak voice trembling. I must protestyour— <doc-sep>Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don'tthink your story will be good enough. It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten— Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory. Then you admit— It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind toit. Fith rose; Shluh followed suit. I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not foryour diplomatic immunity, I should do more— Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task forcepaid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrialdiplomatic mission. This is an internal matter! Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. Ithas outdone itself— —to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark, Retiefsaid. And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you'vevisaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside thediplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, oryour satellite— Enough! Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. I can talk no more ofthis matter— You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to dothe talking, Retief said. You can't! Miss Meuhl gasped. Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. TheGroaci sat down. Answer me this one, Retief said, looking at Shluh. A few yearsback—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Somecurious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through thestreets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show. Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed tocommunicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit. Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after theparade was over? <doc-sep>Fith made a choked noise and spoke rapidly to Shluh in Groacian. Shluhretracted his eyes, shrank down in his chair. Miss Meuhl opened hermouth, closed it and blinked rapidly. How did they die? Retief snapped. Did you murder them, cut theirthroats, shoot them or bury them alive? What amusing end did you figureout for them? Research, maybe? Cut them open to see what made themyell.... No! Fith gasped. I must correct this terrible false impression atonce. False impression, hell, Retief said. They were Terrans! A simplenarco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw theparade. Yes, Fith said weakly. It is true, they were Terrestrials. But therewas no killing. They're alive? Alas, no. They ... died. Miss Meuhl yelped faintly. I see, Retief said. They died. We tried to keep them alive, of course. But we did not know whatfoods— Didn't take the trouble to find out, either, did you? They fell ill, Fith said. One by one.... We'll deal with that question later, Retief said. Right now, I wantmore information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship?What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before thebig parade? There were no more! Absolutely, I assure you! Killed in the crash landing? No crash landing. The ship descended intact, east of the city. The ...Terrestrials ... were unharmed. Naturally, we feared them. They werestrange to us. We had never before seen such beings. Stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they? Guns? No, no guns— They raised their hands, didn't they? Asked for help. You helped them;helped them to death. How could we know? Fith moaned. How could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months lookingfor them, you mean? That was a shock, wasn't it? I'll bet you had abrisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A closecall, eh? We were afraid, Shluh said. We are a simple people. We feared thestrange creatures from the alien craft. We did not kill them, but wefelt it was as well they ... did not survive. Then, when the warshipscame, we realized our error. But we feared to speak. We purged ourguilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and ... offered ourfriendship. We invited the opening of diplomatic relations. We madea blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to makeamends.... Where is the ship? The ship? What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget.Where is it? The two Groacians exchanged looks. We wish to show our contrition, Fith said. We will show you theship. Miss Meuhl, Retief said. If I don't come back in a reasonable lengthof time, transmit that recording to Regional Headquarters, sealed. Hestood, looked at the Groaci. Let's go, he said. <doc-sep>Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern.He peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull. Any lights in here? he asked. A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up. Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Emptyemplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. Littered decking wasvisible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVSTerrific B7 New Terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy. How did you get it in here? Retief asked. It was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant,Fith said, his voice thinner than ever. This is a natural crevasse.The vessel was lowered into it and roofed over. How did you shield it so the detectors didn't pick it up? All here is high-grade iron ore, Fith said, waving a member. Greatveins of almost pure metal. Retief grunted. Let's go inside. Shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. The party entered the ship. Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interiorof the control compartment. Dust was thick on the deck, the stanchionswhere acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrumentpanels, the litter of sheared bolts, scraps of wire and paper. A thinfrosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches hadsliced away heavy shielding. There was a faint odor of stale bedding. The cargo compartment— Shluh began. I've seen enough, Retief said. Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel andinto the late afternoon sunshine. As they climbed the slope to thesteam car, Fith came to Retief's side. Indeed, I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair,he said. Now that all has been fully and honestly shown— You can skip all that, Retief said. You're nine years late. Thecrew was still alive when the task force called, I imagine. You killedthem—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting whatyou'd done. We were at fault, Fith said abjectly. Now we wish only friendship. The Terrific was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons.Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. Where isshe, Fith? I won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat. <doc-sep>Fith erected his eye stalks so violently that one eye-shield fell off. I know nothing of ... of.... He stopped. His throat vibrated rapidlyas he struggled for calm. My government can entertain no further accusations, Mr. Consul,he said at last. I have been completely candid with you, I haveoverlooked your probing into matters not properly within your sphere ofresponsibility. My patience is at an end. Where is that ship? Retief rapped out. You never learn, do you?You're still convinced you can hide the whole thing and forget it. I'mtelling you you can't. We return to the city now, Fith said. I can do no more. You can and you will, Fith, Retief said. I intend to get to thetruth of this matter. Fith spoke to Shluh in rapid Groacian. The police chief gestured to hisfour armed constables. They moved to ring Retief in. Retief eyed Fith. Don't try it, he said. You'll just get yourself indeeper. Fith clacked his mandibles angrily, eye stalks canted aggressivelytoward the Terrestrial. Out of deference to your diplomatic status, Terrestrial, I shallignore your insulting remarks, Fith said in his reedy voice. Let usnow return to the city. Retief looked at the four policemen. I see your point, he said. Fith followed him into the car, sat rigidly at the far end of the seat. I advise you to remain very close to your consulate, Fith said. Iadvise you to dismiss these fancies from your mind, and to enjoy thecultural aspects of life at Groac. Especially, I should not venture outof the city, or appear overly curious about matters of concern only tothe Groacian government. In the front seat, Shluh looked straight ahead. The loosely-sprungvehicle bobbed and swayed along the narrow highway. Retief listened tothe rhythmic puffing of the motor and said nothing. III Miss Meuhl, Retief said, I want you to listen carefully to what I'mgoing to tell you. I have to move rapidly now, to catch the Groaci offguard. I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Meuhl snapped,her eyes sharp behind the heavy lenses. If you'll listen, you may find out, Retief said. I have no timeto waste, Miss Meuhl. They won't be expecting an immediate move—Ihope—and that may give me the latitude I need. You're still determined to make an issue of that incident! MissMeuhl snorted. I really can hardly blame the Groaci. They are not asophisticated race; they had never before met aliens. You're ready to forgive a great deal, Miss Meuhl. But it's not whathappened nine years ago I'm concerned with. It's what's happening now.I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out.Don't you understand the implication? That vessel couldn't have comefar. The cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. I want to knowwhere! The Groaci don't know. They're a very cultured, gentle people. You cando irreparable harm to the reputation of Terrestrials if you insist— That's my decision, Retief said. I have a job to do and we'rewasting time. He crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer andtook out a slim-barreled needler. This office is being watched. Not very efficiently, if I know theGroaci. I think I can get past them all right. Where are you going with ... that? Miss Meuhl stared at the needler.What in the world— The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper intheir files relating to this thing. I have to get what I need beforeit's too late. If I wait for an official Inquiry Commission, they'llfind nothing but blank smiles. You're out of your mind! Miss Meuhl stood up, quivering withindignation. You're like a ... a.... You and I are in a tight spot, Miss Meuhl. The logical next move forthe Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who knowwhat happened. Fith almost did the job this afternoon, but I bluffedhim out—for the moment. Miss Meuhl emitted a shrill laugh. Your fantasies are getting thebetter of you, she gasped. In danger, indeed! Disposing of me! I'venever heard anything so ridiculous. Stay in this office. Close and safe-lock the door. You've got food andwater in the dispenser. I suggest you stock up, before they shut thesupply down. Don't let anyone in, on any pretext whatever. I'll keep intouch with you via hand-phone. What are you planning to do? If I don't make it back here, transmit the sealed record of thisafternoon's conversation, along with the information I've given you.Beam it through on a mayday priority. Then tell the Groaci what you'vedone and sit tight. I think you'll be all right. It won't be easy toblast in here and anyway, they won't make things worse by killing you.A force can be here in a week. I'll do nothing of the sort! The Groaci are very fond of me! You ...Johnny-come-lately! Roughneck! Setting out to destroy— Blame it on me if it will make you feel any better, Retief said, butdon't be fool enough to trust them. He pulled on a cape, opened thedoor. I'll be back in a couple of hours, he said. Miss Meuhl stared afterhim silently as he closed the door. <doc-sep>It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to thesafe-lock and stepped into the darkened consular office. He lookedtired. Miss Meuhl, dozing in a chair, awoke with a start. She looked atRetief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare. What in the world—Where have you been? What's happened to yourclothing? I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it. Retief went to his desk,opened a drawer and replaced the needler. Where have you been? Miss Meuhl demanded. I stayed here— I'm glad you did, Retief said. I hope you piled up a supply of foodand water from the dispenser, too. We'll be holed up here for a week,at least. He jotted figures on a pad. Warm up the official sender. Ihave a long transmission for Regional Headquarters. Are you going to tell me where you've been? I have a message to get off first, Miss Meuhl, Retief said sharply.I've been to the Foreign Ministry, he added. I'll tell you all aboutit later. At this hour? There's no one there.... Exactly. Miss Meuhl gasped. You mean you broke in? You burgled the ForeignOffice? That's right, Retief said calmly. Now— This is absolutely the end! Miss Meuhl said. Thank heaven I'vealready— Get that sender going, woman! Retief snapped. This is important. I've already done so, Mr. Retief! Miss Meuhl said harshly. I've beenwaiting for you to come back here.... She turned to the communicator,flipped levers. The screen snapped aglow, and a wavering long-distanceimage appeared. He's here now, Miss Meuhl said to the screen. She looked at Retieftriumphantly. That's good, Retief said. I don't think the Groaci can knock us offthe air, but— I have done my duty, Mr. Retief, Miss Meuhl said. I made a fullreport to Regional Headquarters last night, as soon as you left thisoffice. Any doubts I may have had as to the rightness of that decisionhave been completely dispelled by what you've just told me. Retief looked at her levelly. You've been a busy girl, Miss Meuhl. Didyou mention the six Terrestrials who were killed here? That had no bearing on the matter of your wild behavior! I must say,in all my years in the Corps, I've never encountered a personality lesssuited to diplomatic work. <doc-sep>The screen crackled, the ten-second transmission lag having elapsed.Mr. Retief, the face on the screen said, I am Counsellor Pardy,DSO-1, Deputy Under-secretary for the region. I have received areport on your conduct which makes it mandatory for me to relieve youadministratively, vice Miss Yolanda Meuhl, DAO-9. Pending the findingsof a Board of Inquiry, you will— Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphantlook faded from Miss Meuhl's face. Why, what is the meaning— If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn'tignore. I can't afford that, at this moment. Listen, Miss Meuhl,Retief went on earnestly, I've found the missing cruiser. You heard him relieve you! I heard him say he was going to, Miss Meuhl. But until I've heardand acknowledged a verbal order, it has no force. If I'm wrong, he'llget my resignation. If I'm right, that suspension would be embarrassingall around. You're defying lawful authority! I'm in charge here now. Miss Meuhlstepped to the local communicator. I'm going to report this terrible thing to the Groaci at once, andoffer my profound— Don't touch that screen, Retief said. You go sit in that cornerwhere I can keep an eye on you. I'm going to make a sealed tape fortransmission to Headquarters, along with a call for an armed taskforce. Then we'll settle down to wait. Retief ignored Miss Meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder. The local communicator chimed. Miss Meuhl jumped up, staring at it. Go ahead, Retief said. Answer it. A Groacian official appeared on the screen. Yolanda Meuhl, he said without preamble, for the Foreign Minister ofthe Groacian Autonomy, I herewith accredit you as Terrestrial Consulto Groac, in accordance with the advices transmitted to my governmentdirect from the Terrestrial Headquarters. As consul, you are requestedto make available for questioning Mr. J. Retief, former consul, inconnection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry intothe offices of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. Why, why, Miss Meuhl stammered. Yes, of course. And I do want toexpress my deepest regrets— <doc-sep>Retief rose, went to the communicator, assisted Miss Meuhl aside. Listen carefully, Fith, he said. Your bluff has been called. Youdon't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nineyears, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resistthe temptation to make matters worse than they are. Miss Meuhl, Fith said, a peace squad waits outside your consulate.It is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. As always, theGroaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but— Don't bother, Retief said. You know what was in those files I lookedover this morning. Retief turned at a sound behind him. Miss Meuhl was at the door,reaching for the safe-lock release.... Don't! Retief jumped—too late. The door burst inward. A crowd of crested Groaci pressed into the room,pushed Miss Meuhl back, aimed scatter guns at Retief. Police ChiefShluh pushed forward. Attempt no violence, Terrestrial, he said. I cannot promise torestrain my men. You're violating Terrestrial territory, Shluh, Retief said steadily.I suggest you move back out the same way you came in. I invited them here, Miss Meuhl spoke up. They are here at myexpress wish. Are they? Are you sure you meant to go this far, Miss Meuhl? A squadof armed Groaci in the consulate? You are the consul, Miss Yolanda Meuhl, Shluh said. Would it not bebest if we removed this deranged person to a place of safety? You're making a serious mistake, Shluh, Retief said. Yes, Miss Meuhl said. You're quite right, Mr. Shluh. Please escortMr. Retief to his quarters in this building— I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith, Retiefsaid. As chief of mission, Miss Meuhl said quickly, I hereby waiveimmunity in the case of Mr. Retief. Shluh produced a hand recorder. Kindly repeat your statement, Madam,officially, he said. I wish no question to arise later. Don't be a fool, woman, Retief said. Don't you see what you'reletting yourself in for? This would be a hell of a good time for you tofigure out whose side you're on. I'm on the side of common decency! You've been taken in. These people are concealing— You think all women are fools, don't you, Mr. Retief? She turned tothe police chief and spoke into the microphone he held up. That's an illegal waiver, Retief said. I'm consul here, whateverrumors you've heard. This thing's coming out into the open, whateveryou do. Don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacianatrocities. Take the man, Shluh said. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Miss Yolanda Meuhl is the Administrative Assistant of The Consul for the Terrestrial States Retief, the replacement for Consul Whaffle who left the post three months prior. Miss Meuhl wears glasses, uses a dictyper, and takes her position at the Consulate extremely seriously. She faithfully executes her duties as an administrative assistant without question, which leads her to develop a blind trust in authority as well as the Groaci race, according to Retief. Miss Meuhl considers the Groaci to be a sensitive race and defends them against Retief's constant accusations of misconduct. She threatens to report Retief to the Regional Headquarters when he continues to act against the guidelines set forth by the Corps. Her commitment to diplomatic relations ensures that she takes the side of the Groaci in nearly every matter; she even excuses when Fith and Shluh admit to hiding the Terrestrial cruiser. When Retief orders Miss Meuhl to lock herself inside the office while he goes to break into the Foreign Ministry, Miss Meuhl calls the Regional Headquarters and makes a full report of his actions. When he returns, Counsellor Pardy calls and relieves Retief of his post. Then, a Groacian official calls and appoints Miss Meuhl to the post vacated by Retief, which she accepts. She then allows the Groacian officials to enter the office in order to arrest Retief.